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2 months ago

The Other Brother

Oh god. Did I mention it

Oh god. Did I mention it gets worse? Because it gets worse. He’s British. “Uhh,” I say, fluently. Because apparently, as I stare at the Union Jack flag he has tattooed on a bulging pectoral—right over his heart—I’ve forgotten how to speak English. His eyes narrow with the hint of an amused smile. “Drink your coffee, love.” My breath sticks in my chest as he reaches past the mug I’m holding in my two trembling hands and pinches one of my nipples between his index finger and his thumb. “Cheeky,” he says with a roguish wink. “Fancy a quickie before you eat? Let me know.” I stare at his ass as he goes. You wouldn’t fucking blame me, either. Look, I know what you’re thinking. I get it. I really fucking do. This man is perfect. Delectable. Gloriously delicious in every single way. He’s got the looks of a notorious bad boy tempered with a dash of English charm. The body of a Greek sculpture, the tattoos of a rock star, and the cock of dildo model. And he called me cheeky, for fucks sake. Tip me over, and I would drown in my own pussy juice right now. But he’s not my fiancé. He’s not Dan. Of course he’s not Dan. That much’s pretty fucking clear. He makes better coffee, for one. I take a sip, if only because in my hungover state, I’m pretty solid at following orders. It’s warm and rich, brewed perfectly. Light roast, the way I like it. One sugar. Full fat milk. And the pièce de résistance: a pack of instant hot chocolate dumped on top of it—because while I do my best to be classy, I’m not a fucking saint. It’s like a mocha-flavored orgasm in my mouth. How the fuck does Not Dan know how I like my morning cup of joe? Actually—speaking of orgasms in my mouth— “Um,” I say nervously. Oh, bravo, Becky. We’re off to a great start. “Excuse me,” I try again, “But last night, did we, uh—”

Not Dan looks up at me from his station in the kitchen where he’s currently poaching eggs. He stops swirling water round the pot just long enough to make a rude gesture with his hands. Not Dan has thick fingers. Long, thick, well-practiced fingers. He works two of them in and out of a tight little hole he’s formed with the index finger and thumb of his other hand in a way that makes my pussy do a back flip and find religion. “Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard. I drown my embarrassment in another mouthful of coffee. It’s good, but it doesn’t quite do the trick. “You don’t remember?” he asks, eyes sparkling. They’re actually mesmerizing. Like pirate gold sinking beneath the Caribbean’s waves. I look around the trashed hotel suite. The white smoke pouring casually from one bedroom. Goose feathers, sticky with Triple Sec and cigarette ash, strewn across the floor like a white Christmas on the naughty list. The left stiletto of a passed-out showgirl peeking out from behind the kitchen island. The rogue vibrator, completely feral, which has resumed its buzzing and trucked itself into the master bath. A sob rises in my chest as I trot over to Not Dan in the kitchen. “Honestly? I don’t remember anything,” I confess. This hasn’t happened since the night I fucking met Dan. The night he helped me clean the vomit off my Christian Louboutins, sober the fuck up, and turn my life around. I decided that I was going to marry Dan on that night. Now, eight months and three days later, I’m just a few vows and a marriage certificate away from making that decision a reality. Unless, of course— “Mm,” Not Dan hums absently, fishing a perfectly poached egg out of the boiling water with a slotted spoon. “Fuck, you mean. We did. Gloriously, might I add.” “Oh. And…what did we do, exactly?” I’m desperate for details and it shows. Not just because I’m a horny cunt who doesn’t remember fucking the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on. No, I need to know how guilty I need to feel. Not Dan stares up at me with an awful look in his eyes. “What we didn’t do would be a shorter conversation, love,” he says, unable to

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