My Brother’s Ex-Girlfriend — Bonus Chapter
The Inspection
by Blair Lennox
⚠️ Spoiler warning: This scene takes place six months after the epilogue. This scene is extremely explicit, graphic, and significantly hotter than the main book.
The Inspection
Megan and Erin return to the Whitewater Inn for a private overnight.
The owner’s suite had a new bed.
I noticed the moment Erin unlocked the door — a king-sized four-poster in reclaimed oak, the headboard hand-carved with the same leaf motif that ran along the original bar downstairs. The sheets were white linen. The pillows were excessive.
“When did you do this?” I asked.
“Last week. Tom wanted a signature piece for the suite. I told him I’d build it.” She set our bag on the luggage rack. “I didn’t mention that I was testing it tonight.”
“Quality assurance. Load-bearing capacity. Structural integrity under duress.” She turned to me. “I take my work seriously.”
“You built us a bed and brought me here to break it in.”
“I built the inn a bed. I brought you here because the last time we were in this room, there was a drop cloth on the floor and I had splinters in my back for a week.”
“I have a confession. I requested this room specifically. I told the front desk we needed to inspect it for a client report.”
“Megan Carter.” She said my full name slowly. “You lied to a hotel receptionist to book a sex weekend in a room we built.”
“The difference is that I’m wearing the green dress under this coat and I didn’t put on underwear.”
She crossed the room in three strides and untied my coat belt with one pull. The dress was there — the green dress, the preview dress.
“You wore this because you know what it does to me.”
“I wore it because you earned the memory, and I want to give you a better one.”
She kissed me hard. “Leave the dress on. For now.”
“I’ve been thinking about you in this dress, on this bed, with your hands on the posts I carved, while I’m between your legs. I measured twice to make sure the height was right.”
“You built a bed calibrated to go down on me.”
“I built a bed calibrated for comprehensive quality testing. The oral component is one variable among many. But it is the first variable I intend to test.”
She walked me backward. The height was perfect. She knelt and pushed the dress up my thighs, gathering the emerald fabric in her calloused hands.
She put her mouth on the inside of my thigh. I grabbed the headboard — her headboard, the leaf motif pressing into my palms.
“Patience. I didn’t spend nine days engineering this to rush the first test.”
She put her mouth on me. My head fell back. Her tongue pressed against my clit in a long, slow stroke. She used the flat first — broad, covering strokes. Then focused, targeted circles that tightened with each revolution.
She slid two fingers inside me and the dual sensation made the room dissolve. She curled her fingers, found the spot on my front wall, and pressed. Rhythmically. In sync with her tongue.
She pulled back. The loss was so sudden I cried out.
“Not yet. I spent nine days building this bed. You can spend nine minutes on the edge.”
She edged me three times. Build, crest, pull back. My thighs were shaking. My hands on the headboard were slick with sweat. The pleasure accumulated from three near-orgasms stacking inside me like geological pressure.
The fourth time, she didn’t pull back. Three fingers now. She flattened her tongue and held it steady, relentless, and the accumulated tension detonated.
My back arched off the bed. The wood creaked under my grip. The pleasure tore through me in waves — long, shuddering, full-body — and the sound I made was her name and something beyond language.
“The bed passed.”
“I can’t feel my legs.”
“That’s a feature.”
“My turn. Clothes off. All of them. Now.”
I straddled her and unbuttoned her shirt. Undershirt. Sports bra. I pulled the green dress over my head. Naked on top of Erin Walsh. Curtains open.
I kissed down her body. Bit her collarbone. Spent time on her breasts. Her hip bones. Pulled everything off her. She gripped the headboard — same posts, same carved leaves.
“Grip-rated for two.”
I put my mouth on her. She was soaked. I took my time. Broad strokes. Narrowing. Two fingers inside — she bucked off the bed. The bed creaked.
I edged her twice. The third build, I let her have it. She shattered — loud, profane, both hands on the headboard, my name torn from her throat.
We weren’t done. The edging had left a residual charge.
“Roll over,” she murmured. I rolled onto my stomach. She straddled me. Every stroke went lower. Her fingers slid between my legs from behind.
“Lift your hips.”
I rose to my knees. She slid inside from behind — deep, deeper than the earlier angle allowed. Her other hand found my clit. Both simultaneously.
“I measured this angle too. Bed height, mattress density, knee clearance.”
“You are an insane person who builds sex furniture.”
“I build functional furniture. The sex is a performance test.”
She pressed deeper and I came for the second time with her body curved over mine.
“Your turn. Again.”
“I might die.”
“You’re load-rated.”
I pushed her onto her back. Mouth and three fingers. Fastest and hardest. She came clutching the sheets, my name breaking on her lips.
“How many tests does this bed need?”
“I believe in thorough quality assurance.”
Her hand found mine. “I love you. In this room. In every room. With the curtains open.”
“Stop talking about joinery and hold me.”
She held me. The lake was black. The stars were out.
“Load-bearing performance: exceeded specifications. Material resilience: no failure observed. Acoustic properties: significant, but not a deficiency. Occupant satisfaction: maximum.”
Some load tests were private. But the building would know. The building always knew.
← Back to My Brother’s Ex-Girlfriend