The Greyhound’s brakes hissed like a dying animal when we finally rolled into Santa Monica. 2:15 AM. My phone was dead, my back was sore, and I smelled like bus air—that weird mix of stale pretzels and recycled oxygen. I stepped onto the curb with my duffel bag digging into my shoulder, scanning the pickup zone for my boyfriend’s beat-up Civic.
Instead, I saw you.
Leaning against a black Mustang, arms crossed, that smirk already in place. Michael Jackson. My boyfriend’s older brother. Twenty-two years old and already infamous in every circle you rolled through. Trouble wasn’t just your middle name—it was your whole goddamn brand.
“Jadeleyza Avenice,” you said, pushing off the car. “You look like shit.”
“And you look like the wrong brother.” I dropped my bag at my feet. “Where’s Marcus?”
You dangled a set of keys from your finger, the little Lego Batman keychain swinging. “Took these. He’s passed out at home. Figured I’d do the heroic thing.”
“Heroic isn’t really your color.”
“No?” Your eyes dragged down my body, slow and deliberate. I was wearing old leggings and a tank top that had seen better days, but the way you looked at me made it feel like lingerie. “What is my color, then?”
I should have gotten in the car. Should have kept my mouth shut. But there was something about the way the parking lot lights hit your jaw, the way your tongue flicked over your bottom lip like you were already tasting something.
“Red flags,” I said. “You’re a walking red flag.”
You laughed, low and rough. “Get in the car, Jadeleyza. Unless you want to wait another three hours for Marcus to wake up and realize his keys are gone.”
The Mustang smelled like leather and your cologne. Something smoky, something that made my thighs press together before I could stop them. You didn’t start the engine right away. Just sat there, one hand on the wheel, looking at me.
“You’ve been staring since I got off the bus,” I said.
“You’ve been worth staring at since you got off the bus.” You tilted your head. “How long has it been since Marcus touched you?”
My stomach dropped. “That’s none of your business.”
“Months, then.” You said it like you already knew. “He’s an idiot.”
“He’s your brother.”
“He’s an idiot who leaves his girlfriend to take a Greyhound at two in the morning.” Your hand left the wheel, landing on my knee. Just resting there. Warm. Heavy. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“You wouldn’t have a girlfriend to do it to.”
“Maybe I just haven’t found the right one.”
The air in the car thickened. I could feel my pulse in places I shouldn’t have been able to feel it. My throat. My wrists. Between my legs.
“Michael—”
“Tell me to stop,” you said, your fingers sliding up an inch. “Tell me you don’t feel this.”
I didn’t say anything.
Your hand moved higher, tracing the inside of my thigh. My leggings were thin, practically painted on, and I knew you could feel the heat radiating off my skin. You leaned across the console, your mouth hovering near my ear.
“I’ve thought about this,” you murmured. “Every time you came over. Every time you laughed at his stupid jokes. I’ve thought about what you’d sound like if I was the one making you laugh.”
“This is wrong.”
“Yeah.” Your teeth grazed my earlobe. “That’s what makes it good.”
I turned my head and your mouth was right there. I kissed you first—fuck it, I’ll admit that. I kissed you like I was starving, like the months of neglect from your brother had built up into something feral. You made a sound against my lips, half groan, half growl, and your hand slid all the way up between my legs.
“Shit,” I gasped, breaking the kiss. “Not here.”
“Back seat. Now.”
We scrambled like teenagers, all elbows and urgency. The back of the Mustang wasn’t built for this, but you made it work. You pulled my tank top over my head while I fumbled with your belt, my fingers shaking. Your chest was lean, muscles shifting under dark skin, and I wanted to bite every inch of you.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you said, and it didn’t sound like a line. It sounded like you’d been holding it in for years.
You unhooked my bra and your mouth found my nipple, tongue circling until I arched off the seat. Your hand slid into my leggings, past the waistband of my underwear, and when your fingers found how wet I already was, you laughed against my skin.
“All this for me?”
“Shut up and fuck me.”
You didn’t need to be told twice. My leggings came off, your jeans followed, and then you were hovering over me, the head of your cock pressing against my entrance. You paused, looking down at me with something almost tender in your eyes.
“You sure?”
“Michael, if you don’t—”
You pushed inside and I forgot how to speak. You filled me completely, stretching me in a way that made my eyes roll back. You started slow, dragging out every thrust until I was whimpering, my nails digging into your shoulders.
“Harder,” I begged. “Please, fuck, harder.”
You gave me what I wanted. The car rocked with every thrust, windows fogging, my moans filling the small space. You hooked one of my legs over your shoulder, going deeper, hitting a spot that made me see stars.
“You like that?” Your voice was strained, sweat dripping down your temple. “You like my cock better than his?”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “Yes, yes, fuck—”
Then, my orgasm hit like a freight train, ripping through me.