The rain had not stopped for three days.

Abby stood on the porch of the old house on Calle Rosada and watched the water sheet off the rusted gutters, her suitcase pressed to her calf, her hair plastered to her neck. Twenty-six years old, and she felt sixteen again — not in any way that mattered, but in the way of coming back to a place that remembered her smaller than she was. The house had been empty for two years, ever since their mother passed. The lawyers had finally stopped fighting over it.

The car came up the flooded street at half past six, headlights smearing yellow across the water. A black truck, mud on the tires.

Javier got out.

She knew him at once. Twenty-nine years old, and he carried it in his shoulders — the same broad shoulders their father had, the same way of standing like the ground had agreed to hold him. He had been seventeen when she left for college at eighteen. Now there was a scar through his left eyebrow and a tattoo curling up the side of his neck, black ink disappearing under his collar. He moved like a man who never hurried because nothing had ever made him.

— Abby, — he said.

The word landed in her chest like a struck bell.

— Papacito,

she breathed, and then — because it slipped out, because it was what she had called him when they were kids and he bandaged her scraped knees —

— I missed you.

He climbed the porch steps slowly, rain running off his jacket, and stood close enough that she could smell him: rain, diesel, something dark and warm underneath, like candle smoke and cedar. He looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes moving over her face without apology, the way a man looks at something he intends to keep.

— You got taller, — he said.

— I got older.

— So did I.

His gaze dropped to her mouth and stayed there one heartbeat too long.

— Come on. Let's get you inside before you catch cold.

He took her suitcase like it weighed nothing.

The house smelled the way it always had — lemon oil and old wood, their mother's ghost in the baseboards. Javier moved through it turning on lights, and Abby followed, her bare feet on the familiar cold tile of the kitchen, her fingers trailing along the counter.

— I fixed the roof over your old room, — he said.

— The rest of the house leaks like a sieve, but your room stays dry.

— You've been living here?

— Since the funeral.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, lamplight carving him into something out of a painting — all shadow and muscle and intent.

— Somebody had to keep the pipes from bursting.

He cooked — beef braised in red wine, bread torn from the loaf. They ate at the kitchen table, shoulder to shoulder, his thigh pressed against hers under the table, and neither of them moved away. She told him about the last eight years. The degree she never used. The men.

— They weren't him, — she said at the end, quietly.

— None of them were ever him. Whoever him was.

Javier was very still beside her. Then his hand came down on the table, his fingers long and scarred across the wood.

— You always knew exactly what you were looking for, mamacita. You just didn't know his name.

Her breath caught.

— And what is his name?

He turned his head. Their faces were inches apart. His eyes were black in the low light, and there was nothing brotherly in them, nothing safe, nothing soft.

— Finish your wine, — he said, and stood, and cleared both their plates like the conversation was over.

But it wasn't over. It was just beginning.

Dinner dishes took too long and not long enough. She stood at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, hot water to the elbows, and he dried beside her — too close, his shoulder against hers every time he reached for a plate. The air was thick, charged. When she handed him the last plate, he set it down without looking and caught her wrist.

— Abby.

His thumb pressed into her pulse.

— Look at me.

She looked. His eyes were black, burning.

— Eight years, — he said, his voice low and rough.

— Eight years I kept this house standing and told myself it was for the pipes. It wasn't for the pipes, hermanita.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

— Javier—

— Say my other name, — he said.

— The one you used on the porch.

— Papacito, — she whispered.

His hand slid from her wrist to the back of her neck, gripping her hair, and pulled her in and kissed her — hard, deep, possessive, his tongue claiming her mouth like he had been waiting eight years to do it. She melted against him with a whimper, her hands fisting in his shirt, her whole body lighting up. He tasted like red wine and rain and her brother, and it was wrong, and it was everything.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead against hers.

— Tell me to stop, mamacita. Tell me once, and I stop, and we never speak of this again.

She didn't tell him to stop. She pulled him back down and kissed him harder.

He groaned into her mouth and lifted her onto the kitchen counter, stepping between her thighs, his big hands gripping her hips. His mouth moved down her throat, sucking, biting gently, marking her. She gasped, arching, her legs wrapping around his waist.

— Eight years,

he growled against her skin,

— I watched you leave and I told myself — little sister. Off limits. And every night in this house I wanted you anyway.

His hands slid under her shirt, palming her breasts over her bra, thumbs dragging roughly over her nipples until she whimpered.

— Take this off.

She pulled her shirt over her head. He unhooked her bra with one practiced flick and stared at her bare breasts — full, heavy, nipples already hard and aching. He bent and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing — and Abby cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, her pussy flooding her panties.

— Papacito—

— Shh, hermanita.

He moved to her other breast, sucking, biting, worshipping, his hands kneading her flesh.

— Let your brother take care of you.

He stood, unbuttoned her jeans, and dragged them down her legs along with her panties. She sat on the counter naked, trembling, her pussy glistening wet in the low kitchen light. He stared at her — at her spread thighs, her soaked folds — and his eyes went black with hunger.

