The Drafting Table Sessions

A Bonus Chapter from The Older Brother Clause
by Isla Wilde

Thank you for reading The Older Brother Clause! This bonus scene takes place three weeks into Tamsin and Stellan’s affair — a midnight encounter in his drafting library that is too hot for retailers.

This scene contains explicit sexual content intended for readers 18+.

The Drafting Table Sessions

Three weeks into the affair. Two in the morning. The house asleep.

I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands.

Not in the abstract, pleasant way a woman thinks about a man she’s sleeping with — the general warmth of memory, the comfortable recall of pleasure. This was specific. Architectural. I was lying in the guest room at two in the morning with my eyes open and my skin hot and my mind replaying, in excruciating detail, the precise way Stellan Wren’s hands moved when he worked at his drafting table.

The way his right hand gripped the pencil — not delicately, not the way artists held their tools, but firmly, the way a man held something he intended to use. The way his forearm flexed when he drew a straight line freehand, the muscles shifting beneath the skin, the burn scar catching the lamplight. The way his left hand anchored the paper, palm flat, fingers spread, holding the surface steady while the right hand moved with the controlled precision that made everything Stellan did look like an act of engineering and an act of devotion simultaneously.

I had watched him work that evening. Not from across the room — from the doorway, unnoticed, for eleven minutes. I’d come to deliver revised fabric specifications and found him at the drafting table with his reading glasses on and his sleeves rolled and a glass of rye untouched beside his elbow, and instead of announcing myself, I’d leaned against the doorframe and watched.

He drew the way he fucked. Deliberately. With complete attention. With the specific, calibrated intensity of a man who understood that the difference between adequate and extraordinary was the willingness to slow down and pay attention to every single detail.

And now I was lying in bed fifteen feet from his room with the image of his hands on the drafting table superimposed over the memory of his hands on my body, and the two images were blurring together, and the heat building between my thighs was not going to be resolved by deep breathing and professional discipline.

I pressed my legs together under the sheets. It didn’t help. It made it worse — the pressure was a reminder of his hands, his fingers, the way he spread me open with the same careful attention he applied to unrolling blueprints, and the thought made me clench around nothing and exhale through my teeth.

I thought about his mouth. The way it moved when he was concentrating. He’d gone down on me in his bedroom with the patience of a man who had nowhere else to be and nothing more important to study, and I’d come so hard I’d bitten through the pillowcase, and afterward he’d looked up at me from between my legs with those blue-gray eyes and said, “Again?” in a voice that sounded like old wood and rye and the complete, devastating certainty that he could take me apart as many times as I asked.

I got out of bed.

I didn’t bother with shoes. I didn’t bother with pants. I walked down the hallway in a T-shirt — his T-shirt, the gray one I’d stolen from his drawer because his clothes smelled like lemon oil and safety and wearing them felt like being held — and nothing else.

The light was on under the drafting library door.

I opened the door without knocking.

He was at the drafting table. Reading glasses on, sleeves rolled twice. A pencil in his right hand. The lamp casting warm amber light across the oak surface, across his forearms, across the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples.

He wasn’t drawing blueprints.

He was drawing me.

He’d taken the rough perspective sketch I’d left on the sawhorse table that afternoon and transformed it. He’d mapped my composition onto a structural grid, translating the emotional placement of every element into mathematical coordinates. And in the margin, in his careful handwriting: She was correct to within two degrees. By instinct. How does she do this?

He looked up when the door opened. The glasses caught the lamplight.

“Can’t sleep?” he said.

“I want the drafting table.”

He set the pencil down. Slowly. With the particular care of a man who understood that the sentence I’d just delivered was not about furniture.

“Explain,” he said.

I crossed the room. Stopped at the edge of the table. “I’ve been lying in bed for two hours thinking about your hands. The way they look when you work at this table. The way the pencil sits in your grip. The way your forearm flexes when you draw and the scar catches the light and your sleeves are rolled exactly twice because you cannot do anything without precision, and that precision is the thing that makes me insane.”

“I’ve been thinking about your hands on this surface,” I continued. “And then I think about your hands on me. And the two images merge. Because you touch me the way you touch these plans — with your full attention, with the patience to find every detail that matters.”

“Then do something about it,” I said.

He removed his glasses. Set them on the shelf beside the lamp — not on the desk. The desk was about to become unavailable for personal effects.

He stood. Six-four in warm lamplight, unfolding from the chair with the contained power of a body that had spent decades lifting stone and timber.

“Turn around,” he said.

I turned. Faced the drafting table. His drawing was directly beneath my palms.

He stepped behind me. Close enough that I felt the heat radiating from his chest through the thin cotton of his T-shirt on my back. Not touching. The space between his chest and my back was approximately one inch, and that inch contained more tension than every full-body contact I had experienced with anyone before him.

“This drawing,” he said, his voice low and direct against my ear. “You left the terrace sketch on the table and I spent three hours converting it into structural notation. Because your instincts are more accurate than my calculations. You positioned the ceremony view at the exact angle that maximizes both the river sightline and the afternoon light, and your placement was correct to within two degrees.”

