Siblings Forbidden Embrace Unravels Passion – Chapter 1

“Are you even listening to me?” His voice was a low growl, rough with a need that sent a shiver straight down my spine. His hand, warm and possessive, slid from my waist to my hip, his fingers pressing into the soft skin above my jeans. “Or am I just talking to myself here?”

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I’m listening,” I breathed, my own voice barely a whisper. The air in our living room was thick, charged with something that had been building for years, maybe forever. “It’s just… a lot to process, Liam.”

His lips were at my ear, his breath hot. “It doesn’t have to be.”

*

It started an hour ago. The house was too quiet, a hollowed-out shell without the usual background noise of our parents. A last-minute, out-of-town conference for Dad. A accompanying-Mom-on-her-business-trip for Mom. We were alone. Properly, utterly alone for the first time since… well, ever.

I was curled on the couch, pretending to read, acutely aware of Liam moving around the kitchen. At twenty-four, two years my senior, he carried himself with a confidence I’d always envied. He was all sharp angles and quiet intensity, with our father’s dark eyes that always seemed to see right through me.

He walked into the living room, two glasses of red wine in his hands. “Figured we could use this,” he said, his tone casual, but his gaze was anything but.

“Since when do you drink wine?” I asked, taking the offered glass. Our fingers brushed. A spark, tiny and electric, jolted up my arm.

“Since now.” He sat down, not on the opposite end of the sofa, but right in the middle, his thigh a scant inch from mine. The proximity was deliberate. Dangerous.

We drank in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the soft ticking of the grandfather clock. The wine was dark and fruity, warming my chest, loosening the tight coil of anxiety in my stomach.

“Remember when we were kids?” he asked suddenly, swirling the liquid in his glass. “That treehouse in the back? We’d hide up there for hours.”

I nodded, a faint smile touching my lips. “You used to tell me ghost stories just to make me squeeze closer to you.”

He turned his head, his eyes capturing mine. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw, unnerving honesty. “It wasn’t the ghosts I wanted you closer for, Chloe.”

The air left my lungs. The room seemed to tilt. Oh.

That’s when the conversation shifted. The pretense fell away, syllable by syllable, leaving nothing but the terrifying, thrilling truth between us. He spoke of stolen glances I thought I’d imagined, of a constant, low hum of awareness that had followed him for years. He talked about the frustration of seeing me date guys who were all wrong, the possessive jealousy he could never voice.

And I confessed my own secrets. The way I’d compare every boy to him. The confusing dreams that left me aching and flushed upon waking. The forbidden curiosity that was a constant, shameful companion.

The half-empty wineglass was taken from my trembling hand and placed on the side table. His was next to it. The decision was made without a word. The line we were about to cross shimmered in the space between us, terrifying and irresistible.

*

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured, his lips tracing the shell of my ear, down the sensitive column of my neck. “God, how I’ve thought about this.” His words were a confession, a prayer, a demand all at once.

His mouth found mine, and it wasn’t a tentative exploration. It was a claiming. His kiss was deep and hungry, all tongue and heat and the faint taste of wine. A low moan escaped me, swallowed by his kiss. My hands came up, my fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. This is wrong, a voice in my head whispered, but it was drowned out by the roaring in my blood, by the feel of his hard body against mine.

He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. His dark eyes searched my face. “Tell me you want this.” His thumb stroked my cheek. “Tell me.”

“I want it,” I gasped, the words feeling both terrifying and liberating. “I want you, Liam.”

That was all the permission he needed. In one fluid motion, he shifted us, laying me back against the soft cushions of the couch, his body coming down to cover mine. The weight of him was exquisite, solid and real, pinning me in the best possible way. He kissed me again, deeper this time, his hands beginning to move.

One hand slid under the hem of my thin t-shirt, his palm searing a path up my ribs. I arched into his touch, a desperate, silent plea for more. His fingers found the lace edge of my bra, brushing against the side of my breast, and a sharp, needy sound caught in my throat.

He smiled against my lips, a dark, predatory thing. “I love the sounds you make.”

His hand dipped lower, skimming over my stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans. The button popped open effortlessly. The zipper came down with a slow, deliberate rasp that seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room. His knuckles brushed the bare skin of my lower stomach, and I shuddered.

He shifted again, kneeling on the floor between my legs, pulling my jeans and panties down in one swift, practiced motion. The cool air hit my damp skin, and I flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and wild anticipation. His eyes darkened as he looked his fill, his gaze hot and heavy on my most intimate place.

“So fucking beautiful,” he breathed, the words full of awe.

Then he lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue was a lightning bolt. A slow, deliberate lick from bottom to top that made my entire body bow off the couch. A broken cry was torn from my lips. My hands fisted in his hair, not to push him away, but to hold him right there.

He didn’t need guidance. He knew exactly what to do. His tongue was an artist, painting patterns of pure sensation. A soft, circling pressure on my clit that made my toes curl. A firmer, flat lick that had me gasping. The gentle suction of his lips, drawing the very core of me into the heat of his mouth.

The coiled tension in my lower belly tightened, a spring wound to its breaking point. My hips began to move of their own accord, rocking against his mouth, seeking more friction, more pressure, more. I was babbling, a stream of incoherent pleas and his name, over and over.

“Liam… please… don’t stop… oh god…”

I could feel his low groan vibrate through me, and the sensation pushed me closer to the edge. My climax built, a tidal wave of pleasure gathering force, threatening to shatter me. He slid two fingers inside me, curling them, finding a spot that made me see stars. His mouth never relented, his tongue flicking over my clit with relentless, perfect precision.

The wave crashed. My world dissolved into a white-hot burst of sensation. I cried out, my body shaking uncontrollably as the pleasure ripped through me, relentless and absolute. He stayed with me through every pulse and shudder, gentling his touch until I was a boneless, trembling mess on the cushions.

He rose above me, his face glistening, his own desire etched into every hard line of his body. He fumbled with his own jeans, freeing his erection. He was thick and painfully hard, and a fresh wave of desire, sharp and urgent, washed over my spent body.

He positioned himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine, full of a heat that promised this was only the beginning. “Look at me, Chloe,” he commanded, his voice rough with strain.

I did. I couldn’t look away.

And with one slow, inexorable thrust, he