— Look at you, — he breathed.

— Twenty-six years old and dripping for your own brother.

He dropped to his knees on the cold tile, gripped her thighs, spread them wider, and buried his face between her legs.

Abby screamed. His tongue was hot and skilled — licking her in long, flat strokes from her entrance to her clit, lapping up her wetness, the taste of her flooding his mouth. He circled her swollen clit with slow, maddening rings, then sucked the bud between his lips and pulsed his tongue against it — flick, flick, flick — and her hips bucked off the counter. He held her down with both hands on her thighs, pinning her open, and ate her like a starving man — his tongue plunging into her dripping pussy, fucking her with it, stretching her entrance, then returning to her clit with fast, flicking strokes that made her thighs shake and her cries go hoarse.

— Javier — oh god — papacito—

she sobbed, and he groaned against her clit, the vibration tearing through her.

He slid two thick fingers into her soaked pussy, stretching her, curling them hard against her front wall, his thumb grinding her clit. She came with a wail, her back arching, her pussy clenching around his fingers, flooding his hand. He kept finger-fucking her through it, his mouth sucking her clit, dragging a second orgasm out of her before the first had ended.

— That's my good girl, — he murmured against her thigh, his chin glistening with her.

— Dripping all over my kitchen. Taste yourself, hermanita.

He pushed his wet fingers into her mouth, and she sucked them clean, moaning.

He stood, unbuckled his belt, and freed his cock. Abby's mouth went dry. He was thick — thick as her wrist, long and heavy, the head flushed dark and leaking pre-come. He fisted it slowly.

— On your knees, mamacita.

She slid off the counter and knelt on the cold tile. He gripped her hair and pressed his weeping cockhead to her lips. She opened wide and took him in — her lips stretching around his thick girth, her tongue flattening under his shaft. He tasted like salt and musk and her brother.

— Good girl, — he groaned.

— Take your papacito's cock. Your brother's cock. Choke on it.

He pushed deeper, his thick shaft filling her mouth, stretching her jaw wide. She gagged, drooled, spit running down her chin — and he held her head and fucked her mouth in slow, deep strokes. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked hard, her tongue working the thick vein on the underside, one hand stroking what she couldn't fit, the other cupping his heavy balls.

He pulled out with a wet pop, strings of spit stretching between his cockhead and her swollen lips. He hauled her up by the arms, kissed her hard — letting her taste herself on his tongue — and then spun her around and bent her over the kitchen table, her cheek pressed to the wood, her bare ass in the air.

— Stay, — he ordered, and disappeared down the hall.

He came back with a strip of black silk — her old childhood scarf, she realized dizzily — and tied it over her eyes. The world went dark. Her other senses exploded: the smell of him, rain and cedar and male; his hands, hot and rough, spreading her ass cheeks wide.

— Javier—

— Papacito,

he corrected, and dragged his thick throbbing cockhead through her soaked folds, coating himself in her wetness.

— Say it right, hermanita.

— Papacito,

she whimpered, blind and bent over the table, trembling.

— Good girl.

He pushed into her in one slow, deep stroke, stretching her open, filling her completely. She screamed — the stretch, the fullness, his thick girthy cock pulsing inside her. He gripped her hips and started moving — deep, driving thrusts that shoved her forward across the table with every stroke, her breasts dragging against the wood, her nipples aching.

— Fuck — so tight, — he groaned.

— Your little pussy is strangling my cock, mamacita. Eight years I dreamed about this. Eight years I jerked off thinking about my little sister's tight cunt.

— Javier— papacito—

she sobbed, her fingers clawing at the table edge. Her pussy was soaked, squelching loudly around his thick shaft, her juices running down her thighs.

He reached under her and rubbed her clit in hard, fast circles, his fingers slick with her wetness.

— Come for your brother, Abby. Come on my cock.

She shattered — screaming into the table, her pussy clamping down on him in rhythmic spasms — and he groaned and kept pounding her through it, his thick cock throbbing inside her, stretching her with every brutal stroke. He pulled out at the last second, flipped her over, and fisted his cock over her belly, spurting thick hot ropes of come across her stomach and breasts, marking her.

— Look at you, — he growled, smearing his come across her skin with his cockhead.

— My sister, blindfolded on my kitchen table, covered in my come. Mine.

He untied the scarf, kissed her — deep, possessive — and pulled her into his arms.

— Up. Bedroom. Your old room. Now.

She ran. He followed, unhurried, because he knew she'd be waiting. She stood beside the childhood bed breathing hard, naked and trembling, and he closed the door and locked it.

— On the bed. On your back. Legs open. Show your brother what's his.

She lay back and spread her legs wide. He stood over her, massive, his thick cock hard and leaking, and dragged two fingers through her soaked folds.

— This pussy,

— belongs to me. Say it, Abby. — he growled

— It's yours, papacito, — she breathed.

