Don't Date Your Brother's Best Friend

I loved how she arched against me and ran her hands all over my chest, touched my neck, my face. I would stroke her breasts and play with her nipples, sucking them into my hot, hungry mouth. I’d slide my hand down her stomach and into her panties to feel how wet she was, to gauge her response to every way I touched and kissed her. A long, slow suck on her nipple would make her clench around my finger and soak my hand with her hot wetness. I would start pleasuring her with my hand, rubbing my thumb back and forth over that swollen nub that made her jerk and cry out, working my fingers inside her tight passage. She’d have her hands in my hair, pulling me up to kiss her, so I could push my tongue into her mouth as I made her come, bucking and whimpering, all over my hand.

Then she’d collapse against my bare chest and let me hold her, the sweet smell of her arousal all around me. She’d feel my hardness against her belly and rub against it a little, tormenting me. Then Sarah Jo would reach between us and touch me, open my jeans, and work my cock out into her hand. Her eyes would meet mine and hold as she rose up on her knees. I would push her panties aside so I could get to her tender, soaking center. She’d guide my hard cock to her and then bear down, sliding down the length of me with that hot, tight grip that was like burning to death in the best way.

I threw my head back and came with a shout, thrashing on the bed just from the fantasy of her, the thought of penetrating Sarah Jo again after so long. God, she’d been perfect then, and she would be paradise now.

Not that I could ever have her. She was Ryan’s sister. It would be wrong to think of her that way, the way I just had. It was shameful, crossing a line. I hated myself for it. Hated myself because in the eight years since we were together, back when we were teenagers, I’d never set eyes on a woman yet who could make me forget the taste of Sarah Jo Winters.

3

Sarah Jo

As weird as it sounded, I loved the early mornings at the lumberyard. The cold, sharp morning air filled with the sweet smell of fresh-cut wood. I always loved the smell of the wood and the beautiful curl of its grain, like a fingerprint.

I got a lot done in the mornings before business hours. It was my time to check the online orders since I started running a delivery once a week for customers in a three-county area. I ran through my email, checked up on inventory, orders, and looked at the day’s pick-up schedule. I wished I’d brought a sweater or a jacket because it was chilly when there was a knock at the office door.

“We’re not open yet,” I sang out.

“What about for hot cocoa delivery?” a male voice answered. Something low in my stomach clenched. That voice did things to me. It was attached to the first man I ever loved, the man I gave my virginity to. The same man who stood behind the bar and called me a saint the night before.

“Come on in, Luke,” I said with a sigh.

He swung open the door and offered me a paper cup, “It used to be your favorite. I wasn’t sure whether to bring you this or a little hair of the dog.”

“That’s nice of you, thanks. I’m not hungover, though. I had two drinks and at least half a plate of nachos.”

Still, I inhaled the chocolaty steam from the cup and smiled. “I can’t remember the last time I had hot cocoa.”

I took a sip.

“You have to be freezing in here. That little electric heater doesn’t put out much heat. Here,” he said.

The man shrugged off his navy-blue canvas coat with the fire department logo on it and passed it to me.

“No, I’m fine, really,” I protested.

“Please, Sarah Jo,” he said.

Well, damnation. He said my name in that voice, and some small part of me wanted to drop to my knees and do anything he wanted. So I took the coat and slipped my arms in the sleeves. The quilted lining was warm from his body and smelled like him. It was all I could do not to sigh aloud.

“Still using Old Spice body wash, All American?” I teased.

“Same man I always was,” he said a little ruefully.

“It was nice of you to stop by. Did you need a screw? Or, um, nails or lumber?” I said, realizing I’d just offered Luke a screw. He suppressed a half-smile, but I saw the flash in his eyes when I’d said it. I cleared my throat.