His hands settled on my hips. Thumbs pressing into the small of my back, fingers curving around the outside of my hips. The size of his hands against my body made me exhale sharply.

“I am going to take this shirt off you now,” he said, “and I am going to lay you down on this table, and I am going to study you the way I study your drawings. I am going to find every angle, every proportion, every point where pressure produces a response. And I am going to do it slowly, because you are the most important thing that has ever been on this desk.”

He pulled the shirt over my head.

The library air hit my bare skin — cool, slightly dusty, smelling of old paper and leather and lemon oil. I was naked. Completely. And he was still dressed behind me — the rough cotton of his henley against my shoulder blades, the leather of his belt against the small of my back, the hard length of him through his trousers against my ass.

His hands came around my waist from behind. Palms sliding across my stomach, his fingers spanning the distance from hip to hip. His right hand slid up to cup my breast — not roughly, with the same firm, measured pressure he applied to everything he handled with care. His thumb found my nipple and circled it, and the calluses — the rough, work-built texture of a man who repaired windows with his bare hands — made my breath fragment.

His other hand slid down. Past my navel, to the juncture of my thighs. He traced the crease where my thigh met my hip — the spot he knew made me gasp. His fingertips drew a line from one hip to the other, skating the near-miss, and the anticipation was excruciating.

“Stellan, if you don’t touch me in the next five seconds, I’m going to redesign your plumbing so the hot water only works in the basement.”

He laughed. Low, soft, private. And while I was still absorbing the warmth of that sound, his fingers slid between my thighs and found me.

Wet. Embarrassingly, unmistakably wet. Two hours of lying in bed thinking about his hands and his mouth and his forearms — all of it was there, slick and hot against his fingers.

“Two hours?” he said against my ear.

“Two hours. Your hands. Your mouth. Your forearms. The way you roll your sleeves exactly twice. All of it. Every detail.”

His fingers moved. Two of them, sliding through the slickness, finding my clit with the precision of a man who had memorized the coordinates. He rubbed in slow, tight circles, and I gripped the edge of the drafting table and his drawing crinkled under my whitening knuckles.

“I want you to come like this first,” he said. “Standing. Against this table. With my hand between your legs and your hands on my plans.”

His other hand was still on my breast. Thumb working my nipple in counterpoint to the rhythm of his fingers below. I dropped my head forward. My hips rolled against his hand, chasing the pressure, and he matched my rhythm — following my body’s lead, adjusting based on my breathing and my sounds.

“Inside,” I said. “Two fingers. Keep your thumb where it is.”

He complied. Two thick fingers sliding into me while his thumb maintained its rhythm, and the stretch — his hands were so big, his fingers so broad that two of his felt like three of anyone else’s — made me moan loud enough that the books on the shelves probably heard it.

He fucked me with his hand. Standing behind me in the drafting library, fully clothed against my naked back, his right hand working between my thighs while his left held my hip, while his mouth pressed hot and open against the side of my neck, while his hips ground against my ass in a rhythm that told me his control was costing him significantly more than he was admitting.

“I can feel you tightening,” he said. His voice was rough. Strained. “You’re close.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Come on my hand, Tamsin. Right here. In my library. On my plans.”

The orgasm hit like a structural shift — deep, rolling, my body rearranging itself around the sensation. I came with my hands braced on his drafting table and his fingers inside me and his thumb on my clit and his mouth on my neck, and I said his name in a register I hadn’t known my voice could reach.

He withdrew his fingers slowly. Brought them to his mouth. I heard him taste me — a quiet, deliberate act that sent aftershocks through my already-wrecked nervous system.

Then he turned me around.

He lifted me onto the table. One motion. Effortless. His hands spanning my waist, fingers overlapping against my spine, and I was sitting on the edge of his drafting table with his drawing beneath my bare thighs and his body between my legs.

He looked down at me, naked on his blueprints. His jaw clenched. His chest expanded with a breath he couldn’t control.

“God,” he said. Barely audible.

“Mr. Wren,” I said.

The name detonated. His hands tightened on my thighs. The composure flickered like a candle in a draft.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Mr. Wren.” I leaned back on my palms and spread my legs wider. Deliberately. Letting him see everything. “Show me how you study your blueprints.”

He knelt.

Stellan Wren — six-four, two hundred and thirty pounds, the man who controlled every room he entered — knelt on the hardwood floor of his library between my thighs and looked up at me with an expression that said he would stay there for as long as I asked.

“I’ve imagined this,” he said. His hands gripped the backs of my thighs, fingers dimpling the flesh. “You, on this table. Since the first week.”

He kissed the inside of my knee. Then higher. His mouth mapping the same territory his fingers had traveled, but slower — impossibly, devastatingly slower. The scratch of his beard against my inner thigh sent shivers racing up my spine.

He reached the junction of my thighs and paused. Breathed against me. Hot air on wet skin.

“Please,” I said.

He pressed his mouth against me.

His tongue moved in flat, broad strokes first — tasting, mapping. He found my clit and circled it with precise, calibrated pressure. I gripped the back of his head and he groaned against me, and the vibration of that sound nearly pushed me over the edge again.

