Taught by the Brother’s Best Friend

Elara's POV

"Nice boob."

The words hung in the air, crude and jarring, cutting through the lingering heat of the memory. That had been Marcus's first comment the moment he’d realized my silk robe was gaping open. Not an apology, not a polite averting of his eyes, but a blunt, appreciative assessment delivered with that signature arrogant smirk.

The fallout had been immediate and loud. My brother, usually composed, had been a thundercloud of protective rage. He’d banned Marcus from the house—temporarily, at least—and had turned his formidable glare onto me.

"You are not to be walking around naked anywhere in this house," he’d decreed, his voice leaving no room for argument. "It’s inappropriate, Elara. We have guests. You have a reputation to think of."

I’d rolled my eyes so hard I’d seen my own brain. "It’s my house, too. And what, exactly, constitutes 'naked'?

Am I supposed to wear a burqa to the bathroom?"

"You know what I mean," he’d growled, pacing the living room floor. "Just... keep covered. I don't want to walk in and see things no brother should ever have to see."

"God, you're dramatic," I’d shot back, crossing my arms over my chest. "What about when I shower? Can I be naked then? Or should I wash with my clothes on to preserve my delicate virtue?"

Marcus had been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chest, trying—and failing—to suppress a grin. The corner of his mouth had twitched, that infuriatingly attractive dimple flashing as he fought back a laugh. My brother had shot him a look that promised violence if he uttered a single word, effectively silencing him.

That was two days ago. Now, the house was blessedly, finally empty. My brother had left for the city early that morning for a week-long business trip, and the silence was a luxury I intended to indulge in. No lectures, no prying eyes, no tension thick enough to choke on.

I padded into my bedroom, stripping off my clothes with reckless abandon. The air conditioning was broken again—a common occurrence in this old house—and the humidity was already climbing, making the air thick and heavy. I needed to wash off the grime of the day and the lingering frustration of my brother's overprotectiveness.

I didn't bother grabbing a towel. I didn't bother with a robe. It was just me in the house, alone. I walked down the hallway, the cool wood of the floorboards soothing against the soles of my feet, and stepped into the bathroom. The steam from the shower I’d started running already fogged up the mirror, turning the room into a hazy, private sanctuary.

I stepped under the spray, letting the hot water pummel my skin. It felt incredible, beating away the stress, loosening the knots in my shoulders. I washed my hair, the scent of vanilla and lavender filling the humid air, and stood there for a long time, just letting the water run over me. I felt clean. I felt free.

But as the steam began to build, the room grew uncomfortably warm. The small window was painted shut, and the exhaust fan rattled uselessly. The air grew heavy, thick with moisture, making it hard to draw a full breath. A bead of sweat trickled down my temple, mingling with the shower spray.

I decided I’d had enough. I reached for the handle to slide the glass door open and step out. I turned the knob. It groaned, but it didn't budge. I frowned, water dripping from my eyelashes, and tried again. I twisted it harder, putting my shoulder into it.

Nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest. I jiggled the handle, pushed, pulled, but the door was stuck fast.

The latch seemed to have jammed in the humidity, the frame swelling around the glass. I was trapped in a sauna of my own making.

"Great," I muttered, wiping the water from my face. "Just great."

I looked around for something to pry it open—a hairbrush, a bottle of shampoo—but I’d come in completely empty-handed. The heat was pressing in on me now, making my head spin slightly. I needed to get out. I needed air.

Then, through the rushing sound of the water and the buzzing in my ears, I heard a noise.

Click.

The front door.

My heart leaped. My brother was back? He never forgot anything. He must have forgotten his passport or his laptop.

"Ben!" I shouted, hoping the sound would carry through the thin walls and the running water. "Ben! I'm in the bathroom! The door is stuck!"

Silence for a moment. Then, heavy footsteps in the hallway. Boots. My heart skipped a beat. Ben didn't wear boots in the house. He strictly enforced a no-shoes policy.

"Elara?"

The voice that answered wasn't my brother's. It was deep, rough, and unmistakably amused.

Marcus.

My stomach dropped into my toes. I froze, my hands hovering over my chest, suddenly acutely aware of my complete and total nudity. The water beat down on my back, but I felt cold all over.

"What... what are you doing here?" I stammered, my voice echoing off the tiled walls.

"I forgot my phone," he replied, his voice drawing closer. I could picture him leaning against the bathroom door right now, a smug look on his face. "Ben said I could swing by and grab it. You okay in there? You sound distressed."

"I'm fine!" I lied, my voice pitching high. "Go away!"

"You don't sound fine," he said. There was a note of concern there, buried under the layers of arrogance. "Is everything okay?"

"Go away, Marcus!" I screamed, desperate now. The last thing I needed was for him to break down the door and find me standing here like a wet, naked seal. "I'm... I'm not dressed!"

A low chuckle drifted through the wood. "I'm well aware of your aversion to clothing, Elara. Open up."

"No!"

The next second, the door shook. There was a heavy thud against the frame, and then the sound of wood splintering. The lock gave way with a sharp crack, and the door swung open.

I shrieked, jumping back into the shower stall, but it was too late. He was already there.

Marcus stood in the doorway, filling the frame. The steam curled around him like a serpent, but his gaze was laser-focused, cutting through the haze. He looked at me—really looked at me. There was nowhere to hide.

The glass door was wide open, and I was fully exposed.

I saw the shock register first, his eyes widening fractionally, and then the heat flooded in. His gaze dragged over my wet skin, taking in the droplets clinging to my shoulders, the water cascading down my stomach, and the dark, triangle between my legs. He saw everything.

I reacted on instinct, slapping my hands over my breasts and crossing my legs, my face burning so hot I thought I might combust. "You pervert!" I screamed, humiliation washing over me in waves. "Get out! Get out!"

"You asshole!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "You did that on purpose!"

"I didn't," he said calmly, finally turning his back to me. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, presenting his broad back to me. "I heard you shouting. I thought you’d passed out in the heat. The steam is pretty thick in here."

I stood there, dripping water and shame, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He hadn't looked. Well, he had, at first, but he’d turned away. He hadn't leered or laughed. He’d... he’d come to check on me.

The anger drained out of me, leaving me feeling small and foolish. I was naked, wet, and humiliated, and he was being annoyingly gentlemanly.

"I... I'm sorry," I whispered, the words barely audible over the shower. "The handle jammed. I panicked."

"It happens," he said, his voice low and soothing. "Old house, cheap hardware. Ben needs to get this thing fixed."

He stood there with his back to me, the muscles in his shoulders shifting slightly under his black t-shirt. He didn't move. He didn't try to peek. He just waited.

"Can you... can you hand me a towel?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"There aren't any in here," he reminded me. "You didn't bring any in, remember?"

Right. Because I was an idiot.

"Go get one," I ordered, trying to regain some semblance of authority, even though I was currently huddled in the corner of a shower stall.

"I will," he said. He turned his head slightly, just enough that I could see the line of his jaw, the stubble darkening his skin. "But first, answer me one thing."

"What?"

"In the living room the other day," he said, his tone dropping, becoming heavier, more intent. "When I asked if you wanted to try with me instead."

My breath caught. The memory of that moment, the electricity between us, the way his voice had lowered to a sinful murmur, flashed through my mind.

"You didn't say yes," Marcus continued, his voice like velvet rubbing against raw nerves. "But you didn't say no, either. So I'm asking you again, Elara. Right now. While we're being honest."

He shifted his weight, turning just a fraction more, though he kept his eyes politely averted. The air in the bathroom seemed to vibrate with the question.

"Do you want to have sex with me?"