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Eloise surfaced slowly.
Her body ached, every inch of her sensitized, thrumming with the aftershocks of something she couldn’t quite hold onto. Her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. Her skin felt flushed, too warm beneath the thin blanket.
For one suspended moment, eyes still closed, heart racing, she didn’t understand why.
Then she remembered.
The dream.
Her eyes flew open with a soft gasp.
She stared up at the dim ceiling of the living room.
Fragments of the dream clung to her, hot and vivid.
Benedict’s breath against her neck. His hands gripping her hips. The weight of him above her. The way he looked at her, like she was everything he ever wanted. She could still feel the echo of his mouth on hers. Could still hear how he’d whispered her name. Low. Strained. Desperate.
God.
Her panties were soaked. A dull, sweet ache bloomed low in her belly.
She pressed her legs together instinctively, as if she could smother the feeling.
Shame tangled with desire in her chest.
It was a sensation she’d become familiar with in the last few weeks.
The first time it happened, she’d told herself it was a fluke. That it didn’t mean anything. That she could push past it. Forget.
But it kept happening.
Night after night she was bombarded with dreams where he touched her. Kissed her. Took her like she was his, like it wasn’t wrong. And every time she woke up like this. Hot, aching and ruined by want.
She closed her eyes again, just for a second.
But all she saw was him.
She turned her face into the pillow, heat flooding her cheeks.
She didn’t know what scared her more. That she couldn’t stop dreaming of him, or that some twisted part of her didn’t want to.
The heat between her thighs pulsed, refusing to fade. She pressed her thighs together again, in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure.
A frustrated whimper escaped her.
She shouldn’t.
She really, really shouldn’t.
But…
It wouldn’t take much. Just the slightest touch to ease the ache.
Just enough to breathe. To quiet the noise inside her for a few stolen seconds.
Her hand moved before her mind had fully caught up. Fingers skimmed over her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts and then her underwear.
Her breath hitched when she found her center. She was soaked and pulsing.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think of someone else. Anyone else.
That barista she’d flirted with last week. A faceless stranger. Someone from a past fling. A scene from one of those books she kept tucked in her bottom drawer.
Any warm body that wasn’t her brother.
But it was no use.
Every face, every voice she tried to conjure morphed into Benedict.
His was the only image that came to her, sharp and vivid.
His face above hers, eyes dark. His hand on the back of her neck. The slow, deliberate way he’d pushed inside her, murmuring her name like it was sacred.
A soft, broken moan escaped her, shockingly loud in the quiet room.
God.
She shouldn’t be doing this.
Not here. Not in his apartment. Not on his couch. Not with him just down the hall.
But her body didn’t care about lines she wasn’t supposed to cross. It only cared how badly she needed it. How wet she was. How long it had been since she’d touched herself. How good it felt to pretend it was his fingers instead of her own.
She bit down on her bottom lip, her free hand clutching the edge of the blanket. Shame curled hot and sharp in her chest, but it couldn’t compete with the way her body lit up at the thought of him.
Finally giving in, she conjured the sound of his voice telling her how good she felt. Pictured the way his mouth would look on her, his hand spread over her stomach, holding her down while he pleasured her.
Her breathing quickened. Her fingers moved in slow, practiced circles over her sensitive clit, hips rising to meet the pressure.
She was too far gone to stop now.
_________________________________
Benedict padded into the kitchen in his boxers, scratching absently at his bare chest.
The clock on the stove glowed. 3:41 AM.
He filled a glass at the tap and took a long drink, staring out the dark window.
That’s when he heard it.
A soft, breathy sound.
He stilled, listening.
A quiet whimper, barely there. A sharp inhale. Like someone holding back a sob.
His chest tightened.
Eloise.
Maybe she was having a nightmare.
He set the glass down and moved towards the living area. Toward the couch where Eloise had fallen asleep hours earlier, curled beneath one of his throw blankets. She’d dozed off halfway through the movie they’d been watching, snarky commentary giving way to soft, even breathing. He hadn’t bothered to wake her. It wasn’t uncommon for her to spend the night there.
