“Let’s try,” I suggest, knots twisting in my gut. Why did I just ask that? Am I fucking nuts? Who asks their brother to try to date, or be anything other than familial? Me. This stupid fucker. It’s wrong. Not just in the eyes of the law, but the community, world, and everything in between.
Social norms keep us apart, but who has to know?
Me.
Him.
What if I’m reaching? He may think I’m as insane as I’m currently feeling.
“Kenjington,” he whispers faintly, letting out a deep breath. Atlas never calls me by my full name. No one does. It’s formal, almost ridiculous. For him to say it, he’s struggling with whatever he’s feeling. His face stricken with remorse contorts with whatever runs through his mind. He runs a shaky palm through his hair before cupping the back of his thick tattooed neck. My favorite words show when he stays in that position.
“No one has to know,” I add. “Just us. You and me. Like always. It’ll be a bet, one to stick it out. Be ourselves, no matter what people think.” He pulls my hand off his chin, grabbing the back of my neck, bringing our foreheads to one another. His chest bumps mine as he inhales deeply. The loudness of that breath has my heart accelerating.
Shocking us both, I close the distance, bringing his lips to mine. The immediate burst of heady need whirs inside me. My heart and head no longer war with repercussions, it only starts a new battle of how right this feels. We don’t move. Frozen in time. Stuck between this mode of not right, but perfectly functional.
Sane.
Insane.
Brothers.
He hesitates only briefly, then surprises me with his own passion, pulling me against his lips harder, parting them with his tongue. The salty sweat from his mouth tickles my taste buds, stealing a groan. His tongue ring—my favorite—teases the nerve endings in my mouth. It’s enticing and hot, and I’m fucking wasted on the feeling.
I’ve kissed loads of guys, touched even more, but this—this is entirely different. The modicum of emotion I’ve barely felt with them is amplified with Atlas. It’s swimming through me like an Olympic medal is at stake, relaxing me.
He’s wrecking me.
We fight for control. He grips my throat while I grip his. The way his body shivers as my fingers press against the skull on his neck has my dick rejoicing. Mine. Mine. Mine. No matter the severity of how wrong it is, that our parents would probably split us apart, or even jail, the repercussions don’t matter as his mouth is against mine.
Our bodies press against the wall nearest the door, the cold biting into my skin. He’s winning this battle of will. It should scare me, piss me off that he’s trying to win even now, but it feels almost natural to succumb, to let go.
My body seizes as his teeth drag across my bottom lip. The pleasure bites at me as surely as he does, making me groan.
“Fuck,” he hisses, pulling away, our arms still connecting us. “Fuck!” His voice carries throughout the room as he drops his hand. “KJ. We can’t do this.”
Hearing those words, the sadness in his tone, it brings the strength necessary to push for this. I’m not a pushover by any means, but not fighting for this, for us… it’s not something I can let go. Gripping his hips, switching us to where he’s pressed against the wall, his body heaving heavily, I feel powerful.
He grunts as I press into him, making our chests meld together. The spiked barbells in his nipples scratch against me tortuously, reminding me how long I’ve wanted this closeness, the one that felt impossible. But he’s not pushing away again, he’s waiting for my move. Our gazes connect. We need this.
My mouth crashes against his again, and the noise that seems to drag from him has me grinding against his hard erection. With only his gym shorts protecting him and my thin joggers, we’re practically touching. I tease his top lip with a long slide of my tongue, and he opens with defeat.
Our battle stales. It’s not even me conquering, it’s us. He grips my neck, forcing us even closer. We moan as he rocks into me. His hand snakes down my chest, not stopping until it’s to my shirt’s hemline. My gaze connects with his as his silent question fills me with salacious need.
We don’t speak as his fingers dip underneath the band, or as his fingers touch the trimmed brown curls, exploring me entirely. When he finally makes contact with my dick, we hiss together. His fingers, rough but sure, cup me with reverence.
“Kenjington,” he barely mutters, his hand holding me like its meant to be there. I throb everywhere—my heart beats in my shaft, and my chest feels like it’ll combust.
“Yeah?” It takes almost all my energy to speak that single syllable, but the tilt of his lips is worth it.
“Fuck.”
We both chuckle at that. As he still clutches me, I’m very aware of our proximity, shocked that we’ve even gotten this far. I was sure walking in here, we’d get into a brawl for my decision to not kill Rusty, but we’re so disconnected from that.
“I-I’ve never felt this way before,” he stutters, gulping air. His cheeks redden; it’s such a pretty color, one he never wears.
“You think this is something I’m used to?” I joke, but it’s true. I’ve never dated, even if it’s something I’ve sought after. No one has lit the candle for me so to speak.
“You’re more romantic than I am in every way,” he explains.
He’s not wrong.
“Then let me sweet-talk you out of those shorts,” I taunt. His eyes flicker to mine, heat covering the worry, drowning, drowning, drowning until it’s gone entirely. He releases me, slipping his hands out of my
