CREAMPIED BY MY HUSBAND'S TATTOOED BROTHER 1
I SHOULDN’T BE THROBBING FOR MY HUSBAND’S TATTOOED BROTHER WHILE I’M SICK AND MY HUSBAND IS HALF A WORLD AWAY
The fever is burning me up from the inside, but it’s not the sickness that’s making my thighs slick.
I’m curled on the couch in one of Ethan’s old t-shirts, the fabric stuck to my sweat-damp skin, when my phone lights up. His name. My husband. The man who’s been in Singapore for three weeks closing some deal that apparently matters more than me right now.
“Hey baby,” I croak, trying to sound normal. My voice cracks anyway.
“Fuck, you sound awful, Mia. I’m so sorry I’m not there.” Ethan’s voice is all concern and guilt. “Look, I sent Rhys. He’s already on his way. He’ll take care of you until I can get back.”
Rhys.
My stomach flips. Not from the fever.
Ethan’s older brother. The one with the full-sleeve tattoos that disappear under his shirt and reappear at his throat. The one who looks at me like he already knows every filthy thought I’ve ever had about his father—and now about him. I’ve spent months telling myself those thoughts about my father-in-law were just lonely fantasies. Harmless. But Rhys? He’s been in my head since the wedding, and every time I shove the image away, it comes back twice as dirty.
“I don’t need—” I start, but the front door clicks open before I can finish the lie.
He’s here.
Rhys fills the doorway like he owns the place. Black tee stretched across his chest, ink crawling down both arms, that lazy, dangerous smirk already in place. His eyes drag over me—bare legs, damp hair, the way the t-shirt rides up my thighs—and something dark flickers in them.
“Little sis,” he drawls, voice low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet. “You look like shit.”
“Rhys is there?” Ethan asks through the speaker.
“Yeah,” I manage, forcing a smile even though my cheeks are burning. “He just walked in.”
“Good. Let him handle everything, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too,” I whisper, and the words taste like betrayal already.
Rhys hangs up for me, sliding the phone into his back pocket like it belongs to him now. He crosses the room in two strides, crouches in front of the couch, and presses the back of his hand to my forehead. His skin is cool. Rough. The tattoos on his knuckles flex as he checks me.
“Burning up,” he murmurs. “Come on. Bath first.”
I try to stand on my own. My knees buckle. His arm snakes around my waist instantly, big hand splaying over my hip, fingers digging in just enough to steady me. The heat of his palm soaks straight through the thin cotton.
“I can walk,” I lie.
“You can’t.” His breath brushes my ear. “Be a good girl and let me help.”
There it is. That phrase. Two words and my pussy clenches so hard I have to bite my lip to keep from whimpering.
He half-carries me to the bathroom, sets me on the closed toilet, and starts the tub. I watch the ink move on his forearms while he tests the water. When he turns back, his eyes lock on mine.
“Arms up.”
I hesitate. The t-shirt is all I’m wearing.
“Rhys—”
“Now, Mia.”
My arms lift like they have a mind of their own. He peels the shirt off slowly, letting his knuckles graze the undersides of my breasts. My nipples tighten instantly. He notices. Of course he does.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t touch them. Not yet. He just lowers me into the tub, one arm behind my back, the other under my knees. The hot water hits my skin and I moan—actually moan—because it feels so good after days of chills.
He washes me.
Not like a brother-in-law should. His soapy hands slide over my shoulders, down my arms, across my collarbones. When he cups my breasts to “clean” them, his thumbs circle my nipples until they’re aching peaks. I’m panting. The water sloshes as I shift, trying to press my thighs together.
“Rhys… this is wrong,” I whisper.
He leans in, lips against my ear, voice dark. “Yeah? Then why is your cunt dripping into the bathwater, baby?”
I close my eyes, shame and lust twisting so tight I can’t breathe. He’s right. I’m soaked, and it’s not the tub.
He rinses me, dries me with a towel that feels too soft against my oversensitive skin, then carries me back to the bedroom. When he lays me down, his hand lingers on my waist, thumb stroking the curve of my hip like he can’t stop touching me.
Three days of this.
Three days of him feeding me soup with one hand while the other rubs slow circles on my lower back. Three days of him holding me against his chest when the fever spikes and I shiver. Three days of his tattooed fingers brushing the swell of my ass when he helps me to the bathroom. Three days of me touching myself in the shower after he leaves the room, biting my own wrist so I don’t moan his name.
By the fourth morning the fever finally breaks. I feel almost human again. I tell Ethan on the phone that I’m cooking dinner to celebrate, that Rhys has been amazing, that I’ll be fine now.
I’m bent over the kitchen counter in tiny sleep shorts and a tank top, phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, stirring pasta while Ethan tells me about his flight home tomorrow.
The floor creaks behind me.
Rhys is there.
His body heat hits my back before his hands do. He steps right up against me, hips pressing into my ass, hard cock already thick against the thin fabric of my shorts.
“Need help?” he asks, voice low enough that only I can hear.
I freeze. The wooden spoon trembles in my hand.
“Baby? You still there?” Ethan asks cheerfully.
Rhys’s palm slides under my tank top, rough and warm, straight up to cup my bare breast. His thumb flicks my nipple and my knees almost give out.
“I’m here,” I gasp, forcing my voice steady. “Just… stirring.”
Rhys chuckles darkly against my neck. His other hand grips my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me.
“Good girl,” he whispers, teeth grazing my ear. “Keep talking to your husband while I play with what’s mine now.”
My pussy clenches so hard I feel fresh wetness slide down my thigh.
This is so fucking wrong.
And I already know I’m not going to stop him.