But she wasn’t sleeping now.
Benedict’s heart stuttered.
The blanket had slipped to the floor. Her tank top had ridden up, exposing her stomach. Her thighs were parted. One hand buried beneath her shorts, moving in slow, steady circles. The other clenched at the cushion beside her. Her head was titled back, eyes shut, lips parted, chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm.
He was frozen in place, unable to look away. Watching the way her fingers moved. The subtle roll of her hips. The outline of her nipples under the thin top.
He should turn around. Go back to his room. Pretend he hadn’t seen.
But he didn’t.
Drawn to her, he stepped closer until he stood at the foot of the couch.
She still hadn’t noticed him.
Her brows were pinched, mouth slack, hair mussed against the pillow. She looked wrecked and beautiful. Utterly lost in whatever fantasy was playing out in her mind.
His stomach twisted.
This is wrong.
Shame and arousal collided inside him.
But he couldn't stop watching. Couldn’t stop his cock from hardening at the sight of her.
Her fingers moved faster now, hips lifting into her own touch.
She let out a small, wrecked moan that ended with his name.
“Ben..” she whimpered. “Please.”
His breath caught.
A bolt of raw heat shot through him.
She was thinking of him. Fantasizing about him while touching herself. In his apartment. On his couch.
Fuck.
He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until her eyes flew open and locked on his.
Neither of them spoke.
Her hand stilled beneath her shorts.
His body was locked, every muscle pulled tight.
They just stared at each other.
Eloise wide-eyed and flushed.
Benedict breathless, hard and shaking as he fought against things he wasn’t supposed to feel.
They stood on a knife's edge.
He should apologize. Turn away. Leave.
In that moment he should have chosen to save them.
But he damned them both instead.
“Don’t stop.”
Her hand was frozen, fingers still pressed against herself.
A small crease formed between her brows, like she wasn’t sure he was real. Like she didn’t quite believe what he’d just said.
“Ben?” she whispered.
Without thinking, he lowered himself onto the end of the couch—half kneeling, one knee on the cushion, the other foot still on the floor.
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away.
He was so close to her now.
He could smell her arousal. See the faint sheen of sweat on her brow.
“El… please. Don’t stop.”
She didn’t move right away.
Then her fingers began to shift again in small, tentative strokes. Her hips tilted into the motion, almost unconsciously.
She bit down on her bottom lip, eyes never leaving his.
Heat crawled up the back of his neck. His mouth dry. His hands clenched uselessly at his sides as he fought the urge to touch her.
The tension between them was suffocating.
Her rhythm grew steadier. More certain. A small sound escaped her lips. Half sigh, half moan.
And then she said his name again, softer this time, needier.
“Ben…”
A groan tore from his throat before he could stop it.
“Let me see you,” he said, voice rough. “Take them off.”
She hesitated for only a second. Then she slipped her hand from beneath her waistband, hooked her fingers under the elastic, and lifted her hips. She peeled the shorts down her legs and let them fall to the floor.
Then she reached for the hem of her top. Pulled it over her head and tossed it aside.
She was completely bare to him now.
Benedict forgot how to breathe.
And then, she utterly ruined him.
Without being asked, she opened her thighs to him, hand finding its way back to her center. She touched herself again, unashamed, fingers moving in tight, practiced circles over her clit.
She was perfect. Slick and shining in the low light.
“Fuck,” he growled. “Look at you, El. So fucking gorgeous like this.”
She moaned in response, fingers working faster now, more focused.
Benedict was barely holding himself together. His cock strained painfully against the front of his boxers. Every instinct screamed to reach for her, to reach for himself. Anything to relieve the pressure building inside him.
But he forced himself to stay still. Jaw tight. Hands clenched at his thighs.
This wasn’t about him.
This moment was hers.
And he’d give her every second of it.
She wasn’t going to last much longer. He could feel it.
Her fingers quickened, breath catching in her throat, eyes locked on him like she couldn’t look away. Even now. Especially now.
“Ben,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “I—I’m gonna—”
“I know, love,” he rasped. “It’s okay, El. Let go.”