He built the second orgasm differently. Slower. More deliberate. His tongue working in patterns that changed each time I adjusted — keeping me on the edge, extending the approach. His hands slid beneath my thighs and gripped my ass, pulling me closer to the edge of the table, closer to his mouth. The angle shifted. His tongue pressed deeper.

“Stellan — I’m going to—”

He sealed his lips around my clit and sucked gently and his tongue flicked against the captured nerves and I shattered. The orgasm was sharper than the first — a bright, electric peak that made my thighs clamp against his head and my back arch off the table and my hand yank his hair hard enough that he grunted against me.

He stood. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand — casual, proprietary, obscene in its nonchalance. His chin was wet. His eyes were black. His erection was straining against his trousers with a visibility that made professional tailoring look like a failed engineering project.

“On your back,” he said.

I lay back on the drafting table. The oak was warm from the lamp and my own body heat, and his drawing crinkled beneath my shoulder blades. I was lying on the physical evidence of how thoroughly this man studied me.

He unbuckled his belt. The leather hissed against fabric. He pulled his henley over his head — the broad, heavy chest, the dark hair, the dense muscle, the scar on his forearm. He pushed his trousers and boxers down together. And he was — god. Every time. The scale of him recalibrated my understanding of what his body could do. Thick. Long. Proportional to everything else about him.

He stood between my legs at the edge of the table. The height was right — he’d built this table to work standing, and the surface hit him at exactly the level that made this position possible without adjustment.

He gripped my hips and pulled me to the edge. The motion dragged my back across his drawing, and the paper tore beneath me, and neither of us cared.

He positioned himself at my entrance. Pressed forward. Slowly. An inch at a time, watching my face — monitoring every response, calibrating depth and angle. His thumb found my clit to maintain arousal while my body accommodated his.

When he was fully inside me, we both held still. The drafting table creaked. The lamp hummed.

“Look at me,” he said.

I looked up at him. Silver temples. Blue-gray eyes, unshielded. The controlled intensity of a man who was buried to the hilt inside a woman on his drafting table and who was, for once in his carefully maintained life, not maintaining anything. Just feeling.

“You are,” he said, and his hips withdrew and drove forward in a single, deep stroke that pressed my shoulder blades into the oak, “the most extraordinary thing that has ever been on this desk.”

“Better than the maintenance ledgers?”

He almost laughed. The sound broke in his chest, and his rhythm shifted — faster, harder, the controlled precision dissolving into something more animal. He fucked me on his drafting table with his drawings tearing beneath my back and his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise and his mouth dropping to my breast, where he took my nipple between his teeth and bit gently and the bright point of sensation made me cry out.

“Better than the structural surveys,” he said against my skin. “Better than the original plans. Better than anything I have ever studied in this room.”

His hand found me between us. Thumb pressing against my clit while he fucked me, the dual stimulation building toward something massive.

“I want to know,” he said, his voice ragged, the architecture completely collapsed, “that every time I sit at this desk, I will think about this. About you. About the sound you make when I’m inside you and the way your back arches and the way you say my name like it’s the only word you know.”

“Stellan — right there — don’t stop—”

“Come for me. On my table. On my drawings. On the plans I drew because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Come on all of it.”

The third orgasm was demolition. Every wall, every barrier, every carefully maintained surface between my body and sensation came down at once, and I came with his name shredding in my throat and my nails raking his forearms and my body clenching around him with a force that pulled him over the edge with me.

He came with his face buried in my neck and his hands locked on my hips and a sound that was halfway between my name and a prayer and the most honest noise I had ever heard a human being make.

The drafting table held. A testament to Stellan’s craftsmanship.

We lay on the table together. It protested our combined weight with the dignified endurance of antique furniture that had witnessed worse. The drawing beneath us was destroyed — torn, wrinkled, stained with sweat and the evidence of what we’d done on top of it.

“Your drawing is ruined,” I said.

“I’ll draw it again. Better. With the corrections you taught me.”

I traced the burn scar on his forearm. The idle motion I made when thinking. He shivered — even now, the scar was sensitive to my touch in a way regular skin was not.

“Mr. Wren,” I said softly. Not as provocation. As something closer to a prayer.

“Ms. Rooke,” he answered. And the way he said it turned my professional title into the most intimate word in the English language.

I fell asleep on his drafting table. He carried me to bed. I woke briefly during the transfer — lifted against his chest, my face against his neck — and I said, “The locks.”

“I checked them,” he said. “While you were sleeping. I checked the locks and came back and watched you sleep on my blueprints for eleven minutes before I decided to move you.”

“Eleven minutes.”

“I was memorizing the sight. For the maintenance ledger.”

“You’re putting me in the maintenance ledger?”

“You are the most important thing I maintain.”

He set me in his bed. Pulled the linen over both of us. I curled against his chest and his arm came around my waist, and the last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was the sound of the house settling around us — old wood, old stone, adjusting to the weight of two people instead of one.

The drafting table survived. It stands in his library to this day, slightly wobblier than it was, with a faint stain on the oak surface that he has never repaired because some marks, he told me later, are features rather than flaws.

The drawing did not survive. He made a better one the next morning, with my corrections built into the mathematics. Our lines met in the middle. They always do.

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