Frat-Bro-Closet-Hell 🌶️🌶️
🔥💋 Intro Blurb 💋🔥
If you love the original hot murder mystery "The Lovely Killer":
🔗 Link here: https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1520148
... Then you’ll devour this even filthier spin-off — a raw collection of every scorching, uncensored, never-before-published sex scenes between Melody and Jasper. 💦🔥
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If you’re new to Melody and Jasper, this is where it all begins — before they become lovers, before the chaos — with one closet, one hard-bodied stepbrother, and one very dangerous spark in the dark…
Chapter 1: Frat-Bro-Closet-Hell 🌶️🌶️
Melody’s POV begins below — buckle up.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s talent or because I’m too damn curious for my own good. Some of it is because I make it so easy to overlook me on purpose — being boring, invisible, the human version of a gray wall.
It doesn’t matter much though, as long as it works. Call it nosy, call it invisible-girl chic. Add my freakishly sharp hearing and memory, and yeah… I’m basically a bloodhound with human ingenuity and Wi-Fi access.
It mostly happens when I’m tucked away in the library, studying, or reading in some quiet corner of campus, or the café. My radar flicks on automatically.
It’s like a sixth sense triggering whenever secrets are being spilled near me. My ears tune onto it the way bloodhounds pick up a scent. It’s when that certain hush is being used by people gossiping and spilling their best tea.
When I was little, my pediatrician once said that I could hear nightingales sing in the next county over. Turns out that scumbags ‘sing’ as well and I easily hear douchebags brag about crimes at Starbucks.
Many people are basically idiots. They’ll whisper felony-level secrets over a beer or coffee like they’re auditioning for a podcast. Everyone else is staring like zombies at their phones, books, or laptops.
Everyone except me. Invisible wallflower, surround sound engaged. And because I’m good at blending in, people tend to look through me, not at me.
And me? I just collect those little tidbits of knowledge. With my ‘DVR brain’ as I call it: once I hear anything, it’s locked in my RAM for life, like my brain runs on creepy-Intel Google Drive. A doctor once called it multisensory, photographic memory. Ultra rare, apparently.
So my brain logs everything. Whispered truths. Rotten evidence. Human garbage on file. And trust me — that filing cabinet of filth pays off more often than anyone would ever guess. Myself included.
And in the end… no one knows who’s handing over the damning evidence to the law, needed to make a bust. I never want applause. I don’t want to be the girl in the spotlight.
I just want assholes outed, cuffed, and gone. Law enforcement earn their pay and get their gold star. The rest of us get a predator-free environment.
Win-win.
However.. every file I stack, every creep I take down — all those little wins are just warm-ups for the takedown I really want. The one that keeps me up at night: my Dad’s killer.
My Dad’s case file is locked away in the sheriff’s cold-case dungeon, and I haven’t cracked how to get in it yet. But I will. Even if it’s slow going, even two years after his death.
Back then, his Internal Affairs case got stamped ‘closed swiftly and successfully’ — which is code for ‘we buried it before it buried us.’
A handful of dirty deputies went down for bribes, evidence tampering, the usual garbage. But the big fish?
The sheriff strutted out in front of the cameras like it was his victory, parading my Dad’s evidence as if it was his own. Hiding behind ‘plausible deniability’ so he didn’t go down in the bust too.
But I know he’s dirty. Dad once told me he had proof the sheriff’s fingerprints were all over a tampered case. Not enough to nail him yet. But then — surprise, surprise — Dad’s dead before he can prove it. Coincidence? Please.
I’ve been trying to chase that slimeball’s trail for almost two years now, but the bastard’s too slick. Every lead evaporates.
And the cherry on top? Sheriff-Forty-Something-Year-Old-Fat-Ass hits on me whenever he sees me and I just want to puke. Like killing my dad wasn’t enough, now he’s gotta slime up my personal space too. I hate his fucking guts.
Dad received a plaque for “distinguished service,” posthumous. The sheriff accepted it on camera like he’d earned it himself, then mailed it to Mom like an Amazon delivery.
I guessed he didn’t want to share camera-time with someone actually relevant to my Dad being honored because Mom would outshine him in a second. So no ceremony for us. Just one more insult.
That plaque sits at the bottom of my drawer now. Cheap brass that feels more like a curse than a comfort. A reminder of what our once‑so-happy-family lost back then, and will never have again.