She bit down on her lip, brows drawing tight. Her rhythm faltered as the pressure crested.
Then she broke.
A soft, desperate sound left her as her back arched, thighs trembling. Her free hand grabbed for the cushion, eyes fluttering shut as her body shuddered through it.
Benedict couldn’t look away.
She was perfect like this. Flushed, wrecked and completely undone.
What little restraint he had evaporated.
She was still trembling when finally, he reached for her, his hands settling on her thighs. Her skin was damp and warm, muscles twitching from the aftershocks beneath his palms.
Without thought, he leaned in and licked her. One slow drag of his tongue over her dripping cunt.
Her breath caught, hips lifting slightly, a hand sliding into his hair.
He groaned against her skin.
He leaned in again, unable to stop himself. The need to taste her, to feel her, drowned out every part of him screaming to stop.
She gasped, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging gently.
“Ben,” she murmured. “Come here.”
His mouth lingered for a moment as he pressed a tender kiss to her center. Then he shifted, lips brushing the inside of her thighs as he began to make his way up her body.
He took his time, tracing a path over her hip, the soft curve of her stomach.
She was warm and pliant beneath his mouth, trembling faintly with each breath.
His hands slid up her sides, fingers brushing the dip of her waist, the lines of her ribs. Every inch he touched only made him want more.
Her fingers slid through his hair, then down to his shoulders, his back—just as desperate to feel him.
He dragged his mouth up to her chest, kissing the swell of one breast before taking her nipple into his mouth. He sucked gently, tongue teasing, while his hand found the other breast, palm warm against her skin, thumb circling slowly.
She moaned softly, back arching, one leg curled around his waist.
He released her breast, kissing the center of her chest before dragging his mouth up to her neck. He kissed and nipped at the curve of her throat, relishing the little sounds she made every time his teeth grazed her sensitive skin.
She pulled him closer, her chest flush against his, hands roaming up his back.
His hips rolled without thought, his cock grinding against her through the last thin barrier between them.
She whimpered, clinging to him.
He groaned into her neck, unable to stop himself from doing it again, chasing the friction, the pleasure he’d been denying himself.
Their breaths turned ragged, the front of his boxers already damp with want.
You’re sick.
She’s your sister.
You need to stop.
This is wrong.
Yes. It was.
And he knew it.
From the moment her eyes had snapped open and caught him watching her, he’d been waiting for it.
The recoil. The anger. The disgust.
He’d expected her to shove him away. Slap him. Look at him like he was vile for touching her, for even wanting to.
Part of him still braced for it. Even now, with her holding him, he waited for the shame to land. For her to come to her senses and tell him to get off her. To say it was wrong. That he was wrong.
But she didn’t.
None of it made sense. It didn’t seem real.
He pulled back just enough to see her face.
Her lips parted, skin flushed, pupils wide and dark. Strands of damp hair clung to her temples. He reached up and brushed one aside, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek.
All he saw in her eyes was a reflection of the desire burning through him.
No fear. No judgement. No doubt.
Just calm, quiet acceptance.
She was already his. Just as lost. Just as far gone.
Damned together.
The air between them burned.
Her hand slid up his chest, fingers curling at the back of his neck.
And that was all it took.
Something in him shattered.
He closed the distance and claimed her mouth.
It wasn’t soft or gentle.
It was hard, messy and desperate.
She whimpered, lips opening under his, kissing him back with the same wild edge.
Her hands slid down his back, urging him closer.
He gripped her waist, grinding against her until she gasped, her body arching, nipples hard against his skin.
He kissed her harder, devouring every sound she made. Tonight, they all belong to him.
Eventually he tore his mouth from hers, breath ragged. He caught her jaw, tilting her head back, dragging his mouth down her throat. Kissing. Biting. Bruising.
She moaned, legs tightening around his hips.
He growled and crushed his mouth back to hers, desperate to taste her again.
His hips rolled against her, his bare cock sliding through her slick folds. Nothing between them.
The realization tore through him.
His boxers were gone. He couldn’t remember taking them off. And he didn’t really care.
He was too lost in the way she felt. Wet, open and so fucking perfect.
