Under My Sister's Roof

My Sister's Husband

I woke to the smell of coffee and a low male voice downstairs. For a second the soft duvet and pale light through expensive curtains felt like someone else’s life. Then memory hit: dark eyes, a warm firm handshake, black trousers that clung too honestly, and the thick, heavy outline I had no right to notice.

Liam.

I groaned into the pillow. Last night I’d promised to be sensible, update the résumé, send applications, stop replaying the exact shape of him. My body ignored every instruction. I’d dreamed of his voice against my ear, rolled sleeves pinning my wrists, that low chuckle while he pressed closer. I woke restless, skin too warm, a slow pulse already throbbing between my thighs.

This was going to be a problem.

I stayed under the shower longer than necessary, turning the water colder. It didn’t help. The memory of him in the kitchen last night, tall, controlled, the soft bulge impossible to unsee, kept surfacing. I dried off, dressed in jeans and a soft gray top, and forced myself downstairs intending to grab coffee and disappear.

Vanessa was already gone. A note sat on the island: Early meeting. Help yourself to everything. Liam’s around if you need anything. Love you.

Of course he was around.

I poured coffee with unsteady hands. The house felt larger without her, quieter, more dangerous. I told myself I’d take the mug upstairs and work until the attraction starved.

Then Liam walked in.

White shirt, sleeves rolled to the same precise point on his forearms, dark trousers that fit just as unfairly. Hair slightly damp. Clean soap and something warmer, cedar and skin reached me before he did.

“Morning,” he said, voice still rough with sleep.

“Morning.” I kept my eyes on the coffee.

He moved past me to the fridge, close enough that the air shifted. Heat unfurled low in my stomach.

“Vanessa said you might be hungry. I’m making eggs. Want some?”

“I can manage on my own.”

“I’m already making them.” He pulled out a carton, set a pan on the stove. “Sit. You’re a guest.”

“I’m an unemployed relative imposing on your guest room.”

His mouth curved. “Still a guest.”

I sat at the island because standing felt worse. From this angle I could see the flex of his forearms as he cracked eggs one-handed, the white shirt stretching across his back and shoulders. The trousers sat low on his hips. When he turned, the soft, heavy outline of him was visible again, thick, substantial, resting against his left thigh. The fabric couldn’t hide the weight of it. My mouth went dry.

I looked away fast.

He is married to your sister. Wedding ring on his left hand. The woman who opened her home without hesitation.

It only made the ache sharper.

“Sleep well?” he asked, pouring the eggs into the pan.

“Fine.” The lie tasted thin. “You?”

“Well enough.” He glanced at me, dark eyes assessing. “Jet lag still?”

“Something like that.”

He plated the eggs, added buttered toast, and set a plate in front of me before taking the stool across the island. Safer distance that somehow felt more intimate. I had an unobstructed view of the open collar, the strong line of his throat, and the soft bulge I kept trying not to stare at.

We ate in relative silence. The eggs were perfect.

“Your résumé,” he said eventually. “Send it whenever you’re ready. I’ll pass it straight to our marketing lead.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” He watched me over the rim of his mug. “Doesn’t mean I won’t.”

The quiet certainty did something inconvenient to my pulse.

“Thank you. Seriously.”

“You’re welcome.”

Another stretch of silence. I could feel him studying me the way he had the night before, calm, thorough.

“Vanessa worries about you,” he said.

“She worries about everyone.”

“True. But she talks about you differently. Proud. Protective. Slightly exasperated in the specific way only older sisters manage.”

“That tracks.”

“She also said you used to get into trouble on purpose just to watch her react.”

I almost choked. “She told you that?”

“She did.”

“Unbelievable. Marriage is supposed to create loyalty, not turn my sister into a professional snitch.”

His chuckle was low and warm. It settled between my legs. I crossed them tightly under the island.

“She also mentioned the purple hair incident was the least of it.”

“It was burgundy.”

“She insists it was aggressively purple.”

“She’s color-blind when it comes to my bad decisions.”

He leaned back. The shirt pulled across his chest. My eyes betrayed me again, open collar, throat, then lower, where the trousers still couldn’t quite disguise him. Thick. Heavy. The kind of size that made my fingers itch.

I forced my gaze up. His eyes were already on mine. Something flickered there, curiosity, or the quiet awareness that I’d been looking exactly where I shouldn’t.

Heat flooded my face.

“So,” I said quickly, “what’s the going rate these days for housing an unemployed sister-in-law? I should probably start paying rent in advanced sarcasm.”

“Sarcasm is accepted currency.” The corner of his mouth stayed tilted. “Though I hear you’re skilled at other forms of payment. Marketing expertise, for example.”

“Is that a job offer or a thinly veiled threat?”

“Neither. Just an observation.”

The air between us felt thicker. Playful on the surface, sharper underneath.

I pushed my empty plate away. “You’re very confident for a man who’s only known me about twelve hours.”

“I pay attention.”

The simple statement landed hard. I paid attention too—to his long fingers around the mug, the faint shadow of stubble, the controlled power in the way he sat, and the soft, heavy bulge I kept failing to ignore.

He is your sister’s husband. Stop looking. Stop imagining. Stop wanting things you can never have.

“Vanessa’s lucky,” I said, quieter than I intended.

His expression shifted, something softer, more private. “I’m the lucky one.”

The sincerity should have shut every inappropriate thought down cold. Instead it made the ache worse. He loved her. Of course he did. They were solid. And I was the unemployed younger sister sitting across from him, wondering what that thick cock would feel like hardening under my hand, how his voice would sound if it dropped even lower, what those rolled sleeves would look like if he pinned my wrists above my head.

I stood up too quickly. The stool scraped.

“I should go. Résumé. Applications. Productive adult things that don’t involve freeloading indefinitely.”

He rose, collecting the plates. “If you need the study, or quiet, or the Wi-Fi password, or anything else, use it. Mi casa and all that.”

“Thanks.”

I turned to leave, then stopped in the doorway like an idiot. Some reckless part of me looked back.

He was at the sink rinsing the plates, morning light cutting across his shoulders and the way the dark trousers sat low on his hips. From this angle the outline of him was clear again, heavy, substantial. I imagined walking up behind him, sliding my arms around his waist, pressing my palm flat against that thick length just to feel it twitch and swell. Imagined the low sound he might make. Imagined how forbidden it would be, how wrong, how completely irreversible.

I dragged my eyes away and left the kitchen before I could do something catastrophically stupid.

Upstairs I sat on the edge of the bed with my laptop and opened a blank document titled Résumé, Janine Carter. The cursor blinked. I typed three words and deleted them.

Instead of bullet points I kept hearing his voice. Kept seeing the way he’d looked at me over the rim of his coffee mug. Kept remembering the exact shape of him under those trousers: the weight, the thickness, the way the fabric clung every time he moved.

I pressed my thighs together and closed my eyes, breathing carefully through the slow, insistent throb of want.

This was only the second morning. I had no idea how long I would be living under the same roof as my sister’s husband. No idea how many quiet breakfasts like this one I could survive without giving myself away completely.

I opened my eyes, forced my fingers back onto the keyboard, and began typing in earnest.

But the entire time, one traitorous thought circled beneath the surface:

I wasn’t simply struggling to stop thinking about Liam Anderson.

I was already failing, and the worst part was how little I wanted to succeed.