Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(4)

“Don’t you want to just say fuck them and feel good for a few minutes?”

“Yes.”

I shut down all the warning signals alarming inside my head, because they’re not all don’t screw your brother’s best friend.

Some of them are you know how long it took to forget him the last time you got a crush on him.

And some he’s unavailable, dumbass, and so are you. You know you can’t do this without feelings getting involved.

Can’t I?

“You’re probably a terrible lay,” I say as I drop my bra.

He rises, and his pants hit the ground.

So do his boxers.

I take in the sight of his cock bobbing and straining, and I have to physically stop myself from reaching for it.

He’s long. Thick. With a blunt head and dark curls framing his balls, so unlike Patrick’s total blondness.

“You probably lay there like a cold limp noodle,” he says.

“Try me.”

He’s suddenly crushing his mouth against mine, and he tastes like cinnamon and beer and summer, and his skin is hot against mine, his tongue unforgiving, his cock hard against my belly while his hands roam up my sides to tease the underside of my breasts.

I moan into his mouth. He groans in response. Our tongues clash, an inevitable extension of the war we’ve always waged since before we were old enough to understand it. I scrape his back with my nails. He squeezes my breasts. I push his shoulders until he’s on his knees, following him all the way down to the ground.

This is insane.

I should stop.

“Condom,” he sputters. “Wallet.”

I grab it off the end table. “Hurry up before I change my mind.”

He stills.

Like he’s changing his mind.

So I grab his cock and pump it in my fist before he can tell me no.

I don’t want to think.

I just want to feel.

And right now, my skin is on fire, my pussy is aching, and my breasts are heavy and desperate for attention.

“Fuck, Ellie,” he groans, his head dropping back while he fumbles for the condom.

As soon as he’s pulled it out of his wallet, I snag it and tear it open. “Touch my breasts,” I order.

“Christ, so soft,” he mutters while he tests the weight of my D-cups and teases my nipples.

Every brush of his thumb over one of my tips sends a shockwave of desire straight to my core. He alternates. One nipple. Then the other. Like my body is an instrument, and he’s teasing new notes of arousal to the surface.

“So hard,” I mutter back while I roll the condom down his steel shaft.

I cup his balls, and the next thing I know, he’s rolled me onto my back, his mouth sealing over mine again. We fumble together to yank my panties off. I part my legs and arch into him, and he pushes into me.

It’s new. And weird.

But not unwelcome.

He fills me, sliding easily into my soaking heat even as he stretches my inner walls, and I tilt my hips to take him as deep as I can.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he rasps as he pumps into me.

I don’t answer, because oh, fuck. “There. Right there.” I buck my hips, the tension building high and tight right in that deepest part of me that he hits every time he thrusts in.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he orders.

Against my will, I open them.

He’s watching my face while he hammers inside, faster and deeper, watching me gasp in pleasure while he fills me to the hilt and pulls back just long enough to make it that much better when he strokes deep inside me with the next thrust.

How long have I hated Wyatt Morgan?

And how long have I possibly just been afraid?

Told you so, my subconscious whispers, but he hits that sweet spot deep inside me again, and I come completely undone. My orgasm roars out of me, squeezing and pulsing and spasming around his hard cock, a silent cry on my lips while he groans and strains, holding himself inside me while he grits his teeth, eyes still penetrating mine, anger simmering, pain simmering, release simmering.

The two of us are quite the pair.

And it’s not nearly as terrifying a thought as it should be.

I’m panting, my breath loud in my own ears, when he suddenly freezes.

“Oh, shit,” he whispers. He pushes up to his knees, pulling out so quickly and covering the goods so fast that my vagina almost gets whiplash. “Fuck. Ellie.” He shakes his head, gaze darting in a panic around the room. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

The words take a minute to sink in.

And he takes advantage of my dumbfounded silence to hop back into his clothes. “Fuck. Sorry. I—”

“Shut up.” I lunge for my own clothes. Tears are flooding my sinuses, and they’ll be leaking out my eyeballs in approximately two seconds if I don’t get myself under control. “Just shut up.”

I dive for my clothes too.

“Ellie—”

“Shut. Up.”

That sympathy. That regret. That this was a mistake. It’s all in the two syllables of my name on his lips.

Fuck. Fuck.

He moves toward me, but I shove him in the chest until he backs off.

He’s right, of course.

It’s Wyatt.

He’s always right. If this was a mistake, if I’m a mistake, then yeah, clearly I’m a mistake.