He groaned, grinding harder, lost in the heat of her body, in the mess of her mouth.
Without meaning to, the head of his cock caught at her entrance, pressing just inside her slick heat.
He tore his mouth from hers with a raw sound, chest heaving.
“Fuck! El…” His voice cracked. “Tell me you—”
Her eyes locked on his. Wide. Dark. Certain.
“I want this,” she gasped. “I want you.”
That was all the permission he needed.
Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp as he sank into her, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.
“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping against hers. “You feel—Jesus, El—”
Part of him wanted to take it slow. Make love to her the way she deserved.
But she was so warm. So tight around him.
And when her hips tilted up, seeking more—he lost it.
He pulled back and drove into her again, harder than he meant to.
And when she moaned, low and needy, he couldn’t stop himself from doing it again. And again.
Soon he was fucking her in a rough, relentless rhythm.
His hands clamped to her waist, her thighs, holding her steady, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise.
His mouth found her lips, her neck, her jaw. Anywhere he could reach. Kissing. Biting. Claiming.
Every thrust dragged a soft, helpless sound from her, like he was knocking the breath from her lungs. But she met him each time. Hips rising to meet him, hands roaming over his shoulders, his back, the side of his face.
He kissed her hard as he lifted her thigh higher around his waist, driving deeper.
Her nails raked across his back, leaving a trail of stinging heat, pulling a guttural sound from his chest.
She was trembling, her walls fluttering around him, every one of her cries pushing him closer to the edge.
Neither of them was going to last much longer. He needed her to fall with him. To feel her break apart on his cock as he spilled inside her. To ruin her completely, the way she’d already ruined him.
He reached between them. Her body jolted helplessly the moment his thumb pressed against her swollen clit.
“Ben—please—”
“That’s it,” he growled against her mouth, hips snapping into her mercilessly. “Come for me.”
“Ben—” she choked, the word breaking on a cry.
The tension snapped all at once. Her hips stuttered against his, thighs locking around his waist, nails biting deep. Her cunt clenched around him as the climax ripped through her.
She shattered beautifully. The sound of her wrecked moans dragging him to the edge with her.
“Fuck—El—” His jaw locked, rhythm faltering.
His hips drove forward once, twice more before he broke. A raw groan tore out of him as he buried himself deep, spilling inside her. He held her down, bruising grip unrelenting, grinding into her like he needed to mark her from the inside out.
His whole body shook with the force of it. Every breath rough against her neck.
He stayed there, buried deep, trembling through the final pulses of release—
—and then it vanished.
The heat of her body. Her voice in his ear. The weight of her beneath him. Gone.
He woke with a violent gasp, sheets damp with sweat, cock hard and aching, heart hammering like he’d run for miles.
“What the fuck…” The words rasped out, hoarse, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.
The dream clung to him. Every sound, every touch, every image still sharp and vivid. Too real.
His fingers fisted in the sheets, trying to will the thoughts away. Trying to resist his body’s demand for relief.
But the pressure was unbearable.
His hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers, wrapping around his cock. He cursed at the contact. He was already so close.
He pumped himself rough and fast, even as his stomach twisted with guilt.
Every stroke dragged him deeper into the memory—her breathy moans, her nails raking his back, how fucking wet and tight she’d felt around him. How she’d wanted him just as much. How she’d never once pushed him away.
What Benedict didn’t know was that only a few feet away, Eloise lay wide awake on his couch, her body just as wrecked. Her hand buried between her thighs, chasing the same dream, touching herself to the same depraved memories—the way he held her, the scrape of his teeth at her throat, the sounds he made when she clenched around him.
It wasn’t long before they were both on the edge—trembling, breath sharp, hearts racing. And in the end, it was the same memory that broke them: the feel of him spilling deep inside her, the forbidden claim neither of them should have wanted but craved all the same.
Benedict spilled across his stomach, shame and want tangling hot in his chest.
“Fuck.”
Dreaming about his little sister like that was wrong. Touching himself to the memory of her was twisted. But worse than all of it was the unforgivable truth clawing at him in the dark. He craved more.