Wyatt pulled his towel tighter around him, keenly aware of his dripping trunks, his bare feet. The hunger in his body.
Raph’s hair was plastered to his head, his shirt translucent, his taut nipples straining against thin fabric. The hard line in his jeans was still there. Thicker than Wyatt had imagined, bigger.
He imagined it pressed up against him, and groaned.
Raph’s gaze cut to his. “I haven’t seen you in nine years.”
What was new? “No, you haven’t.”
His body humming, Wyatt glanced at his abandoned clothes. He should leave the mansion. Get out before he did something completely stupid. Before he succumbed to the scent of Raph’s rut, the dark gaze that lingered on him.
“I’m sorry,” Raph said.
Wyatt dragged his gaze back up. “Sorry about what?”
“Everything. Grandma. Max. That bastard—”
“I’m not talking about Max right now,” Wyatt said, dragging the towel over his head. He dried his hair roughly, turning toward his clothes. How in all hells had Raph found out about Max? Max was ancient history.
Raph hissed. In the space of a breath, he was behind Wyatt, his warm hand sliding around Wyatt’s arm, his warm fingers trailing down Wyatt’s spine, to the small of his back.
“The fuck is this?” Raph growled in his ear.
The tattoo...? Why would Raph get angry over a tattoo? Because it said Drive In? Because he thought Wy was a slut, or something?
A stream of hot anger bubbled up through Wyatt’s chest. Why should Raph’s opinion matter? Raph hadn’t been around when things happened. He had no say on what Wyatt chose. Especially not a tattoo that Wyatt had been so proud of, back when the drive-in had crossed its three-year birthday.
Wyatt tried shaking him off, but Raph held on, his body broad behind Wyatt, strong and inviting.
“That’s none of your business.” Wyatt scrubbed harder at his hair. Then threw the towel on the bed, so it wasn’t separating them.
“You’re my brother. It’s every bit my business.” Raph’s palm burned against his back, right over Wyatt’s ink. His lips brushed Wyatt’s ear, his breath damp. “You showed this at the party. Were you asking every alpha there to ‘drive in’?”
Wyatt’s heart pounded. This could go either way—he could say something scathing, and Raph would leave. Or he could give in to his heat, and the months and years he’d thought about Raph, wishing they’d never been brothers.
“How does it read to you?” Wyatt asked, his voice so quiet he wasn’t sure if Raph heard.
Raph drew a shaky breath, gripping Wyatt’s arm so tight it almost hurt. “It reads as an invitation.”
“And would you—” Wyatt swallowed “—would you accept it?”
Raph groaned, his fingers brushing down the tattoo, catching along Wyatt’s waistband. “We’re goddamn brothers, Wyatt.”
“Stepbrothers. We aren’t related by blood.”
Except everyone outside this room would condemn them if they did. There was Penny, and their parents, and their grandmother. The people at the party. Wyatt’s insides squirmed; they shouldn’t do this.
And yet his body ached. If no one found out... “Just once, Raph. Please.”
Raph’s breath rushed out of him. He pressed his forehead to Wyatt’s shoulder, his fingertips trailing down Wyatt’s back, over the curve of his ass. “How many other people saw this tattoo?”
“Plenty,” Wyatt said. But that wasn’t what Raph was asking. Raph meant How many people have you seduced with it? and Wyatt would answer that. He wasn’t eighteen anymore. He had regretted the times they’d danced around each other an age ago, waiting for Raph to respond. Waiting until it was too late. “But I haven’t slept with anyone since I got it. Two years ago.”
“Fuck.” Raph pressed his palm against Wyatt’s ass, squeezed his cheek. Spread him open through his trunks. “I swear it’s just my rut.”
“I need to know, Raph,” Wyatt said, his voice cracking. “I need to feel your cock.”
Raph swore. He slipped his arm around Wyatt’s waist, hauled him backward. Wyatt bumped into the fly of his jeans, shoving back against that thick length, his body aching. He reached behind, fumbled with Raph’s belt until Raph released him and tugged it off. It landed on the carpet with a thud.
Wyatt’s fingers were already on Raph’s fly, dragging the zipper down. Then he shoved his hand into Raph’s drenched boxers, and Raph’s cock jerked against his fingers, hot and hard.
Wyatt’s breath rushed out of his lungs. He’d waited years for this, since that sunny afternoon on the piano bench, when he’d inched his hand along Raph’s thigh, nudging his cock through his pants.
He followed the silky length of Raph’s cock now—from its damp, blunt tip down its ridge, to the base of it. Then Raph’s balls, soft and sensitive and drawn up against his body, demanding to unload into an omega.
“Damn it, Wy,” Raph hissed, rocking into his hand, his cock grinding into Wyatt’s palm. Wyatt leaned back into it, angling his hips up, trying to compensate for their height difference.
Raph shoved him down against the mattress. For a moment, Wyatt flailed, hips in the air, trying to gain his bearings.
Before he could, Raph stepped between his legs, hauled him up by the hips, grinding his covered cock between Wyatt’s cheeks. It was hot, insistent against his body. Wyatt dripped, dragging the leg of his swimming trunks up, tugging when it caught on his damp skin.
Raph helped push the fabric up, until it reached the curve of Wyatt’s ass. Then he slipped his thumb under the trunks, stroking the cleft between Wyatt’s cheeks. Wyatt’s breath snagged.
Raph was touching him. His thumb was rough, more callused than Wyatt had imagined. He slipped it between Wyatt’s cheeks, spreading them. The cool air of the room brushed over Wyatt’s hole, made him so very aware of Raph, of what Raph could push into him.
“You’re so damn wet,” Raph whispered, his thumb grinding against Wyatt’s skin.
“You haven’t seen anything.” Wyatt rolled his hips. Raph groaned. And the next thing Wyatt knew, a puff of damp air rushed
