Pinning And Breeding My Sister Like She Deserves: Whole Family Breeding - Brother and Sister 3

Pinning And Breeding My Sister Like She Deserves

Whole Family Breeding - Brother and Sister 3

Rayne Vice

The record stood at eleven and two.

Amanda kept the record. She kept it in her head with full annotations, like a historian. Eleven wins, two losses, three years of living room wrestling matches that had started as actual childhood fights over the remote and evolved into a standing tradition, every few Fridays when she was home, whenever Billy was around and bored enough. The two losses were both disputed. One had involved a coffee table to the shin, which she classified as furniture interference, and the other had been during allergy season, which she classified as a medical event. The eleven wins were all legitimate, all earned, and she recited the highlight reel whenever the subject came up, which was often, because she brought it up.

"Say it," she said, circling him on the carpet. "Say the record."

"The record is eleven and two."

"And whose record is better?"

"Yours. Two of them were flukes and you know it, but fine. Yours."

"Damn right mine." She popped her mouthguard out and grinned at him, bouncing on her toes in her sports bra and shorts, hair yanked back in the tight tail she wrestled in. She'd been a varsity athlete for four years. She lifted. She ran. At twenty she was in the best shape of her life and getting better, and she'd beaten every girl in her weight class and a few of the guys. "You know what I want more than twelve?"

"A hobby."

"Twelve and OH. Undefeated season. Like the Patriots, except legit."

"We're doing football references now?"

"I do what I want. Get your hands up. Old rules, tap out or pin, no hair, no fish-hooking."

They locked up.

And Amanda won, because Amanda always won. She got inside his grip, used her hips, turned the corner on him and hit a trip she'd drilled a thousand times, and he went down onto the carpet and she rode it straight into a pin, pressing his shoulder blades flat, counting out loud with her forearm across his throat. Twelve and oh. She bounced up and did a lap of the coffee table with her arms raised.

"TWELVE. Twelve and oh. That's a perfect season, that's history, that is a DYNASTY." She pointed down at him where he lay on the carpet. "You felt that trip? You had nothing for that trip. I've been working on that trip for a month. You're getting old, big brother. Twenty-three and over the hill. I'm in my prime and you're decomposing."

"Uh huh."

"Don't 'uh huh' me, that was domination. Total. Start to finish."

"Sure."

She stopped mid-victory-lap.

Something in his voice. Or rather, the absence of something. She'd heard that exact tone from him after every match for three years, and she'd filed it under gracious losing, and now, standing there flushed and victorious with her hands on her hips, she actually heard it for the first time.

"Nope." She pointed at him. "No. Say it again."

"Sure."

"There it is." She walked back over and stood over him, staring down. "That's the sure. That's the voice. That's the voice you do. Billy. Look at me." He looked up at her from the carpet, flat on his back, not even breathing hard, and the thing landed in her chest all at once, the thing she'd somehow never assembled in three years. "You're not even tired."

"So?"

" SO . I just went a full match. Full pace. I'm sweating like a pig and my heart rate's one-fifty, and ...