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This is so wrong on so many levels. Blood flows rapidly south and heat pools low in my stomach as an erection I should not be experiencing right now decides to override any rational thought. He’s my sister’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Jesus. The semantics don’t exactly matter, because the fact that they were together means he’s slept with her, and now here I am thinking about what his dick looks like.

Well, shit.

My cock jerks, flinching and filling rapidly until the fabric of my sweats is tented thanks to just how turned on I am at the memory of him. The way his tongue swirled, and his cheeks hollowed, and the goddamn overwhelming bliss of how incredible it felt. Nothing like a fumbling, cautious rub through layers of clothes. Nothing like lying alone in bed every night. Nothing like jerking myself off.

Brad knew exactly how to unravel me, and he went after my climax like it was something he wanted—no, had a right to. As if the act of me spilling down his throat was giving him as much pleasure as it was me … and oh hell, I’m in territory I can’t possibly be entertaining thoughts of.

Everything aches, demanding relief. The throb of my rock-hard dick is an agony. Under no circumstances should I be moving my hand. Humiliation floods my cheeks with heat while I tentatively shift my grip on my phone, and my free hand drifts in the direction it really shouldn’t. Shoving at the waistband, I push the material down, only to feel a rush of giddy, pulse-racing desire as the thickness of me bobs up. Hard and eager, my dick slaps against my lower stomach.

Jesus. I can’t be considering doing this right here?

But as I internally debate the moral failings of touching myself with a certain cowboy front and center in my mind, I’m caught by the smirk on his face in the photo staring back at me. Like he’s daring me through the phone screen. I can’t stop thinking about how that same look transfixed me that night, and a shudder races through my limbs knowing that, for a brief moment in time, he gave me that same look.

For a frantic, breathtaking moment, I was the only person he stared at with that expression. He gave me that mischievous grin and sealed his mouth with mine, and fuck my life, what I would give to have him here right now.

How incredible would lying together on a couch like this be? A movie long forgotten in the background while we make out and I get to run my hands over him. Actually touching him was such a brief thing—I hardly remember consciously doing it, but he seemed to enjoy having my fingers tangled in his hair.

I liked the way that felt far too much. The intimacy of our bodies being connected. Of getting to push my fingers through his messy strands and feel the heat of him.

I’m done for. Officially lost to a dirty little scenario, where he climbs over my body right here on this couch. Our plans for whatever might have been playing on the TV screen in the background are entirely abandoned.

Brad hits me with a smirk that leaves my heart pounding, cock beginning to leak with anticipation of where this is headed. Are we still watching? Nope. The only thing I’m fixated on is the way he licks his lips, a man with pure hunger in his expression. The way he eyes me up exactly as he did that night—as if I’m someone worth savoring, worth going after, worth being with intimately.

He drops that smoking-hot gaze down to look at my straining cock and nudges at my hand still loosely gripped over the waistband now shoved down low on my groin. I give him what he wants. Spit.

Shame and a flood of tingling need are a potent mixture of emotions occupying my bloodstream right now. I lick a wet track of saliva across my palm and have to bite back a desperate noise as soon as I wrap my fist around the base of me.

My eyes want to flutter closed, but at the same time, the sight of Brad staring back at me in that photo, all bronzed and dripping wet and gorgeous, keeps me watching everything as it unfolds. There’s no way I’m gonna last long. This is frantic, desperate, a driving need to satisfy the craving he’s unleashed in me.

I start stroking, squeezing and pulling in a rhythm that mimics how his mouth bobbed back and forth to suck me down when he was on his knees. In my imagination, he watches me openly and enjoys the show I’m putting on for him all while bracing his weight over me.

It’s written there in his roguish, sexy expression.

You’re remembering everything, aren’t you? The way my lips wrapped around you. How it felt when I swallowed around your tip. Just how slutty you were to have me suck you hard and deep.

I shuttle faster now, and the slick noise of wetness inside my fist sounds almost way too loud in this quiet, darkened room. A raw gasp escapes me as my movements speed up. With my mouth hanging open and those strokes turning frantic, those lewd, subtle noises are drowned out by the thumping heartbeat filling my ears. Tension surges straight down my spine. That coil winds tight, locking in ready for the moment this is going to end in something damn well explosive.

Brad sees it. Eats up every second I bite down on my bottom lip and struggle to contain the feral panting breaths I’m so close to accidentally letting out. I’m close, oh so fucking close, and he uses that moment to lean down.

My fist squeezes tight and tugs harder, just as my memory recalls how it felt for my dick to slip inside the heaven of his warm, wet mouth. The roar of my pulse takes over as I get swept up in a scenario where he adds his tongue and I fuck up into my fist and there’s no stopping it. My balls draw up tight, throbbing with the need to come, and everything simply bursts with overeager need and want.

Thick ropes of cum paint my stomach and coat my fist. Beneath my grip, my dick pulses and pulses, shooting everywhere with so much force my release splashes up my chest. It’s slick and filthy and made even more so by the knowledge that I just jacked off to a picture of my sister’s ex-boyfriend.

They’ve had sex. Been dating all year. What am I doing thinking about him like this?

It’s so completely and utterly messed up.

As my heart races and chest heaves, the glide of my fist slows. Stroking a few more times, I take in the sight of the mess I’ve made lit up by the soft glow from my phone screen. Everything about this is so wrong. I can’t be fantasizing about him.

I’ve never been with a man, properly, so why is this now the fascination I can’t rid myself of?

The thought of casual sex turns me off.

I’ve never wanted to randomly hook up with guys who weren’t in it for something more meaningful, who weren’t ready for an actual relationship. It’s why I ended up in the stupid situation I did for way too long.

Looking down at the filthy evidence painting my overheated skin, I can’t figure any of this out.

I’ve never been interested in something purely physical—or at least, I didn’t think that was something I wanted—convinced I should find a guy who wanted to be with me for more than just sex.