Ruined (Barnes Brothers #4)(29)

“Marin . . .” He muttered her name as the need to come raced ever closer. When the climax finally tore out of him, he arched his neck. Swearing, he jerked his cock harder while semen jetted out of him and splashed up his belly, across his fingers.

Bit by bit, the tension drained away and after a while, he opened his eyes.

The low breath that escaped through his teeth did little to express his amazement.

Sebastien had been dreaming about Marin for most of his adult—and quite a bit of his teenaged—life.

The one time when he hadn’t . . . well, even then he had . . . but the dreams had been quieter when he’d been with Monica. He had loved her, he knew that. Guilt made him look back at things in a different light and sometimes he wondered if maybe he loved her for the wrong reason. He’d been looking for somebody, wanting to fill the old void inside him. Granted, he’d been mooning over Marin ever since he was . . . Well, when did forever start? He wasn’t sure.

And Monica was just there. Beautiful and sweet and she understood him.

But if he’d met her now, he knew he’d have liked her—and he never would have made a move on her. He didn’t love her the way he should have. Maybe that was why she’d been looking for something else and ended up falling in love—or convincing herself that she had fallen in love—with Smith.

Sebastien knew he had never looked at her the way he saw his dad look at his mom. Had never looked at her the way Zach looked at Abby, the way Zane looked at Keelie, or how Trey looked at Ressa.

Monica hadn’t been his world.

He’d only wished she could have been and the guilt over that—and the guilt over not being able to save her had haunted him.

Marin, though . . .

She wasn’t just his world.

She was more, and she didn’t get it.

“Fuck,” he muttered as the grim mood settled over him. He slanted a look at the grand palladium window that spilled sunlight over his bed. He needed to get up. Go for a run. Anything to get rid of the darkness trying to creep back in on him.

Rolling to a sitting position, he grabbed the discarded shirt from the past day and used it to wipe his belly off.

Then he grabbed some clothes and headed into the bathroom for a quick shower.

A few minutes later, he was heading out the door for his run.

He didn’t do five miles.

He pushed himself harder and did eight. He might have gone for ten but it was getting hot and he had gotten a late start, so he didn’t push it. Sweat was dripping from his body and his muscles were lax, heavy as cement blocks as he dragged himself up the steps to his deck.

He was feeling decent, too.

As long as he got up and worked out hard enough, read long enough, then worked out more, he tended to do just fine.

Sooner or later, he’d exhaust all the books in his library, but that was the thing about books.

There were always more.

But he was thinking about taking a shower and driving down to see his parents. He hadn’t made it the last time, thanks to crashing into the internet and discovering the sobfest the media was throwing for Smith.

He’d be smarter this time and just call the woman who used to handle all his travel arrangements, see if she’d get him a place booked.

He felt steadier the past few days and thought maybe he was ready to see them.

If he got nervous on the drive to San Francisco, then he’d bypass it and head to Tucson instead. Maybe he’d nag Zach or Zane into making the trip with him. It would be easier if he wasn’t alone the first time, and he missed his brothers. He missed his folks, too, but it was easier to deal with being an * if he was around his brothers—they could be *s, too, after all.

There were a lot of things he’d neglected while he busted his ass working and even more things he’d neglected during his year of self-pity. Now that his career was over, he needed to take care of those things and maybe enjoy all the stuff he’d never had time for.

As he hauled himself up the steps, legs shaking, he told himself he’d make the decision in the shower. Unlike the last time he’d thought about going to see his folks, he wouldn’t get distracted. No more time in front of the computer—he was about ready to throw it out. He could get another one when his mood was more stable.

It was time he stopped living in the past and moved on.

“I sound like a self-help book,” he muttered.

But he was determined, so if the pep talk was working? He’d pep talk all the f*cking day.

One thing he hadn’t factored into his plans was the long, slim blonde who sat on his deck, her legs stretched out from under the hem of a short, skinny skirt, a pair of sparkly sandals wrapped around the most elegant ankles he’d ever seen on a woman. Even though her face was buried in a book, he knew who it was.

After all, Marin had the kind of legs he’d know from a mile away.

He started to itch—not in the I need to scratch way, but in the I need to touch way. His hands itched. His mouth buzzed. He felt like if he didn’t put his hands on her, he just might die.

She peeked at him over the top of her book.

“You going to come on up or stand there sweating to death?”

“I’m trying to decide when you became so comfortable at my place that you felt like you could just come and go.”

Lowering the book to her lap, she pursed her lips. “Hmm . . . well, that would be about, oh . . . twenty years ago.”