Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(3)

“I broke a nail.”

He snags my hand and lifts it, turning it to inspect my perfectly trimmed, newly manicured nails, and tremors skittle out from the point where his thumb rests inside my palm.

It’s like he’s turning me on.

Patrick hasn’t turned me on in months. That’s what’s supposed to happen, right? You settle down with one person and get yourself into a rut and the sex becomes routine instead of exciting. It’s normal, right?

Or you were an idiot who should’ve dumped him a year ago, my subconscious helpfully offers.

I snatch my hand back, but I’m still ridiculously aware of Wyatt beside me.

The hitch in his breath.

The subtle scent of cinnamon and beer wafting off him.

The way his gaze is still trained on me. “So you got dumped too,” he muses.

“Shut. Up.”

That would’ve been more effective if I’d been able to say it without dribbling peppermint crunch ice cream down my chin and my voice wobbling.

He reaches out and wipes the drip off my chin, and I realize he’s leaning into my space.

My heart’s pounding. My breasts are getting full and heavy. My mouth is going dry, even with ice cream still lingering on my tongue, and I almost choke when I swallow.

“Merry fucking Christmas to us,” he says. His nose is inches from mine, and his lids are lowering over darkened eyes.

“There’s no fucking going on,” I point out, my breath getting shallower as I glance down his just-barely-off-center nose to his stupidly perfect lips.

“There’s not, is there?” he muses while his gaze darts to my lips too. “There’s only getting fucked over.”

Every time he says fuck, I get a shot of heat between my legs.

“You’re in my bubble,” I whisper.

“Maybe I’m trying to annoy you to make myself feel better.”

“Maybe if you wanted to annoy me, you should take your clothes off.”

Holy shit, I just said that.

He holds my gaze for half a second, and then his shirt goes flying. He settles back against the couch, still leaning into my space, but now with acres and acres of hard chest and sculpted stomach and cut hips and that perfect trail of hair arrowing down to disappear under his sweatpants.

“Now, what are you going to do to annoy me?” he asks.

I should dump this carton of ice cream on his head.

But I want to do something else.

Something wrong.

But right? Maybe?

Fuck it.

Thinking’s what got me in trouble with Patrick. I thought he was what I wanted. I thought I loved him because I thought I should. I thought he’d be a good partner. I thought we wanted the same things in life.

I thought Wyatt was annoying.

But my body isn’t thinking.

My body just wants.

I slap the ice cream onto the wobbly end table that my brother broke years ago, and then I peel off my sweatshirt and the stained college T-shirt beneath it.

“Annoyed yet?” I purr.

Oh, fuck, I’m purring.

His gaze dips to my chest, and his sweatpants tent.

Holy hell.

Wyatt Morgan is packing, and it’s making my clit tingle.

That hasn’t happened just by looking at a man in months.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice thick and low. “Yeah, I’m fucking annoyed.”

I rise and shimmy out of my leggings, because this is a bad idea, but every good idea I’ve ever had hasn’t gotten me what I wanted in life, has it?

“Christ, Ellie,” he rasps out.

“You only wish you looked this good,” I tell him, but I can’t keep my voice steady either.

I’d blame the ice cream for the heady tingling in my fingers and toes, but my blood’s not spiked with anything more than sugar.

I let Wyatt take his time looking at me, because I know I look good. I hit the gym for weights four mornings a week. I run marathons. I still have curves. I don’t run without a heavy-duty sports bra and my ass could squash a supermodel, but I won’t apologize for being built like a woman.

I am a woman. A strong, powerful, unique woman who fucking deserves exactly what I’m seeing in the raw desire in Wyatt’s gray eyes.

If he’s never noticed my body before, he’s noticing now.

“You need to put your clothes back on,” he says, but his eyes aren’t in agreement with his words.

His eyes are offering to use my body to make my brain forget what my heart’s suffering.

“Or what?” I ask.

He visibly swallows, but he doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t look away either.

I slip one bra strap down my shoulder, letting it hang in the crook of my elbow, not off, but not on either.

“Ellie,” he warns, his hand going to his pants over his cock, like he can’t decide if he wants to press it down to stop it, or if he wants to jerk himself off while he watches me strip.

“You’re hurting,” I say, slipping my other bra strap halfway down my arm too. I’m still covered by my simple satin demicups, but I reach behind me like I’m going to unhook the band, and we both know he’ll be getting an eyeful of my breasts if I do it. “I’m hurting. I don’t want to hurt. Do you?”

“No,” he rasps out.