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The night her husband’s brother moved in, Miss Velvet didn’t flinch. She opened the door like a hostess–poised, perfect, and utterly untouchable.
“It’s just for a few weeks,” the cuck had said.
Flooded basement. Insurance claims. All very boring.
Velvet had only smiled.
Of course he could stay.
Of course they had space.
Their guest stepped inside with that cocky charm she remembered from their wedding. Her husband’s younger brother–more athletic, taller, just a little smug in that way that said he knew exactly how good he looked in a fitted tee. He greeted her with a lopsided grin and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
“Still stunning, huh?” he said under his breath.
She didn’t respond–not with words. Just a lingering look down his body, one brow lifted. A smirk. That was enough.
She saw the way his eyes flicked to her legs. The way his throat worked when she turned to lead him upstairs, her heels sharp against the wood, her hips swaying just enough to tempt but never confirm.
He followed.
Of course he did.
⸻
The first few days were harmless.
Miss Velvet didn’t change her routine. She still walked around in robes that slipped open at the thigh. Still lounged on the couch with her legs curled beneath her. Still kissed her husband on the cheek before sending him off to work–patting the back of his head like a loyal little pet.
The brother–let’s call him Marcus–noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Is it always like this here?” he asked one afternoon, catching her as she returned from escort bursa yoga, sports bra clinging to sweat-slick curves.
“Like what?” she replied, reaching slowly for her water bottle. Her arm lifted, giving him a clear view of her bare waistline. No bra strap. Just a hint of underboob. Meant for him.
He chuckled, eyes lingering.
“Like a damn fantasy.”
She didn’t correct him.
⸻
It started with accidents.
A shared glance across the dinner table while her cuck was rambling about spreadsheets.
A brush of fingers when Marcus reached past her for the salt.
A quiet moment in the laundry room when she stepped too close–just to see if he’d step back.
He didn’t.
⸻
The first real betrayal happened in the hallway.
It was late. The cuck had gone to bed early–headache, probably from trying to pretending to be a real man.
She was walking toward the kitchen when Marcus stepped out of the guest room shirtless. Boxers. Nothing else. Broad chest. Confident smirk. That same casual swagger, like he didn’t give a damn about the rules of her house.
“Can’t sleep,” he muttered.
She didn’t answer. Just watched him.
“Maybe it’s the way your heels echo down this hallway. Hard to relax when I know you’re walking around like that.”
Her robe slipped off one shoulder.
“Then don’t sleep.”
He stepped closer.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to smell her perfume–dark, floral, dangerous.
His hand hovered at her waist.
She didn’t flinch. She eskort bursa leaned in. Her breath warmed the shell of his ear.
“My husband is asleep… just down the hall.”
Marcus swallowed.
“That supposed to stop me?”
“No,” she purred. “It’s supposed to turn you on.”
She kissed him.
Brief. Hot. Forbidden.
Then she walked away.
⸻
From then on, the teasing wasn’t subtle.
He started brushing past her in the mornings, shirtless, just as she came downstairs in silk robes that barely clung to her curves.
She bent lower to get things from cabinets.
He sat closer on the couch.
Sometimes, she let her leg rest against his for just a second too long.
Sometimes, she touched his wrist when she laughed–soft and deliberate.
Her cuck never noticed.
Not even the night she “accidentally” wore her sheerest panties beneath a paper-thin nightgown and lingered a little too long in the kitchen, lit only by the fridge light, pouring Marcus a glass of water.
⸻
One night, everything shifted.
She was already in bed, her cuck snoring softly beside her, when she heard the guest room door creak.
The air shifted. Like a current of something unspeakable was about to pull her under.
She didn’t move.
Not at first.
She felt the mattress dip behind her. Slowly. Carefully.
A warm breath brushed the back of her neck.
Marcus.
He had slipped into the bed.
Right behind her.
Right next to her snoring husband.
Close enough to make her heart race in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
She didn’t stop him.
His hand was cautious at first–just resting on the curve of her hip over the covers. Waiting.
She gave him permission with a single backward press of her body. A silent, wicked encouragement.
The hand moved.
Lower.
Inside the covers.
Fingers grazing the bare skin of her thigh.
She bit her lip.
He slipped closer, pressing his body to hers–hard, unmistakably aroused.
Her cuck stirred beside her. Murmured something. Rolled over.
They both froze.
But he didn’t wake up.
Marcus’s hand resumed its exploration. This time slower, bolder. His lips brushed her shoulder.
Velvet let out the quietest exhale–pleasure and power and risk all tangled together.
She reached behind her, blindly, until she found what she was looking for. Her fingers wrapped around his cock. Hard. Thick.
The contrast made her dizzy.
She squeezed once–possessively. Silently.
Then she let go.
No more.
Not yet.
Just enough to make him ache.
She shifted away and whispered one word without turning her head.
“Go.”
Marcus hesitated.
But he obeyed.
⸻
The next morning, she served breakfast like nothing had happened.
Eggs. Toast. Coffee. Her robe tied tight, her expression unreadable.
The cuck blinked blearily at his plate, completely unaware.
Marcus sat across from her, eyes low, a slow grin spreading across his face as she licked a smear of yolk from her fingertip and let her tongue linger just a moment too long.
“Sleep well?” she asked.
The cuck nodded.
“Like a baby.”
Marcus met her gaze and raised his coffee mug.
“I had the best night of my life.”
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