The house was too quiet for a Saturday night, the kind of quiet that made every creak of the floorboards feel like a confession. Mark sat on the worn leather couch in the living room, a half-empty beer bottle sweating in his hand. The TV flickered with some late-night rerun, but his eyes weren't on the screen. They were on the hallway, where the soft glow of the kitchen light spilled out, framing her silhouette.
Lila. His wife's younger sister. She'd been back in their family home for three weeks now, ever since her deadbeat husband, Tommy, decided he'd rather chase skirts in dive bars than be a father to their four-year-old, Mia. The divorce papers were still unsigned, but Lila had packed up what little she owned and showed up on their doorstep with Mia clutching a stuffed rabbit. Sarah, Mark's wife, had insisted they take her in. "She's family," Sarah had said, her voice firm but tired. Mark hadn't argued. How could he?
But Lila… Lila was trouble. Not the loud, dramatic kind. No, she was the kind of trouble that crept up on you, slow and warm, like whiskey burning down your throat. She had this habit—God, this *habit*—of letting her guard down in the house. Tank tops with no bra, loose and clinging to her curves. Shorts that rode up her thighs when she bent over to pick up Mia's toys. And her breasts—full, heavy, always threatening to spill out of whatever flimsy fabric she'd thrown on. Mark wasn't proud of it, but he'd noticed. He'd noticed too much.
Tonight was no different. Lila padded into the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the linoleum. She wore a thin white camisole, the kind that was practically see-through under the right light, and a pair of cotton shorts that hugged her hips. Her dark hair was piled messily on top of her head, a few strands sticking to the nape of her neck. She was humming something soft, rummaging through the fridge for a bottle of wine. Mark's grip tightened on his beer.
Sarah was upstairs, passed out after a long shift at the hospital. Mia was asleep in the guest room, her rabbit tucked under her chin. It was just the two of them, the air thick with the kind of tension that made Mark's skin prickle. He should've gone to bed. Should've turned off the TV and left Lila to her wine. But he didn't.
"Couldn't sleep either?" Lila's voice broke the silence, low and a little husky. She leaned against the kitchen counter, a glass of red wine in her hand, her eyes catching his across the open-plan room. The camisole had slipped slightly, one strap dangling off her shoulder, revealing the soft curve of her breast. Mark swallowed hard.
"Nah," he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. "Just… unwinding."
Lila smirked, taking a slow sip of her wine. "Unwinding, huh? With that?" She nodded at his beer, her lips curling around the glass in a way that made his stomach twist. "You need something stronger, Mark. Loosen up."
He chuckled, but it came out strained. "You offering?"
Her eyes sparkled with something dangerous. "Maybe." She pushed off the counter and walked toward him, her hips swaying just enough to pull his gaze. She stopped at the edge of the couch, close enough that he could smell the faint vanilla of her shampoo, mixed with the sharp tang of the wine. "Mind if I join you?"
He should've said no. Should've made an excuse. But instead, he shifted over, making room. "Go for it."
Lila sank onto the couch beside him, closer than necessary. Her thigh brushed his, and she didn't pull away. She took another sip of wine, then set the glass on the coffee table, her movements slow, deliberate. "Sarah's out cold, huh?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Like a light," Mark said, his eyes flicking to her chest. The camisole had ridden up slightly, exposing the underside of her breast. His mouth went dry. "Long shift."
"Mm." Lila stretched, her arms lifting above her head, the motion pulling the fabric tight across her nipples. They were hard, pressing against the thin material, and Mark's cock twitched in his jeans. "I'm not used to this house being so… quiet. Back with Tommy, it was always chaos. Screaming, fighting, Mia crying." She dropped her arms, her hand landing on her thigh, inches from his. "This feels… nice. Too nice, maybe."
Mark's pulse thudded in his ears. "Yeah, well, you're welcome here. You know that."
She turned to face him, her knee brushing his leg now, deliberate. "You're sweet, Mark. Always have been." Her voice was softer now, almost a whisper. "Sarah's lucky."
He laughed, but it was hollow. "She'd probably disagree right now. Things have been… rough."
Lila's eyes searched his, and for a moment, he thought she might say something real, something about her own pain. But instead, she leaned closer, her breath warm against his cheek. "Rough, huh? You need to let go sometimes. Forget about it."
"Lila…" His voice was a warning, but it was weak. Her hand was on his thigh now, light but unmistakable, her fingers tracing small circles that sent heat straight to his groin.
"Shh," she murmured, her lips so close he could almost taste the wine on them. "Just for tonight. No one has to know."
He should've stopped her. Should've pushed her hand away, stood up, walked out. But he didn't. The beer, the late hour, the way her tits strained against that damn camisole—it was too much. He turned his head, and their lips met, soft at first, testing. Then harder, hungrier. Lila moaned into his mouth, her hand sliding higher, brushing the bulge in his jeans.
"Fuck," he groaned, breaking the kiss. "Lila, we can't—"
"We can," she whispered, climbing into his lap, straddling him. Her camisole was slipping, one breast fully exposed now, the nipple pink and begging for his mouth. "I want this. You want this."
He did. God help him, he did. His hands found her hips, gripping the soft flesh as she ground against him, the heat of her core searing through their clothes. She kissed him again, her tongue sliding against his, and he was lost. His hands moved to her chest, pushing the camisole up, freeing both breasts. They were perfect—heavy, soft, spilling into his palms as he squeezed. Lila gasped, arching into his touch.
"Mark," she breathed, her hands fumbling with his belt. "Please."
He didn't need to be told twice. He yanked her shorts down, just enough to expose her, and she was soaked, her panties clinging to her folds. He groaned, freeing himself from his jeans, his cock throbbing as she sank down onto him. She was tight, hot, her walls gripping him as she rode him slow, deliberate, her breasts bouncing with every movement.
"Fuck, Lila," he growled, his hands on her ass, guiding her. She was relentless, her hips rolling, her moans filling the quiet house. He took a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, and she cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders.
They moved together, the couch creaking under them, the world narrowing to the slick heat of her body, the taste of her skin, the way she whispered his name like a prayer. When she came, it was with a shuddering gasp, her pussy clenching around him, pulling him over the edge. He spilled inside her, his vision blurring, his hands bruising her hips.
They stayed like that for a moment, panting, her forehead pressed to his. Then reality crept in. Sarah upstairs. Mia down the hall. Tommy, wherever the hell he was, probably clueless that his wife had just fucked her brother-in-law on the family couch.
Lila slid off him, adjusting her clothes with a shaky laugh. "Well," she said, her voice hoarse, "that's one way to unwind."
Mark stared at her, his heart pounding, his mind screaming at him to feel guilt. But all he felt was the ache in his chest, the need to do it again. "Lila… this can't—"
"It won't," she cut him off, but her eyes said otherwise. She stood, grabbing her wine glass, and sauntered back to the kitchen, her hips swaying like she knew he was watching.
Mark sat there, his jeans still open, his mind a mess. Sarah would be home in the morning. Tommy might call, might show up. And Lila… Lila was a fire he'd just poured gasoline on.
He was screwed. And God, he wanted to be screwed again.