The Nympho Who Didn't Shave

Chapter 18

The fire had taken hold of me and I wasn't thinking much about the consequences of my actions. That left really deep marks on me—and I know it did on him too—but right there, which one of us was gonna want to stop?

Biology stopped us cold.

My brother, like any guy, runs after he cums. And he was no different. I was kneeling between his legs in the bathroom, his cum still warm in my mouth and on the tip of my nose, teasing him while I watched his body spasm like crazy, his cock softening slowly in my hand. He was shaking all over, eyes half-closed, breath coming in gasps.

"Can we do this again?"

He laughed, trying to catch his breath, but not looking straight at me.

"It'd be so fucking good."

And he did what Fabiano did: started yapping away. He blabbed about school, the girls he'd fooled around with, anything to fill the silence. That's when I really got how guys are: you just wait. Cock soft, body satisfied, mind already bolting from what just happened.

But I wasn't comfortable. I stayed sitting back on my heels, knees spread on the cold bathroom floor, touching myself lightly between my legs. Every touch was a little delirium—the pussy on fire, swollen, too sensitive, my fingers slipping in my own wetness. I didn't moan loud. Just breathed through my open mouth, eyes heavy, staring at him without blinking much.

I got up slow, washed my face in the sink with cold water, feeling the dried cum stick to the skin on my nose and chin, and went to the bedroom to get dressed. He followed, still talking about his sexual adventures—the ones he hadn't really had, just made up to sound like he knew what he was doing. I listened quietly, sitting on the bed, pulling the loose t-shirt over my head, wanting him to leave or fuck me again. But he didn't want to fuck me and wasn't going anywhere. Where would he go? He lived with me.

I stared at the floor, thighs squeezed tight, the desire still humming low, insistent, like always. He sat on the other side of the bed, talking low, laughing nervously. I didn't answer. Just felt my body heavy, satisfied and empty at the same time. And the silence between us was louder than any words.

"Jonathan! Shut up."

He jumped at my tone, eyes wide, like I'd slapped him. He stopped talking mid-sentence, mouth still open, breath caught.

"I'm not interested."

I said it low, firm, letting the silence sink in for him. Then I asked, voice softer:

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah, I did."

He answered almost sad, guilty, looking at the floor like it hurt to admit.

"You want more?"

"Yeah..."

"But not right now, right?"

"I don't know, I don't think so."

He trailed off, eyes down, voice fading.

"It's kinda wrong, don't you think?"

I thought so. Of course I did. But the fire inside me was bigger, burning quiet, insistent, like always. Couldn't explain it, so I downplayed it, voice low, almost whispering:

"Look, it's not the rightest thing, but it's just between us. No one's gonna know. We're like the Lannisters now."

The reference hit him. He gave a satisfied, crooked smile, the kind that shows his straight teeth. The silence dropped heavy in the room, uncomfortable, thick. I was already dressed in just the loose sleep t-shirt—thin, old, falling to mid-thigh—and sat next to him on the bed, starting to run my fingers through his hair, sliding slow through the soft strands. I'd always thought my brother was hot. I'd date him easy. Girls must go nuts for him: easy smile, body starting to fill out square, good smell from the cologne he put on every day.

In the middle of the thoughts and the silence, he put his hand on my thigh. Warm, hesitant at first. It started moving slow, up and down in gentle strokes, like he was working up courage or waiting for my okay. His palm was big, a little rough at the edges, and every pass sent a quiet shiver across my skin. I bit my lower lip slow, feeling the heat rise straight from the touch to my belly. I spread my legs a bit more, just enough to give space, to encourage without saying a word. His hand got the message right away—went higher, fingers spread, brushing the inner thigh where the skin's thinner, more sensitive. My body reacted on its own: the pussy throbbed hard, swelling up again, already wet, the clit pulsing low under the dark hair. The air in the room felt heavier, the silence broken only by his breathing getting deeper and mine, short, through my half-open mouth.

He went up slow, thumb grazing the crease of my thigh, then the hair—the thick bush, tangled, still damp from the shower and what went down before. His fingertips brushed there, light, exploring the warm mound, feeling the rough and soft texture at once. My belly clenched tight, a low sigh slipped out without meaning to. The touch was careful, almost reverent, but firm enough to make me dizzy with lust. I didn't move. Just let it happen. Eyes heavy, mouth parted, waiting for what came next.

"Nicole?"

I barely heard him call my name, his hand felt so good right there. I was sitting spread on the bed, legs apart enough to give room, my whole body hot and loose at the same time. He stayed just on the front hair, fingers rubbing the thick tangled bush, not going down proper, not touching where I needed it. It was crazy anxiety building in my gut—fuck, touch my pussy already, it's lower!—the clit throbbing hard, swollen, begging for pressure, for anything to ease the fire that wouldn't quit burning.

"Ahnnn."

I moaned low in response, eyes already closed, shaking with horniness and impatience, my hips shifting forward a little on their own, chasing his hand.

"You're so hairy, dude. You gotta shave that shit, like, ASAP!"

I snapped my eyes open right then. Looked at that little fucker's face and my mind froze. The air stuck in my chest, lungs burning. I pulled in a deep breath and started talking, voice low but firm, coming out rough like it hurt.

To be continued...