Craving My Best Friend’s Brother

~~CHANCÉ~~

“Come here.”

River Dawson’s voice slides down my spine like a slow shiver. I’m standing only a few inches away from him, but those two words still pull me closer, like I’m tied to him by something invisible.

Maybe I am.

I should feel embarrassed about how easily I obey him. About how desperate that probably makes me look. But I don’t think about that too much. Because I like him.

No—I’ve liked him for four years.

The hotel light is dim. Outside the window, the city glows under the night sky. It’s Friday night, and I’m far away from home.

I told mom I was sleeping at my best friend’s house. Instead, I’m here. With him.

“Closer,” he murmurs.

I step between his knees. My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. My pussy is so wet, I’m sure he can feel it. 

Four years ago, River didn’t even know I existed. I still remember the first time I saw him. It was at the Dawson house. He sat at the edge of the pool, laughing with some other guys. I couldn’t stop staring at how effortlessly handsome he looked.

His sister introduced me as her new friend from drama class. River barely glanced at me before diving into the pool.

“Hey.” 

One word. That was all I got. But it was enough. Because from that moment, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

She warned me immediately that her twin brother was off limits—that if I ever let him touch me, our friendship would be over. I asked her why but she wouldn’t tell me. Her words were final. But I wanted him anyway. I daydreamed about him, that even at night, I touched myself while I looked through the photo of him I hid away in my phone settings. 

River’s hand slides to the hem of my shirt, fingers grazing skin just above my waistband. “Take off your clothes.”

The command lands soft but heavy, like a stone dropped in still water. My breath snags. For one heartbeat I hesitate—long enough to feel the shame flicker, long enough to wonder why I still obey so easily. Then my hands move anyway.

I peel the shirt over my head, let it drop. He reaches behind me without asking, unhooks my bra, and slides it off my shoulders. Cool air hits my skin; my nipples tighten instantly.

“Nice,” he says, voice low, eyes fixed on my small breasts like they’re something he’s deciding whether to keep.

Heat floods my cheeks. I close my eyes.

A quiet chuckle rumbles from him. “Don’t do that.” His fingers catch under my chin, tilting my face up. “Look at me, Chan.” He always says my nickname like it’s his property. “I like it when you look at me.”

My lids lift slowly. His gaze is unreadable—studying me the way he studies the ice before a face-off, searching for weakness. I wonder if he remembers the lake three weeks ago. The field trip. Him slipping off the rocks, vanishing under black water. Me stalking him like always, heart in my throat, diving in after him when no one else was close enough to see.

I dragged him to shore, both of us coughing, him furious and embarrassed, me shaking from adrenaline and cold. That night he texted. How about I take you to dinner tomorrow to thank you properly?

First time alone. First time he finally notices me. First time I kissed him, he didn’t pull away. He kissed back, slow and deep in the backseat of his car until the windows fogged and I forgot how lungs were supposed to work. I’d never been kissed before. Never been touched. And I still remember how his hand felt sliding under my skirt that night, careful at first, then not.

Now his fingers brush my waist, tugging me closer until our bodies align. His mouth closes over one breast, hot and wet, tongue circling the peak before he sucks. Hard enough to make my teeth snap together against a sharp sweep of pleasure. I gasp. His other hand slips between my thighs, finds me soaked, and two fingers slide inside without warm-up.

My eyes flutter shut again.

“You’re very wet,” he murmurs against my skin, voice amused, almost clinical. He pumps slowly, curling just right, thumb brushing my clit in lazy circles.

A low moan slips out. My head falls back. “Hmmm…”

I don’t want him to stop. I never want him to stop.

This is only the second time we’ll fuck. The first was messy—backseat after dinner, clothes half-on, my skirt bunched around my waist, his jeans shoved down just enough. I was shameless then, too desperate to care that I was giving him everything on night one. I should’ve known it wouldn’t end there. Because even one taste of River Dawson touching me felt like flying too close to the sun.

Now, two weeks later, we’re in a hotel room with soft sheets. River lifts me onto the bed. My back sinks into the mattress as he leans over me, his hands sliding along my thighs and pushing them apart. 

A shiver races through me when his mouth descends. Hot breath first, then the flat of his tongue dragging slowly over my clit. I gasp. My fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer even as my hips buck involuntarily.

He groans against me, the vibration ripping another sound from my throat, then pushes his tongue inside, fucking me with it. It is deep, rhythmic strokes that make my thighs tremble.

He already knows my body better than I do. Knows the exact pressure, the exact rhythm to make me lose control.

My breath grows uneven. River looks up at me for a moment, watching my face like he enjoys every reaction he pulls from me.

“Look at me,” he murmurs again.

I do.

I arch off the bed, a choked cry tearing free as I cum under his mouth.

And then it happens. The moment I’ve imagined again in my head. The fantasy that burned in my mind for the past two weeks. 

He fucks me. Hot. 

He stays inside me for several long seconds, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine. Then he pulls out carefully, ties off the condom, tosses it. Rolls away.

I lie there staring at the ceiling, heart still slamming, body humming with afterglow and something heavier. Emptiness creeps in fast.

He sits up. Reaches for his clothes.

“Are you leaving?” My voice sounds small, fragile.

River pauses near the bed. When he turns back to look at me, something in his expression has changed. It’s more serious.

“This,” he says slowly, gesturing between us, “is how it will be.”

I push myself up on my elbows. “What do you mean?”

His gaze holds mine. “I don’t do love, Chan.” 

The words land harder than I expect.

“If you want to keep doing this,” he continues, “there should be rules.”

My stomach tightens. “Rules?”

“No labels.” He watches me swallow. “No drama.” Another beat in my chest. “And no one can know. Not even your best friend, my sister.” River watches my reaction carefully. “Still want this?” he asks.

I should say no. Every warning bell in my head tells me to stop this before it becomes something worse. 

Instead, I nod. So stupid. So in love. 

Because wanting River Dawson has never been my problem. The problem is that I don’t know how to stop wanting him.