Rowena
The sound of fists pummeling leather filled the air as Eric stood with his back turned to me, sweat running down his skin. He almost seemed to be hitting his punching bag with a primal, feral intensity—almost as though he was trying to get out his anger, or perhaps his frustration.
I wasn’t sure why I just stood there, staring at him. Maybe it was simply fascination with his form.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was because the longer I looked at him, the more the warmth in my lower belly began to spread outward—and downward.
My cheeks flushed hot as I realized the undeniable truth. Right now, as I watched Eric hit his punching bag, I was turned on by him. By my own brother’s muscular, heaving, sweating form.
The realization made me feel almost dizzy with shame and con
