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What the hell is my problem?
Only a couple days ago, I decided I needed to take a step away from Brynn and focus on football. I even tried a random hook upto chase her from my thoughts and failed miserably, so the next time I see her, I decide to lick her leg like a fucking lollipop?
Fuck me, but I felt like I might die if I didn’t taste her skin on my tongue.
The first night here was about pissing her off to get my way, even if I lost control and enjoyed the kiss far more than I should have.
But today . . . today, I have no excuse.
It was a lapse in judgment. And if I’m being honest, maybe a teeny bit of jealousy at the way she and Chris were flirting right in front of my face. So this is partly his fault, the fucker. He knows she’s off-limits and respects it. Which tells me he also knows exactly what he was doing.
Hell, what was he thinking? One second, he’s suggesting I take a step back from her, and the next, he’s goading me.
I replay the audible gasp Brynn let out when my tongue made contact with her soft skin, and I groan. Her reaction made me want to lick a hell of a lot more than her thigh. I was more turned on in that moment than I’ve been in a long ass time.
Not helping Taggart.
The soft murmur of her voice muffled by the closed bedroom door catches my attention, and my eyes fly open. I prop the broom against the cabinets and cross the living room, drawing closer to listen. I cock my head and quickly confirm it’s her voice when it hits me.
What if she tells Teagan what happened?
The thought plows into me, shuddering like the Titanic hitting a fucking iceberg. I press a hand against the pain in my chest.
Teagan’s like a brother to me. His folks and sisters are more like family than my own. If anyone knows my track record with women and how I loathe the thought of anything serious, it’s him.
He’d hate me for putting my hands on her.
He’d think the worst, that I’m using her, when the truth is I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. All I know is I can’t seem to control myself around her anymore.
Teagan’s always been especially protective of Brynn. Before we left for school, I could see the fear in his eyes when he talked about being in Maryland while she’s all the way in Michigan. I could tell it bothered him being so far apart. So, when he asked me to watch over her, I gave him my word.
He trusted me.
And I betrayed that trust—not once but twice—with my mouth, my thoughts, the raging fucking hormones that tell me to ignore all the reasons touching Brynn Nichols is a bad fucking idea. I can hardly blame him for pushing us together. It’s not his fault I can’t seem to keep my hands to myself and my head from the gutter.
Oh, you asked me to keep her safe from creeps like Stanley? No worries. Took care of that for you. I gave her a good eye fucking, then shoved my tongue down her throat in the process.
Oh, and don’t forget the time I licked her thigh like a fucking ice cream cone. You’re welcome.
I scrub a hand over my face, then step away from the door as I promise myself I’m done. If she doesn’t tell Teagan and I get a pass, I won’t lay another finger on her. I’ll leave her alone. Focus on football and school. No matter how good she looks, or how amazing she smells, or how jealous I get . . .
With a grunt, I ball my hands into fists. I can make a million promises, but deep down I know I’m in trouble.
BRYNN
Steam drifts toward me as I fill my travel mug with piping hot coffee, topping it off with sugar and cream, then grab the bagel I prepared and turn for the door. I try my best to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake Jace who’s still sleeping on the couch.
It’s Sunday, and while he has the day off from practice, I start my first official day with Helping Hands. Call it cowardice, but we’ve yet to address the cupcake incident, and I’d rather avoid a confrontation first thing in the morning. Especially when I’m tired from a night out with the girls and have yet to consume enough coffee to wake the dead.
I turn with my breakfast in hand and halt in my tracks at the sight of a bare-chested Jace standing before me. Even with bed head and bloodshot eyes, he’s easily the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I hate him for it.
My mouth flattens into some semblance of a smile as I mutter a “good morning,” and try to skirt past unscathed when his hand grips my arm, stopping my retreat.
Holding my breath, I glance up at him, wary at the intensity in the depths of his blue eyes. “Did you . . .” He clears his throat, but it does nothing to relieve the rasp in his voice as he asks, “You went out last night,” he says.
I nod, wondering where he’s going with this. If he thinks I’ll tell him I went and hid at the coffee shop until they closed as a way to circumvent my feelings before running to my friends, he’s wrong.
“Did you come home last night?”
