Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(33)

“You’d make a terrible nursemaid,” I say hoarsely, because someone has to stop us from doing what I’m thinking of doing every time she lets her gaze drift to my lips like that.

“You’d make a terrible patient.”

“I should leave.”

“Why did you tell Beck you were going to make a terrible husband and father?”

Fuck, how did she know that? “Listening in on people’s private conversations, nosy-ass?”

“Don’t get high and mighty with me. I know you too well.”

“Ellie—”

“Was I that much of a mistake? At Christmas?”

“No. Yes. Fuck.” I rub a hand over my eyes. “The guys—your family—they’re all the family I have left. Them and Tucker. I don’t want to fuck that up.”

“Do you honestly believe any of my family would put up with you if you weren’t good enough for all of us?”

“Don’t be nice to me.”

“What if we were nice to each other?” she whispers.

“Ellie—”

“Shut up, Wyatt. I’m not asking for a relationship. I’m asking for a friend. I don’t want to go to Monica’s wedding by myself. I don’t want to feel broken. I want to dream again. I want to know I can be normal again. I want to believe in the future. I can’t—I haven’t—I don’t know if I can—”

She stops with a growl of frustration. “Never mind. Forget it. I—”

I have my hands in her hair again before I can think, kissing her hard and ruthless and unapologetically.

The last thing she did before her accident was, well, me.

If she needs help getting back in the saddle, then I guess the least I can do is, well, her.

Whatever she wants. As far as she wants to go.

That’s what you do for a friend, especially a friend you didn’t realize you needed until it was almost too late.

Right?





Twelve





Ellie



Something this stupid should not feel this right, but dammit, when Beck told me Wyatt had heart problems—even when I didn’t believe him—my own nearly stopped beating.

Until Christmas, Wyatt was the annoyance from my childhood. But he grew up.

I grew up.

And then I stumbled into my parents’ basement with a carton of ice cream, and now I’m back with the last person who saw me before I wasn’t me anymore.

And he knows it, or he wouldn’t be here.

He wouldn’t stay, pretending to be my boyfriend with history hovering at the edges of the tension between us.

He tastes like banana pudding and feels like forgiveness, and if I think about this too long, I’m going to chicken out, so instead, I toss the pudding on the other side of the bed and give in to the sensations of his mouth, his lips, his breath, his grip on my hair, the hard plane of his chest against the extra fluffiness mine’s acquired this year.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs when he pulls out of the kiss to lick a path along my jaw.

“I’ll kill you if you stop.”

“Sweet talker.”

“My nipples are hard.”

“Fuck, Ellie. I can’t—I’m not—you deserve—”

“Shut. Up.” I’m drenched between my legs, and I can feel my pulse in my clit. “I know who you are.”

He nips at the tendon between my neck and shoulder, and I grip his solid shoulders to hold him where it feels good. “More there,” I beg.

He nips again, then licks at my sensitive skin, and I shift on the bed to carefully part my legs while he gently swipes my hair to the side, his fingers brushing the back of my neck and making me whimper in pleasure.

“There too?” he asks, rubbing his thumb at my nape.

“Mm-hmm,” I manage.

“Relax, Ellie.”

“I don’t know how to relax. I was born this way. Take your shirt off.”

“You first.”

If he thinks I’m going to balk, he can think again. I whip my tank top over my head and let him see all of me. The fuller breasts. My tight nipples. The scars that are barely noticeable on the side of my left breast now.

He traces them anyway, because of course he notices, watching my chest with dark, hooded eyes. “Where else?” he asks hoarsely.

“Lose the shirt,” I rasp out.

His eyes lift to mine, and there’s raw hunger that I’ve never seen there before. Instead of ripping off the cotton shirt, he lifts it slowly, inch by inch, revealing the chiseled abs, the flat pecs, copper nipples pebbled hard, his arms flexing when he finally pulls it over his head.

“Show-off,” I whisper.

“Look who’s talking,” he replies, bending to suck one of my nipples into his mouth.

Pleasure rockets from my chest to my core, starting that long-forgotten spiral of need deep inside me.

I forgot how big his hands are until he cups my other breast, fully covering it despite the two cup sizes I’ve gained. While he suckles harder on one nipple, he circles the other with his thumb. I arch into his touch. “Oh, god, yes,” I moan.

I’m so damn glad he doesn’t have a heart problem.

“Lie down,” he says gruffly, pushing me with his body until I’m on my back, head on the pillow, the covers low on my belly. He starts to pull them off, but I grip them tight.