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He smiled like the devil. “If I’m flirting, darling, you’ll know it,” he said, echoing the sassy comment I’d made before we took the trip to hell. But then the smile fell away. “Get a few hours of sleep, then if you want to give me hell for giving a damn about you, you be my guest.”
The moment he said the word “sleep”, my body remembered it was tired enough to hibernate for the winter.
I nodded and followed him up the porch and inside the house. Which, it turned out, looked nothing like I’d expected.
There were no walls. I mean, there were dark wood pillars and a few half-walls that kept the ceiling from coming down. But aside from that, the foyer, the living room and dining room, even the kitchen were one big, open space. Open, but not empty. Plenty of cozy-looking leather furniture, shelves filled with books and wooden carvings. Some artwork on the walls. Beyond the open space, there was a hallway, presumably leading to a few bedrooms and the bathroom. From the foyer, I could see that two of the doors were open but one of them was shut.
“The bathroom’s the last door on the left,” Brute said, pointing to one of the open doorways. “And my bedroom’s the door next to it,” he said, pointing to the other open door. “If you want to get cleaned up, be my guest, then get some sleep, darling.”
I looked up at him. “In your bed?” The temptation made my insides tingle with anticipation.
He shrugged. “Or in my dresser, if you prefer, but it’s the only bed.”
Hm. So what was behind the closed door, then?
“I’ll take the couch,” I heard myself saying, which was a very un-Greta-like thing to say.
“Suit yourself,” he said with a knowing grin, which my tired brain couldn’t quite interpret at the moment. Then he sauntered across the big space, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
I dropped the backpack I’d been carrying and stared at the door for a long moment. Sure, I was tired, but was any human being ever actually too tired to fuck?
That’s not the problem, isit? taunted a stupid voice inside my head.
No, if I was being honest, that wasn’t the problem at all.
The regal way he carried himself, the way he’d stood up to protect his sister, how he’d trustedmeto keep her safe, the way he’d committed himself to this “mission" I was on… for me.
I didn’t just want to fuck Brute Hastings anymore. I liked him.
Andthatis a really bad idea.
Chapter Seventeen
Brute
I was getting really tired of staring up at ceilings.
An hour had passed, and here I was, lying in bed, still staring up at the goddamned empty ceiling. Between the shit with Leeri and the crazy girl in my house, sleep wasn’t coming.
I could hear Greta moving around out there, first to the shower—which brought to mind no small amount of vivid imagery—then back down the hall to the living room. Now, she seemed to be moving around in short bursts, then throwing herself down on my sofa, then back up again a few minutes later.
The floorboards creaked somewhere in the living room, and an image of her sprang to mind, her hair still wet and her feet bare as she wandered around the big open space, her fingertips brushing along the books and carvings on my shelves. I could see those fingertips running down the spine of books like Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War”, and my cock jerked. She kept her nails short, just long enough to leave the best kind of scratch marks.
I clenched my hands into fists and stared up at the damn ceiling.
She stopped walking and sat down on the sofa again; the leather squeaked quietly beneath her. Then a series of quick, quiet clicks; she was typing. Typing? I could think of a hundred better things she could be doing with her fingers.
“This is ridiculous,” I breathed aloud. Imagining those fingers stretching to wrap around my cock was the final straw.
The president of the Old Dogs took what he wanted. He didn’t lie in bed, depriving himself of pussy, worrying about some girl’sfeelings.
“Fuck feelings,” I said, swinging my legs off the side of the bed. The only thing I wanted to feel was that girl’s hot cunt coming on my cock.
And I knew good and well I could make her come.
I strode out of the room and down the hall to the living room. She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the sofa, typing away furiously on her laptop. Her damp hair spilled around her shoulders and she had her plump bottom lip caught between her teeth.
Her gaze shot up to meet mine, and her tongue darted out to lick her lips, making them glisten. Perfect fucking lips. And since I was done fighting this, I was more than ready to see them wrapped around my cock.
