Take (Need #2)(7)

No one, that’s who. So why, damn it? Why won’t he leave me alone?

“I hate you!”

“And I f*cking love you.”

I slam my eyes closed and shake my head, as if doing so will actually dispel the memory of those words. I probably look like a crazy person standing here, in the middle of Victoria’s Secret, holding one of their huge black shopping bags, eyes shut and head shaking like I’m trying to invoke Jesus himself.

Funny thing is, I am a crazy person. Absolutely one step away from a total breakdown. That’s how I feel after hearing those words from him.

My heart twists viciously inside my chest.

I ignore it.

Opening my eyes, I focus on the lacy cream and black bra in front of me.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Eyes glued on the lingerie before me, I bring it out and unlock the screen. I read the text before I realize who it’s from.

If you’re going to buy that, I must BEG you to let me see you in it.

Son of a . . .

I whirl around right as Brayden comes to a stop in front of me.

He slips his hands into his pockets and gives me this wide, blissed-out smile. He stands there in his dark, low-slung jeans and dark blue T-shirt, the material stretched tight across his chest and shoulders.

On his neck, there’s this dark purple bruise.

A clear imprint of teeth.

He’s not even trying to hide the mark I left on him.

I hate him. “Why the hell are you smiling?”

There’s only one iced coffee in my system. Maybe two hours of sleep.

Austin tried to kiss me last night.

What did I do in response?

I turned my head and asked him to leave. After he spent almost half an hour hugging me, trying to cheer me up because this * over here ruined my birthday.

So yeah, I’m cranky.

And Brayden’s still smiling at me like the mere sight of me makes him ecstatic.

He doesn’t answer my question.

I raise my eyebrows and shake my head in a “well?” gesture.

Brayden steps up to me. He tucks my hair behind my ear and leans down to kiss my cheek. “Hey, baby.”

Gah!

My toes curl inside my flats.

Fucking traitors.

I reach behind me for the bra I’d been staring at, fling it in his face, and walk away. Because I’m the queen of maturity today.

My heart races the whole time.

I don’t expect a bra to the face to deter him, so when he catches up to me, all I do is roll my eyes and make a sharp left.

Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll eventually go off and find another girl to flirt with.

Somewhere beyond my bitterness and cynicism, I know he’s not going to do that, and the thought alone is enough to give me pause.

He catches up to me and throws the bra into my shopping bag.

I scowl at him. “How do you even know if it’ll fit me, dumbass?”

His eyes drop to my chest. Their emerald shade darkens and flash with a bodily hunger.

Right on cue, my nipples perk up.

Running his thumb along his bottom lip, he murmurs hotly, “Kira, I know those tits.”

“You’ve barely seen or touched them,” I snap. Oh God, why did I say that?

His eyes darken even more. “Trust me, baby. The sight and feel of them is etched into my mind.”

My nipples tighten to the smallest points possible, straining toward him. I can almost hear the little f*ckers begging for him, him, him!

I take a step back, honest-to-God frightened and too weak to sift through the lust and pain I feel.

“Kira, oh my God look at the size of this thong, girl . . . never mind. Look at the size of all that man meat. Hello, there.”

Marilyn.

“Yo, Lyn! Let me see that—Jesus-f*cking-Christ.” Insert low melodramatic gasp that isn’t really that low to begin with. “It’s Brayden Hunt.”

Ashley.

“Well, hello, big, sexy, and yummy. Kira, introduce us to your hot-as-hell stepbrother,” Jenna says.

I want to kill them all. My only friends. Just because they’re drooling over Brayden.

“Not now,” I tell them, struggling to hide how annoyed I am. Not stopping to analyze the impulse, I walk up to Brayden and tug on his sleeve to get him away from them.

He doesn’t budge.

“Besides—” I tug some more “—he’d try to flirt with all three of you at once. Total sleaze like that.”

“We wouldn’t mind,” they answer as one.

The vein in my temple almost pops.

Are they f*cking serious right now?

Of course they are. It seems that almost every living, breathing female wants a taste of Brayden Hunt.

I renew my efforts to pull him away from my friends before they get any more ideas.

“Sorry, ladies,” Brayden says, finally walking backward as I continue to pull on his sleeve. “I’m a one-woman man now, and that’s not going to ever change.”

What he just said doesn’t register until we’re by the dressing rooms.

I let him go as if burned.

My heartbeat’s in my throat, choking me . . .

His smile is so wide now—the epitome of cockiness—and I just want to smack him across the face with my shopping bag. “What?”

Back into his pockets his hands go, and . . . is he rocking back and forth on his feet like an excited kid?