So yeah. I’m not just digging into Bill’s death because Mom begged me to exonerate my so-called stepbrother. I’d have done it anyway — just to stick it to the sheriff.
And now I’m sneaking into Bill’s room after the sheriff and the cops have wrapped up their investigations.
Tonight’s my only shot to dig through the muck and maybe learn who killed him and why. Before Bill’s parents fly in tomorrow to clean all evidence that might still be here.
I’m careful not to touch anything except with my sleeve. The smell hits me first: cheap cologne, stale sweat, and despair from the humming mini-fridge, stocked with soda and rotting pizza.
His room is as gross as I expected — scattered laundry piles. A cork-board plastered with photos that practically scream evidence.
I pull out my phone and start snapping everything. Fast. Quiet. Every second counts.
“Melody. What the fuck.”
My phone almost flies out of my hand.
That voice. Low. Rough. Dangerous. Behind me. I whip around — and my breath catches.
Jasper. My new-ish, not‑related-by-blood stepbrother. Hot as sin. Built like trouble. Greek statue body — one shove away from toppling under the weight of all that sculpted perfection.
Even with my heart hammering in my throat, my eyes take a sinful detour down over his shoulders, chest, and lower.
I’m shocked that he’s stealthy enough to get this close without me hearing him. Mental note: mad stealth skills. He slips silently through the doorway, closing the door with a hip-nudge that feels way too casual for how fast my pulse is spiking.
He’s wearing the same fitted black tee from this morning that clings to his chest, veins running down his forearms making them look dangerously divine, but his usual cocky smirk is gone, replaced with curiosity and — dammit — worry.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” he whispers, his voice a low, vibrating growl that makes my stomach drop and my brain momentarily go offline.
“Research project. Murder investigation. For a school paper,” I blurt. Weakest excuse ever.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Researching what? How to get arrested for tampering with a crime scene?”
Before I can snap back, voices and footsteps echo down the hall. Laughter. Two frat bros, getting closer.
Jasper swears under his breath. His eyes cut to the door, then back to me. Hard. Decisive.
He listens for a beat and then mutters, “Shit, that’s Finn and Trev. You and me getting caught in here is bad. Dewitt would hear about it and add you to the suspect list before you could blink, and give him more ammo against me. Hurry — we need to hide.”
And just like that, he grabs my wrist like it’s his birthright and yanks open the closet door.
“Move,” he orders, low and firm.
“Move? Into the—”
Too late. No time for democracy. He ducks inside, slides to the floor like it’s just another Tuesday pastime. Then stretches his long legs out as if posing for a GQ shoot in the middle of a murder investigation.
“Come here,” he says.
Excuse me?
“I—what—no—”
He doesn’t wait. He grabs my leg, pulls me in like I’m a ragdoll, and suddenly I’m in his lap. His thigh hard beneath me, heat radiating through my jeans. Not straddling him — worse. Full-on seated, like some unpaid intern at the world’s worst strip club.
He shuts the door with the softest click. The kind of click that says, “This is fine. Everything’s fine.” Which is a total lie because nothing is fine.
And just like that, I’m trapped in almost pitch black. His arms cage me. His heat is everywhere, surrounding me. I barely have time to squeak before his hand clamps over my mouth.
Not cute. Not sexy. Just bam. Hand. On. Mouth. Lips pressed against it so it somehow feels like I’m kissing his palm.
Oh. My. God.
His other arm locks around my waist, steel-bar tight, like he’s bracing for impact.
“Sit still,” he whispers, voice vibrating through my spine. “Stay quiet.”
Yeah, sure. Totally. Because my heart isn’t already jackhammering like it’s auditioning for a drum solo. Ready to jump out of my chest and start a new life somewhere more peaceful.
His palm is hot against my mouth, thumb grazing my cheek. My lips brush his skin with every panicked breath, and it’s the stupidest, most traitorous thing my brain whispers: stick out your tongue a little, just lick once, taste him. God. I’m losing it.
And it’s dark in here. Just me, him, and the suffocating little coffin we’re sharing.
The footsteps from the hallway grow louder. One of them says something about “Bill’s room.” Jasper’s grip tightens. His lips hover by my temple and I swear I feel the heat from his mouth when he exhales.
