#Cousin

I'm married to Ethan, a man who's climbed the ranks at his tech firm, overseeing a dozen employees. I work part-time at a local bookstore while finishing my master's, which leaves me with just enough flexibility to juggle life - and the unexpected chaos I'm about to unravel. It was mid-January, the kind of biting cold that seeps into your bones, when Ethan left for a two-day conference (Thursday and Friday). We'd planned to attend a close friend's engagement party on Friday night, but with him stuck in meetings three states away, I faced it solo. The party was for Lily, a friend we'd both known since college, so bailing wasn't an option. I roped in my friend Claire to join me. That night, I felt reckless - I wore a slinky black dress that hugged my curves, cut low in the front and high on the thighs, paired with stiletto boots that clicked with every step. A few drinks in, I spotted Ethan's older cousin, Ryan, mingling near the bar. Ryan's 41, freshly single after a messy split, with joint custody of his three kids. He's got this rugged charm - tall, weathered skin from years outdoors, and a solid frame that fills out a jacket. We hugged, swapped small talk over whiskey, and I mentioned Ethan's absence, nodding toward Claire as my plus-one. The night blurred into laughter and clinking glasses. Ryan, Claire, and I stuck together, joined by a couple of his old buddies. Between shots, Ryan leaned in and confessed he couldn't stop glancing at Claire - her sharp wit and red curls had him hooked. I grinned, noticing how she kept finding excuses to ask about him. When the party wound down, Ryan suggested we keep the night alive at his place. We grabbed a bottle of bourbon and piled into his truck, a ragtag crew of five. I texted Ethan updates - he's never been possessive, just told me to enjoy myself. At Ryan's loft, we sprawled across his leather sectional, the bourbon flowing freely. Around 1 a.m., Claire's phone buzzed - her sister had a flat tire and needed a ride. She bolted, and though I offered to tag along, she waved me off. I stayed, texting Ethan that he'd be home by dawn - maybe 6 a.m. - after his red-eye flight. The group dwindled, and soon it was just Ryan, me, and his two pals. Someone slurred, "Truth or dare? " and we dove in, too buzzed to care. The dares escalated fast - one landed on me: "What's your type - rough or refined? " I smirked, heat rising to my cheeks, and said, "Rough, " picturing calloused hands and stubble. The room erupted in laughter. By 3 a.m., his friends stumbled out, and I dozed off on the sectional, the bourbon heavy in my veins. A shiver yanked me awake at 4: 30 - the loft's heat had died. Groggy, I shuffled toward the bathroom for a splash of water, but froze mid-step. The door hung half-open, steam curling out, and there was Ryan - naked, toweling off after a shower. His body glistened under the dim light, and my eyes snagged on him - thick, uncircumcised, hanging heavy in a way Ethan's never did. My pulse hammered, not from desire - not yet - but from the raw shock of it. Ethan's flight was landing soon; I'd have to grab him from the airport. I rapped on the doorframe, and Ryan flinched, cinching the towel around his waist. "Thought you were out cold, " he muttered. I stepped inside, voice shaky, "Hey, thanks for the throw blanket earlier - any chance you've got a spare bed? It's brutal out there." He nodded, "Yeah, I'll fix you up." Back in the living room, he tossed a quilt over the sectional. Then, casually, he asked, "Did you... see me in there? " I swallowed, nodded, and - blame the bourbon - said, "You're packing, Ryan." He smirked, eyes glinting, "That's just the preview." We laughed, a nervous edge to it. The air shifted. I tilted my head, daring him, "Show me the main event, then." He didn't hesitate - took my wrist, tugged down his sweats, and let it spring free. I dropped to my knees, mesmerized as it thickened before me, veins bulging, stretching past eight inches, maybe nine, with a girth that made my breath catch. He sank onto the sectional, staring at the ceiling, silent as I reached out. My fingers - then both hands - curled around it, barely encircling its heat. I stroked slowly, feeling it pulse and stiffen, a slick sheen forming at the tip. I was still in my black dress, boots off, a flannel shirt of his draped over me. "Boots on - lose the flannel, " he rasped. I complied, slipping the stilettos back on, shedding the shirt, the cold forgotten as my skin prickled with heat. My breath hitched as I leaned in, lips brushing the head, tasting salt and musk. I kissed along the shaft, slow and deliberate, down to his balls - tight, smooth, freshly shaved. My tongue flicked out, teasing, then I took him in, sucking gently, savoring the weight of him. Fifteen minutes melted away, my mouth working him as my thighs clenched, dampness pooling between them. I pulled back, stood, and our eyes locked - a silent fuse igniting. We collided in a kiss, fierce and sloppy, his tongue plunging into me, unbothered by where my mouth had been. I straddled him, his cock pressing against my dress, grinding so close I swore it'd tear through. My moans spilled out, imagining him splitting me open. His hands yanked the dress off, leaving me in a lace bra and thong, boots clicking as I shifted. He stripped bare, then attacked - lips on my nipples, sucking hard, teeth grazing as one hand kneaded my ass, the other roamed my ribs. He wasn't Ethan's cousin anymore - he was primal, mine, and I was his, lost in a haze of need. He shoved me onto the wider couch, and my legs fell open, an invitation. He hooked a finger under my thong, tugged it aside, and buried his face between my thighs. His tongue lashed at me - long, hungry strokes over my clit, dipping inside, slurping at the wetness I couldn't hide. I wasn't shaved bare - a soft patch lingered from weeks of neglect with Ethan - but Ryan devoured me like it was his last meal. I thrashed, nails raking the leather, gasps turning to cries as he sucked harder, relentless. He crawled up, kissing a trail - navel, sternum, collarbone - until his mouth crashed into mine again, tasting of me. He pinned my wrists, fumbled in his jeans, and pulled out a condom. A Viagra pill tumbled out too, bouncing on the floor. I smirked but said nothing - this was going all night. Naked, trembling, I begged, "Fuck me, Ryan, now." He sheathed himself, nudged the tip in - thick, stretching - then I grabbed his hips and yanked him deep. A scream tore from me as he filled me, every inch a shockwave. He thrust hard, hips slamming, a rhythm that rattled the couch. I clawed his back, yelling, "Harder! " as he bit my neck, licked my jaw, sucked my tits between thrusts. We fucked for hours - sweat-slick, animalistic. I rode him next, thighs burning as I bounced, his hands cupping my breasts, pinching until I whimpered. The condom vanished somewhere - I didn't care - and the bare friction sent me spiraling, climaxing once, then again, my walls gripping him as he groaned. He flipped me, jerking himself over my face, but I shoved him down, climbed on reverse, ass in his view, and sank onto him. His cock throbbed, then erupted - hot spurts flooding me, spilling down my thighs as I shook, a third orgasm ripping through. I collapsed beside him, kissed him deep, and panted, "Ryan, you're unreal. I needed that." At 7 a.m., he shook me awake - Ethan was banging on the door. Panic hit; my phone showed missed calls. I reeked of sex, scrambling into my dress as Ryan sprayed cologne everywhere. I texted Ethan that I'd crashed here, and Ryan let him in. I faked grogginess on the couch - Ryan had swapped the cum-stained cushions. Ethan kissed me, clueless, and we sipped coffee, spinning a tale of me dozing off. Later, as Ethan hit the bathroom, Ryan handed me my thong - it'd been under a pillow. "Keep it, " I whispered, "for next time." We left, Ethan none the wiser. Ryan and I still text - this wasn't our first slip, and I doubt it'll be our last. Another story for another day.