Knocked Up by Her Brother's Enemy

His laughter winds down into a chuckle, and then to an appreciative smile when he sees them.

My skin is covered in goosebumps and my teeth start to chatter. Even though it’s hot outside, it’s not hot enough for the freezing water to feel good.

“I told you I would do it,” Mac says.

I fluff out my shirt, but it sticks right back to my skin. A wet t-shirt might not have quite the impact with some other girls as it does with me, someone who has a bountiful D cup. My breasts definitely don’t go unnoticed by Mac. He licks his lips like a hungry wolf, and though he tries to look me in the eyes, his gaze snaps right back to my chest.

I’m wearing a bra, but it’s a thin lace one, and the pinks of my areolas shine through. Looking down, there’s not much left to the imagination. In any normal situation, I’d put my arms over my chest and try to hide, but with the way Mac is staring at me, I have no intention of hiding anything. I like the way he’s looking at me. It’s the way I’d always wanted him to, like I’m more than just his rival’s bratty sister.

“You’re shivering,” Mac says. He puts the hose down and steps toward me, running his hands down my goosebumped arms. “Come inside, I’ll get you a towel.”

The look he gives me leaves no mistake about his intentions. I ask myself if I’m ready to go this far, this fast with the guy I’ve been obsessed with my whole life. Am I ready to lose my virginity? I believe I am. I’ve been wishing for this moment for a long time and after being cheated on and rejected for so long. I need this.

I follow Mac into the house. It’s nicely decorated with distressed leather furniture and large framed photos of Seattle on the walls. There’s the Space Needle, a ferry, and different buildings in town. There are also photos of Mac and his teammates from the Whalers decorating the flat surface of a hutch.

He leads me toward the back of the house. At first I think he’s taking me to the bathroom down the hallway, but then we turn into his bedroom. I’ve seen this room from my bedroom window a million times, but never thought I would actually be inside someday. It’s so surreal. I look around, taking everything in. Nothing has changed. It’s as if it’s been suspended in time. The room was never very childish. There was nothing to ever indicate the room belonged to a teenage boy except for the soccer poster on the back of the door. Everything is tidy and put in its place. The bed is made. In the corner, there’s a desk and chair where he used to do his homework. On the bedside tables are the same lamps and an old fashioned alarm clock.

He disappears into the bathroom attached to the room and comes out with a fluffy towel. I start to reach for it, but he says, “Let me help you.”

He starts to pat me dry, beginning with the tips of my hair that cling together. He’s so close I can feel his breath on my face and see the star-shaped pattern in his irises. I have to look up to see him, and when our eyes meet, he starts to dry my chest.

I pull in a sharp breath, my chest heaving beneath his hands.

“We should get you out of these wet clothes,” he says, his voice a husky whisper.

I nod in agreement, unable to create words with my tangled tongue.

He drops the towel and reaches for the hem of my shirt, slowly peeling it off me. I lift my arms, and he pulls the shirt over my head. It hits the ground with a wet splat.

A low rumble sounds in his chest when he sees my breasts without the shirt. He adjusts himself. The massive hard-on beneath his shorts is clearly evident. My entire body starts to quiver with anticipation. How did this even happen? How did I go from being a miserable mess just hours ago to living out my adolescent fantasy? This can’t be real. But then Mac pinches my nipples through my bra and sends a shockwave through my entire body. This is definitely real.

He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra. It falls to the ground. He seems mesmerized by my breasts, his eyes wide and full of want. He slowly reaches for them, caressing the swell of the sides, circling them with his palm the way a psychic would handle a crystal ball. When his thumbs graze my erect nipples, I jump a little at the sensation. Mac’s eyes flicker to mine and he watches my face as he leans over to taste one.

My mouth parts and I move his dark hair away from his face so I can watch him devour my breast with perfect clarity. His lips clasp around my nipple and my whole body starts to shake. When he starts to suck on it, I can feel it in my clit, as if those two body parts are somehow connected. My fingers tangle in his hair. I close my eyes, reveling in this incredible feeling.

Wetness forms between my legs, and I know it has nothing to do with being sprayed by the hose. The need to have him inside of me is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Sure I masturbate, and I’ve had many mild, self-made clitoral orgasms, but this feeling is different. This want, this need for him, is more powerful than anything I’m used to.

The tips of my fingers dig into his scalp as he sucks harder. When he pulls away to go to the other breast, my nipple and areola are bright pink.

When he’s done with my other breast, he looks at me, his lips just as pink and raw as my breasts.

“Admit it, you had a crush on me,” he says.

I chuckle. “We’re doing this again?”

His smile nearly knocks me over. He’s so sexy it takes my breath away. “Yeah, we’re doing this again. If you had fantasies about me in high school, I want to make sure I live up to them. I can’t have you going to your friends and telling them I’m better on the field than in the bed—I have a reputation to protect.”

My chuckle turns to full blown laughter. “Trust me, nothing about this moment is a disappointment.”

“Did you ever catch me masturbating?” he asks as he starts to rub his dick through the outside of his shorts. I watch, rapt, my mouth starting to water. My body hums and the wetness between my legs just went from a mere trickle to Niagara Falls.

“No, but I tried.”

“Finally, you admit it,” he says triumphantly.

“Fine, yes, I admit I used to watch you.”

“Were you hoping to see this?” he says, and pulls down his shorts to reveal the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen. I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. He has a tendency to render me speechless. I nod instead.

“Touch it,” he says.

I reach out and run my fingers against the silky smooth skin of the shaft. He shivers at my touch. The head is engorged and slick with precum. It glistens in the sunlight coming through the window. How can something hard as steel feel soft as velvet at the same time? I want to put my face against is, feel the soft skin against my cheek, but that would be weird, so I settle with just touching it instead.

He moans as I start to stoke him with slow, even motions. His wetness drips onto my hand, making it slick.

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against mine and says, “You’re good at that.”

He presses his lips against mine. Long, slow pecks at first. Then his mouth opens and so does mine, our tongues find each other and tangle together in greeting. Already everything about this encounter with him is different than anyone else I’ve ever fooled around with before. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want him. Any doubts I had about losing my virginity to this man have completely disappeared.

Just kissing him is a sexual experience of its own. I could be content with just this, his lips against mine, stealing his breath and giving it back. The faster I stroke him, the harder his lips press down, the more urgent the kiss becomes. He bites my bottom lip, sucks my tongue into his mouth.

With my empty hand, I explore his bare chest, his arms. His muscles flex, his body rigid and I know he’s close. I don’t want it to end, but I want to bring him pleasure, and that’s more important to me right now than getting mine.

I stroke him faster.

His mouth opens and he’s no longer kissing me, but his mouth remains on mine, his breathing comes out in bursts.

“Oh fuck,” he says as he erupts. His warm wetness spills onto my hand. When he’s done

he leans heavily against me. I pick the towel up off the floor and clean myself off.

When we’re both clean, I reach for my bra, but he grabs my hands. “What are you doing?” he says.

I look at him, confused. “Getting dressed.”

He laughs like I just said something funny. “You think we’re done here?”

“Um, I thought so?”

I haven’t given a ton of hand jobs in my twenty-three years, but I’ve given a few, and typically when a guy gets off, it’s like the curtains closing on a play: that’s all folks.

“Hell no. I’m nowhere near done with you yet,” he says, and grabs me by the waist, pulling me toward him.

He’s still hard. How the hell is that even possible?