Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(71)

Her voice muffled, since she was currently plastered against Red’s wonderful chest, she said simply, “Oh.”

“And when I said Slow down, I meant, Give me a second before I come. Not Go away.”

“Oh.” She looked up.

He straightened her glasses and tapped her on the nose. “Yeah. This is me checking in. I know you’re still not feeling great.”

She wasn’t sure how he noticed things like that. She was up, she was dressed, she was medicated and smiling. He should’ve had no idea about her slight, lingering headache, or the thrum of pain that her patch couldn’t quite touch, insistent enough that she was already frustrated.

She supposed whatever it was about him that made him notice might be the same thing that made her trust him.

“I don’t feel that bad,” she muttered, honestly enough. On her personal scale of one—wonderful—to ten—excruciating—this was a smooth six. Six was fine. One point above average. On the rare occasions she got down to a four, she often wondered how one found the universe’s feet in order to kiss them.

Apparently, though, Red wasn’t impressed by Chloe at a Six, because he just snorted. But he didn’t let her go. And, when she burrowed deeper into his arms, she felt his hardness through his jeans, pressing into her belly and singing through her blood. Well now. She wasn’t letting that go. Not when she’d decided to be brave.

“I think you should kiss me again,” she said, “and this time, don’t do anything silly. Like stop.”

He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “You aren’t well.”

“I’m never well. And my consultant does like to go on about endorphins being natural painkillers, and—”

“Really? Your doctor tells you that?”

“Well, yes, but usually in a Chloe, you should go out and have fun sort of way.” Not a Chloe, you should clumsily seduce someone by discussing pain management sort of way.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, hugging her tighter against him. No avoiding that erection now. She tried to maintain some dignity, succeeded for half a second, then crumbled like feta and rocked her hips into his. The choked groan he gave was … pleasing. The way he screwed his eyes shut and let his head fall back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, was intoxicating.

Sounding pained, he asked, “Orgasms cause endorphins, right?”

“They do.”

“Want one?”

She blinked at his lovely, flushing throat for a moment. Was this actually working? It seemed so, but she wasn’t sure, because she suddenly couldn’t think straight. Then her backup brain kicked in—the smaller section of her mind that took over like a generator whenever something wiped out her general brain’s power. “Something” such as the casual offer of an orgasm.

The backup brain told him, “I’m still wearing my buprenorphine patch. Which makes it more difficult for me to do, um, that.”

“Want to try?”

She exhaled sharply. “Yes, please.”

Chloe could not be held responsible for the actions of the backup brain.

He opened his eyes and she saw the naked lust there, as if someone had switched on floodlights in the dark. That sharp green gaze settled on her like a ton of bricks. A ton of sexy bricks. Apparently, bricks could be sexy when they were shooting from Red Morgan’s eyes like lasers. She may or may not be delirious with lust. The backup brain was still in control. Never mind.

He cupped her face in his hands like she was something delicate and kissed her like he’d missed her for a lifetime. His callused thumbs swept over her cheeks while their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, his erection rigid against her belly. His lips claimed hers hungrily, every slick, hot glide of his tongue tugging at something delicious between her thighs. She moaned, and he pulled back as if that was what he’d been waiting for. The size of his jet-black pupils made his pale eyes seem strange, otherworldly.

“Bedroom,” he said.

She ended up sitting primly on the edge of her bed with a tightly leashed storm of a man kneeling between her thighs. He wrapped his big hands around her bare ankles and muttered, “You always wear those fucking shoes … and these skirts. You drive me out of my mind.” He let go, flicked one of the buttons on her jumper, then frowned. Fiddled with it for a moment. “Chloe … are these buttons fake?”

“Of course they are,” she said. “Actual buttons would be an inefficient use of limited dexterity.”

He laughed like she was a headline act at the Apollo.

Laughing wasn’t exactly what she wanted from him right now, but it was so adorable she let it slide. He rested his head in her lap as he chuckled, and she slid her fingers through the golden fire of his hair until he calmed down. When he looked up at her again, his smile was even brighter than his eyes. “You and your fucking cardigans. Your fake fucking cardigans.”

“Do you like cardigans?” she asked pertly.

The last of his amusement faded away, replaced by something raw and animal. “I like yours.”

She’d never been happier about her own strange obsession with buttons she couldn’t use. Before she could lose her nerve, she pulled the jumper off over her head. “See? Efficient.”

He didn’t answer. Apparently, he was too busy staring at her chest. His brow furrowed as if in pain and his eyes fluttered shut for a second before he forced them open again, like he didn’t want to miss anything. And then, good Lord, he bit his lip. As if he wanted to bite her. As if she made him hungry.