We had the house to ourselves that weekend, just me and my older brother Alex. Mom and Dad were gone until Sunday night, and the silence in the old place felt heavy, like it was waiting for something to break. I was eighteen, he was twenty-two, both of us home from school and pretending we could still act normal around each other. But normal had stopped applying months ago.
It started with the heat. The AC was busted again, so we stripped down to shorts and nothing else.
Alex's body was all hard lines from the gym, sweat shining on his chest and stomach. I caught myself staring while we ate takeout on the couch. He caught me too.
"You keep looking," he said, voice low and rough. "Say it."
I swallowed. "I want to fuck you, Alex. Been wanting it since you moved back in."
He didn't laugh. He set his plate down, stood up, and pulled his shorts off. His cock was already thick and half-hard, curving up toward his belly. "Then get over here and suck it like you mean it."
I dropped to my knees on the living room rug. The carpet scratched my skin but I didn't care. I took him in my mouth, tasting salt and heat, and he groaned deep in his chest. His hand fisted my hair, guiding me, fucking my throat slow and steady until spit ran down my chin.
"Fuck, little sister," he growled. "You were made for this."
I pulled off long enough to beg. "Take me to your room. I want you inside me."
He hauled me up and carried me upstairs like I weighed nothing. We didn't make it to the bed at first. He bent me over the dresser, yanked my shorts down, and spread my ass. His tongue dragged over my pussy, licking me open, then higher, teasing my asshole until I was shaking and dripping onto the floor.
When he finally pushed his cock into me it was one long, brutal thrust. I cried out, half pain, half relief. He fucked me hard against the wood, balls slapping, one hand pinning my wrists behind my back.
"Tell me whose pussy this is," he demanded.
"Yours. Always been yours."
He flipped me onto the bed after that, spread my legs wide, and drove back in. The headboard slammed the wall with every stroke. I came first, clenching around him, soaking the sheets. He didn't stop. He kept pounding until he pulled out and painted my stomach and tits with thick ropes of cum, marking me like he owned me.
We didn't talk much after. Just lay there breathing hard, his fingers tracing lazy circles through the mess on my skin. Later that night we did it again in the shower, slower, him holding me up against the tiles while he filled me. By morning we were in the kitchen, me on the counter, his mouth between my legs while the coffee brewed.
When our parents' car pulled into the driveway Sunday evening, we were dressed again, sitting on opposite ends of the couch like nothing had happened. But under the table our bare feet touched, a silent promise that this wasn't over. It was only the start of what we both needed.