His body shifts beneath me — a subtle roll of muscle — heat floods me, all the way down to my core, and I hate myself for it, so I also shift.
He groans softly, barely audible, but I feel it rumble in his chest against my back. My pulse spikes so hard it burns in my chest.
All I can think is: If they open this closet, we’re caught. And if they don’t — I might go up in flames.
And in that suffocating dark, pressed back to chest with Jasper Hudson, I know one thing for certain:
After tonight, I’ll never be able to look at him the same way again.
I wiggle again — purely survival instinct, trying to get off him or at least find a less compromising position — and that is when I make my next discovery.
Big mistake. Huge.
Because… there’s something turning hard, solid, thick. Beneath me. And God help me, my body recognizes what it is and starts to melt before my brain can scream ‘abort mission, abort!’.
Ohh. Fuuuck.
Nope. Not thinking about that. Not processing it at all. Completely ignoring it. Definitely not dying inside. I’m just going to stay here like a good little statue — the world’s most awkward, toe‑curling statue in existence. A very polite, not‑horny statue.
Except my body? Traitor.
My face is on fire, my thighs are buzzing, my breath’s coming shallow like I’m drowning on dry land, and every nerve ending is screaming, “Hey girl, maybe let’s just… see where this goes and wiggle a bit more?”
The scent hits me next. Not the gross Bill Gordon body spray smell. No. The one beneath it. Jasper’s scent.
Ohhh no. I’m so screwed. He doesn’t just feel incredible — he also smells incredible.
Like a wet dream wrapped in soap, warm spice and sin. Subtle, expensive, the kind of masculine scent that clings. I just want to bottle it, inhale it and bathe in it.
My body decides it’s time to transform into a furnace, horny and wet, which is great, because apparently I don’t need dignity tonight.
I’m close to panicking because my flaming hot cheeks just want out of here, so I accidentally wiggle again, desperate to adjust, and his arm tightens around me.
And then? THEN?
He exhales sharply. Low. Like he’s trying really hard not to say or do something and being close to failing.
I swear I hear a suppressed, tiny noise escaping him — not quite a groan, but close enough to melt me into mush.
Then he short‑circuits my brain completely when his thumb brushes along my jaw as his hand slides away from my mouth. A sensual little caress. Totally innocent. Sure. Excellent. Let’s add ‘horny against my will’ to tonight’s trauma bingo card.
Because my lips are tingling like I’ve been thoroughly kissed and I feel like I might be dying inside.
And he still doesn’t release me. Not even close. His other arm stays locked like a steel bar around my waist, holding me firmly in place.
I almost whimper because it feels so damn good and so terribly wrong at the same time.
Outside, footsteps. Voices. Two of the frat bros.
I go rigid. Every muscle screaming move, but Jasper’s body against mine says don’t you dare.
And oh God. His heartbeat thudding slow and calm — so infuriatingly calm — the exact opposite of mine. Like this is no big deal.
Mine? Oh, mine’s hammering like it’s trying to pack a bag, steal my car, and start a new life somewhere far away from Frat‑Bro‑Closet‑Hell.
But Jasper doesn’t even flinch. Like this is nothing new for him. Like he hides in closets with girls on his lap all the time. Getting hard‑ons while sitting stacked like a pair of Lego bricks, almost glued together.
My core clenches hard. I’m soaked from fantasizing about his hardness which I can feel so clearly. I’m frozen completely, too terrified to even breathe or move an inch in case I melt and betray just how much I like this close encounter with his amazing body.
The voices outside in the hallway drift closer, and then the door to Bill’s room creaks open.
“Why’s the door unlocked? I thought I heard something in here,” one of them says.
“Probably Bill’s ghost. You can see no one’s in here, stupid.” another snickers.
My body’s rigid, plastered against Jasper. His chest presses into my back, hard and steady, same as his arm around my waist.
But then his chest rumbles silently against me with a laugh that he’s suppressing. The feeling sends small, delicious shivers down my spine and my cheeks flame even hotter.
Then we hear, “Hey, did you text Serena back? His girlfriend? About the funeral in Dallas, probably on Thursday?”
Serena. Dallas. Funeral. Check. New clues. Future ammo. My brain stores it away while the rest of me is melting in Jasper’s lap. Their voices fade. The door shuts behind them.
