And it had been intoxicating.
No one had found out, save for Grandma. On that August afternoon nine years ago, Wyatt had asked Raph to sit with him in the piano room. He’d played Songs About Us, one of Raph’s favorites. Then Wyatt had tipped his face up, his eyes fluttering shut, and Raph had kissed him.
But that wasn’t the worst part of it. Not Grandma, not the banishment. What had happened after had been far more terrible than anyone would’ve thought—and only Raph had cared enough to ask around.
Nine years ago, Wyatt had left their childhood home. Then he’d gotten trapped in an abusive relationship with some alpha. Two months later, he’d left, battered and broken, carrying a child.
Raph had only found out after the fact, when he’d tracked Wyatt down through his Facebook friends. Then he’d realized that eighteen-year-old Wyatt had been homeless, had run himself down to make ends meet, and kept it a secret from the rest of his family.
By initiating that very first kiss, Raph had helped destroy his brother’s life.
He still hadn’t apologized for it. Had no idea how he could possibly make it up to Wyatt—all the hurt, the loneliness, the years of his life. And Wyatt had never once replied to his messages; Raph could see why. It didn’t lessen his guilt any.
A series of whoops rang above the crowd. Then great splashes came from the pool, and the crowd murmured.
Raph turned. He’d been expecting to see kids running around, maybe teens splashing at each other. There were five drenched teenagers bobbing in the water, grinning at each other.
A sixth person surfaced, dark blond hair flattened against his face, mouth agape as he sucked in air.
Raph would’ve recognized that face anywhere. The shape of that fine jaw, the arch of that pale throat. Those thin lips, those square, white teeth.
Wyatt?
He froze on the lawn, his heart pounding too hard.
The party-goers washed around him like water around a rock, and all Raph could do was watch. Wyatt swept the hair out of his eyes. In three strokes, he swam to the edge of the pool, thin fingers closing around the rounded stone edge.
Wyatt flattened his hands on the granite coping, then heaved. Water sluiced off his chest as he rose like an ethereal creature, his chest smooth, his skin pale. He set his foot on the edge of the pool, climbed up cautiously. Raph couldn’t stop looking at his slender frame, the pale scar on his belly, the way his nipples tightened in the cool evening breeze.
“Nice dive,” one of the kids in the pool yelled.
Wyatt grinned over his shoulder, gave a thumbs up, and a wave of déjà vu settled over Raph like a spider’s web.
This new Wyatt—older now, at twenty-seven—had little lines of stress worked into his forehead, into the sides of his mouth. But his eyes gleamed warmly like Raph remembered, and he could’ve sworn he’d seen this happen before, Wyatt all relaxed, climbing out of this same pool, his troubles gliding off his back.
It wasn’t the face of someone who’d been let down by Raph.
The music in the background thumped, slow piano notes darting into quick violin strokes—one of Dad’s favorite songs. The crowd’s energy changed.
Raph wasn’t the only one who noticed it. The couples around him swayed into dances, and Wyatt glanced up, recognizing the music. He moved as he straightened, hips rolling, fingers threading through his hair. Beneath the chlorine of the swimming pool, Raph caught the faintest trace of magnolia—Wyatt’s scent.
Gods, he hadn’t smelled magnolia in ages. Raph closed his eyes. This didn’t mean anything. He was just glad to see his brother. Stepbrother. Wyatt had always made that distinction, and Raph had heard in the spaces between his words, Kiss me.
Some kiss that had turned out to be.
As Wyatt turned, a splatter of ink snagged Raph’s attention.
It was small. Palm-sized, maybe. Linework of a scroll unfurling across Wyatt’s lower back. In cursive letters on the scroll, just above the waistband of his swimming trunks: Drive In.
Raph stared, his breath punching out of his lungs. Drive into what? You?
He could imagine that tattoo beneath his palm, Wyatt’s ass grinding down on him, taking him in. And along with that sweet, familiar scent, he caught a telling musk, faint and heady.
Wyatt was in heat. And he was strutting around in that too-loose pair of swimming trunks, its waistband slipping off his hip. Damp fabric clung to the curve of his ass, his thighs. He could’ve been naked, for all the good those shorts were on him.
Drive In, the tattoo murmured, stark on his pale skin.
Something hot slid through Raph’s veins, ferocious and hungry. He had a second to think. Then need crashed through his body, surging between his legs. He staggered.
It felt like a rut. Fucking hell, it was a rut, and all he’d done was stare at Wyatt’s ass.
Never mind that they’d grown up together. Never mind that Raph had taught Wyatt to dive into a pool, arms outstretched, head ducked down. He was hard for his stepbrother, and all Raph could think about was that afternoon in the piano room, back when Wyatt had been playing that song, and Raph had slipped his hand between Wyatt’s thighs.
Nine years ago, Wyatt had whimpered, grown hard for him, his lips soft and damp when Raph kissed him.
And here he was, his ass all but bare, his tattoo whispering seductively at anyone who glanced at it. As though he was inviting any damn alpha to touch his ass.
Raph stalked up to the poolside, snagged Wyatt’s gleaming, damp arm. Whirled his brother around to face