— Louder. Who does this pussy belong to?

— It belongs to you, papacito! It's yours! Blood of your blood!

— Good girl.

He positioned his thick throbbing cockhead at her entrance, huge and hot, already leaking pre-come onto her soaked folds.

— Breathe, hermanita. Your brother's going to stretch you.

He pushed in. The thick head breached her and Abby screamed — he was so big, so impossibly thick, and her pussy stretched and stretched around his massive girth, her outer lips pulled taut and glistening as his thick throbbing head forced its way inside her inch by inch. Her inner walls clung and fluttered around every inch of him, the stretch burning sweet, her body opening for her brother's cock.

— That's it, — Javier groaned, his eyes locked on where they joined, watching her pussy stretch wide around his thick shaft.

— Look at you taking me, mamacita. Your tight little pussy stretching so wide for your brother.

— Take it, mamacita. Take your papacito's cock. Your tight little pussy was made for your brother to ruin.

He bottomed out with a brutal thrust, his hips slamming against hers, his heavy balls slapping her ass. She was stuffed impossibly full, stretched around his thick girthy massive cock, her walls fluttering around his throbbing shaft, every pulse of him echoing deep inside her.

— Oh god — papacito — too big —

— Too big is what you get, — he growled, drawing back slowly, then slamming home.

— Too big is what you've wanted for eight years.

He set a punishing rhythm — deep, driving strokes that rocked the old bed, the headboard banging the wall. Her pussy was soaked, squelching obscenely around his thick cock, her juices running down to soak the sheets. He reached down and rubbed her clit in hard, fast circles while he pounded her, and she shattered — screaming, her pussy clamping down on him like a vise.

— Again, — he commanded.

— Come on your brother's cock again. Now.

She obeyed, sobbing — and he pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach, hauled her up onto her hands and knees, and drove back into her from behind in one savage stroke. She screamed into the pillows — the angle was devastating, his thick cock spearing her deeper than before, stretching her swollen walls around his massive girth. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and pounded her, his heavy balls slapping her clit on every brutal thrust, his hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back until her spine arched.

— Who's your papacito?

he roared, his hips hammering against her ass.

— You are! You're my papacito!

— And what are you?

— Your mamacita! Your devoted sub! Blood of your blood!

He fucked her harder, the old bed creaking, the headboard banging the wall in rhythm. Her pussy was soaked, squelching obscenely around his thick throbbing shaft with every stroke, her juices running down her thighs and his cock, dripping onto the sheets. He reached around and pinched her clit between his fingers, rolling it, tugging it — and she howled, her walls fluttering and clenching around him.

— Come for me, hermanita, — he growled.

— Come on your brother's cock. Now.

She came again, screaming into the pillows, her whole body convulsing — and he groaned deep in his chest and erupted inside her, his thick cock swelling and pulsing jet after jet of hot come deep in her pussy, filling her to overflowing, his hips grinding hard against her ass as he emptied himself into her. She felt every pulse, every throb, every drop, her pussy milking him in waves.

He stayed buried in her, grinding slowly, his chest against her back, his lips at her ear.

— Mine, — he breathed.

— My sister. My mamacita. My devoted.

They lay tangled, wrecked. He pulled out slowly, his come leaking out of her, and reached into the nightstand drawer. He came back with a silver collar — delicate, engraved.

— What's that? — she whispered.

— Yours.

He fastened it around her throat, his fingers brushing her skin. She looked down: silver letters spelled out DEVOTED SUB.

— Blood of my blood, — Javier whispered, pressing his lips to the collar at her throat.

— Mine, now and always.

— Yours, — Abby whispered back, her fingers laced through his.

— Now and always.

The morning after the storm, she woke to his mouth on her — slow, unhurried, worshipful — his tongue drawing lazy circles around her clit while two thick fingers eased inside her, curling against her front wall. She moaned, spreading her thighs wider, her hands tangling in his hair, and he ate her with deep, slow licks — lapping up her wetness, sucking her clit gently between his lips, his fingers stroking her inner walls — until she came with the sunrise on her face and his name on her lips, soft and wrecked, her pussy fluttering around his fingers. He kissed his way up her body afterward, lingering at the collar, sucking each breast, and whispered,

— My devoted,

like a prayer, his morning-hard cock pressing against her thigh — a promise of what the day would bring.

She wore the collar every day after that. In the house, in the garden, on the porch in the morning sun — the silver letters catching the light, marking her as his. Nobody asked about it — or if they did, she only smiled, secret and radiant, and said,

— It's a gift from someone who loves me.

But she knew what it meant, and he knew, and every time his eyes found it at her throat, his gaze went dark with ownership. And at night, when the house was quiet and the candles were lit, her domdaddy would trace the silver letters with his fingertip and remind her, in the dark, in the heat, in the devotion they had chosen: she was his devoted, his mamacita, claimed and kept and loved — blood of his blood, now and always.