Married To My Ex's Brother, Reborn Miraculously-Chapter 168: The drunken night

By the time Anne got Augustine to the bed, he was slightly more lucid—still dazed, still heavy-limbed, but not completely lost. She draped a blanket over his shoulders as he sank onto the mattress.

"I am sorry," he murmured. His eyes were on her—tired, glassy, but full of something raw. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Please forgive me."

He reached for her then. His fingers brushed her cheek.

"I forgive you," she said. "Now stop talking. It’s late night." She moved around to the other side of the bed and slipped in beside him.

His arms found her beneath the sheets, pulling her against his chest. She nestled close, resting her head just above his heart.

For a while, they remained silent. But then, in the quiet dark, his fingers traced the line of her waist.

Anne shifted slightly to face him. "You are exhausted. You should sleep."

"I don’t want to sleep without touching you," he said softly. "I need to feel you."

His hand moved to her hip, his thumb drawing slow circles there. She felt the fire rekindle.

She reached up, cupping his cheek. "Then touch me," she said.

What followed wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. It was slow—achingly slow.

Augustine’s hands explored her, brushing over her curves, slipping under her top. His lips found her skin in soft kisses—her shoulder, her collarbone, her jaw. When his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her shorts and touched her, he watched her eyes carefully, searching for her permission, her want.

Anne arched into his hand. "Don’t stop," she whispered as pleasure began to spiral in her belly when he rubbed her clitoris.

He made no demand, only gave her pleasure.

"I need to feel you," he whispered, his eyes dark in hunger.

Anne nodded, climbing over him with quiet grace. Their lips met slowly, longingly. The kiss deepened with a hunger. His hands traveled beneath the hem of her top, fingertips dragging up her ribs.

She gasped softly as his thumb brushed over the swell of her breast. He took his time, his touch slow and deliberate. When she arched into him, he eased her shirt off, his eyes darkening as they swept over her. He let his hands and lips explore, coaxing shivers from her with the lightest flick of his tongue just below her ear.

When he reached the waistband of her shorts, he paused — and met her eyes.

"Yes," she breathed.

With one slow movement, he slid them down, his fingers trailing over her thighs. He was no longer dulled by alcohol — now, he was alert, awake, and completely at her mercy.

Anne straddled him slowly, her thighs tightening around his waist. She let her fingers trail along his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch. There was a heat rising in her belly — a fire that had simmered through every stolen glance, every kiss that ended too soon. Tonight, she wasn’t going to be patient.

She leaned down, her lips brushing against his. "Let me love you tonight," she whispered.

His hands gripped her hips, but he didn’t guide her. He surrendered to her, eyes locked with hers, his heart thumping wildly.

Anne’s expression shifted as she sank down onto him — her mouth parting in a gasp, her brows drawing together with the sudden rush of pleasure. Her hands pressed against his chest for support as she began to move, rolling her hips in fluid, deliberate circles.

Every inch of him filled her, stretched her, and the feeling was wild, overwhelming in the most perfect way.

Her head tilted back, lips parted, a soft moan escaping her throat. The pace grew faster, her breasts bounding, her hair clinging to her shoulders.

Augustine’s hands roamed her body, from the curve of her waist to the softness of her thighs, but it was Anne who led, riding him harder, her moans growing louder with each thrust.

She chased her own pleasure shamelessly, her body grinding down against his with desperate rhythm. She leaned forward again, her forehead pressed to his. "It feels so good," she breathed.

He could only answer with a groan, his hands gripping her tighter, his hips rising to meet her with increasing urgency.

Anne cried out as the pressure built — her back arching, her body tightening around him. Her fingers clawed lightly at his chest as she came, her walls pulsing around him, her cries sharp and breathless.

She didn’t stop. She didn’t slow. She rode the wave, pushing him closer to the edge with every relentless movement, her own pleasure mingling with his growing release.

"Anne—" he gasped, trying to hold back, but she leaned down, kissed him hard, and whispered, "Let go."

He did — with a deep, guttural moan, he released inside her.

Anne collapsed against his chest, her breath ragged, her face flushed and glowing. Augustine circled his arms tightly around her, refusing to let her go.

She smiled against his skin, breathless but happy. "That... was amazing."

"You," he said, brushing her hair from her face, "are wild. And incredible."

The next morning...

Augustine stirred beneath the sheets, groaning softly as a sharp throb settled at his temples. His mouth felt dry, and his body was sluggish, weighed down by the aftereffects of the night before.

He rolled onto his side, eyes barely open, when the door creaked gently and Anne walked in — fresh and glowing, her hair loosely tied back, wearing one of his shirts that fell to her mid-thigh.

In her hands was a glass of chilled juice and a tablet of headache medicine on a small tray.

"You are alive," she said lightly, raising a brow.

"Barely," he grunted, wincing as he slowly sat up, rubbing his temple. "My head is splitting in two."

Anne handed him the glass and the pill.

He swallowed the medicine and took a long sip of the juice, the citrus tang refreshing against the dryness in his throat.

"If you ever get that drunk again, I might not be so nice." Anne pouted, expressing her displeasure.

A faint smile tugged at his lips, but it faded almost instantly as memories began to surface. He recalled his conversation with Denis, the warnings, and the insinuations that Anne might one day see through him, might turn away from him if she ever found out everything.

His chest tightened.

"Anne..."

She was already walking toward the closet to pick out clothes for the day. She turned slightly, catching the change in his tone.

"I need to get ready for work," she said. "And so do you."

He didn’t answer.

Instead, in one swift movement, he swung his legs off the bed and reached for her wrist. Before she could react, he pulled her down, guiding her onto the bed beside him.

She let out a surprised laugh. "What are you doing?"

"Just—stay a moment," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her tightly. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Anne’s smile faded. She felt the tension in his embrace, the tremor in his breath.

"What’s wrong?" she asked. "Why do you look so tense?"