Page 45 of Claimed By The Other Brother

Don't wake up. Please don't wake up.

He shifts slightly, his arm moving, and I hold my breath. Then he settles again, his breathing evening out. I wait another ten seconds before moving again. Slowly, I slide toward the edge of the bed, my body screaming in protest. Everything hurts. My head. My muscles. But especially the delicious ache between my legs—a reminder of exactly how thoroughly he fucked me last night.

I'm halfway out from under his arm when the bedshifts beneath me. I freeze again, panic spiking. Dax mumbles something incoherent and rolls slightly, taking his arm with him.

Freedom.

I continue my escape, sliding across the sheets like I'm defusing a bomb. The mattress is enormous, and it takes forever to reach the edge. When I finally do, I pause, calculating my exit strategy.

I swing one leg over the side, then the other, and start to lower myself to the floor.

The movement is too quick. I lose my balance and tumble off the bed, landing on the plush carpet with a soft thud.

I lie there on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening.

Nothing. No movement from the bed.

Thank God.

I roll onto my hands and knees and crawl toward the bedroom door. My head pounds with each movement. Nausea swirls in my stomach. But I keep going, desperate to get out before he wakes up and I have to face what we did.

The living room is bathed in the soft gray light of early dawn. I can barely see, but I don't dare turn on a light. I feel around in the dim space, searching for my clothes.

There—the wedding dress. A crumpled heap of ivory silk and lace on the floor near the wall where he unzipped it. The sight of it makes my stomach turn. I grab it, the fabric heavy and wrinkled in my hands.

My panties are nearby. I find my bra tangledin the dress. My shoes kicked off somewhere near the terrace doors.

I pull on my underwear, fumbling in the darkness, my hands shaking. The wedding dress goes over my head. I can't deal with the zipper, so I hold it closed at my back, clutching the fabric with one hand.

My room key. Where's my room key?

I scan the room frantically, squinting in the dim light. There—on the credenza by the door, next to the empty champagne bottle.

I tiptoe over, my bare feet silent on the carpet, and grab the key card.

As I reach for the door handle, I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging above the credenza.

I look like I've been through hell.

My hair is a wild mess, tangled and falling around my shoulders in chaotic waves. My makeup is mostly gone except for the smudged remnants of mascara beneath my eyes, giving me a haunted, raccoon-like appearance. My lips are swollen. There's a faint mark on my neck—a bruise forming where Dax's mouth was.

But my cheeks are flushed. My skin glows. My eyes, despite the dark circles and smudged makeup, have a brightness to them that wasn't there yesterday.

Because my body feels incredible.

Sore, yes. Aching, absolutely. But alive. Buzzing. Satisfied in a way I've never experienced before.

I tear my gaze away from the mirror and open the door as quietly as possible. The hallway is empty, silent except for the distant hum of the hotel's HVAC system.

I slip out, letting the door close behind me with the softest click.

The walk down the hallway to my suite feels endless. Every step makes my thighs ache. Every movement reminds me of what happened in that bedroom. Of Dax's hands on my body. His mouth. The way he made me forget everything except the pleasure he was giving me.

I reach my door and fumble with the key card, my hands still shaking. It takes three tries before the lock clicks open.

I stumble inside and lean against the closed door, finally allowing myself to breathe.

My suite looks exactly as I left it yesterday morning. Makeup scattered across the vanity. The garment bag that held my wedding dress now empty. Coffee cups and pastry wrappers from breakfast with Jane and Sarah.