Home > Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(2)

Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(2)
Author: Pippa Grant

But my fucking heart still hurts.

“Misery loves company more than it cares what the company is,” I tell Wyatt.

He looks at me while he shoves the spoon back in the carton, then waves a hand in a circle, gesturing to me. “This is you being miserable?”

“I know, I make it look good.”

“I thought you looked like this all the time.”

“Asshole.”

He smirks, but it’s a dark smirk. Like he wanted me to call him an asshole, but it didn’t make him feel as good as he hoped it would. “What the hell do you have to be miserable about?”

“I broke a nail.”

He snags my hand and lifts it, turning it to inspect my perfectly trimmed, newly manicured nails, and tremors skittle out from the point where his thumb rests inside my palm.

It’s like he’s turning me on.

Patrick hasn’t turned me on in months. That’s what’s supposed to happen, right? You settle down with one person and get yourself into a rut and the sex becomes routine instead of exciting. It’s normal, right?

Or you were an idiot who should’ve dumped him a year ago, my subconscious helpfully offers.

I snatch my hand back, but I’m still ridiculously aware of Wyatt beside me.

The hitch in his breath.

The subtle scent of cinnamon and beer wafting off him.

The way his gaze is still trained on me. “So you got dumped too,” he muses.

“Shut. Up.”

That would’ve been more effective if I’d been able to say it without dribbling peppermint crunch ice cream down my chin and my voice wobbling.

He reaches out and wipes the drip off my chin, and I realize he’s leaning into my space.

My heart’s pounding. My breasts are getting full and heavy. My mouth is going dry, even with ice cream still lingering on my tongue, and I almost choke when I swallow.

“Merry fucking Christmas to us,” he says. His nose is inches from mine, and his lids are lowering over darkened eyes.

“There’s no fucking going on,” I point out, my breath getting shallower as I glance down his just-barely-off-center nose to his stupidly perfect lips.

“There’s not, is there?” he muses while his gaze darts to my lips too. “There’s only getting fucked over.”

Every time he says fuck, I get a shot of heat between my legs.

“You’re in my bubble,” I whisper.

“Maybe I’m trying to annoy you to make myself feel better.”

“Maybe if you wanted to annoy me, you should take your clothes off.”

Holy shit, I just said that.

He holds my gaze for half a second, and then his shirt goes flying. He settles back against the couch, still leaning into my space, but now with acres and acres of hard chest and sculpted stomach and cut hips and that perfect trail of hair arrowing down to disappear under his sweatpants.

“Now, what are you going to do to annoy me?” he asks.

I should dump this carton of ice cream on his head.

But I want to do something else.

Something wrong.

But right? Maybe?

Fuck it.

Thinking’s what got me in trouble with Patrick. I thought he was what I wanted. I thought I loved him because I thought I should. I thought he’d be a good partner. I thought we wanted the same things in life.

I thought Wyatt was annoying.

But my body isn’t thinking.

My body just wants.

I slap the ice cream onto the wobbly end table that my brother broke years ago, and then I peel off my sweatshirt and the stained college T-shirt beneath it.

“Annoyed yet?” I purr.

Oh, fuck, I’m purring.

His gaze dips to my chest, and his sweatpants tent.

Holy hell.

Wyatt Morgan is packing, and it’s making my clit tingle.

That hasn’t happened just by looking at a man in months.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice thick and low. “Yeah, I’m fucking annoyed.”

I rise and shimmy out of my leggings, because this is a bad idea, but every good idea I’ve ever had hasn’t gotten me what I wanted in life, has it?

“Christ, Ellie,” he rasps out.

“You only wish you looked this good,” I tell him, but I can’t keep my voice steady either.

I’d blame the ice cream for the heady tingling in my fingers and toes, but my blood’s not spiked with anything more than sugar.

I let Wyatt take his time looking at me, because I know I look good. I hit the gym for weights four mornings a week. I run marathons. I still have curves. I don’t run without a heavy-duty sports bra and my ass could squash a supermodel, but I won’t apologize for being built like a woman.

I am a woman. A strong, powerful, unique woman who fucking deserves exactly what I’m seeing in the raw desire in Wyatt’s gray eyes.

If he’s never noticed my body before, he’s noticing now.

“You need to put your clothes back on,” he says, but his eyes aren’t in agreement with his words.

His eyes are offering to use my body to make my brain forget what my heart’s suffering.

“Or what?” I ask.

He visibly swallows, but he doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t look away either.

I slip one bra strap down my shoulder, letting it hang in the crook of my elbow, not off, but not on either.

“Ellie,” he warns, his hand going to his pants over his cock, like he can’t decide if he wants to press it down to stop it, or if he wants to jerk himself off while he watches me strip.

“You’re hurting,” I say, slipping my other bra strap halfway down my arm too. I’m still covered by my simple satin demicups, but I reach behind me like I’m going to unhook the band, and we both know he’ll be getting an eyeful of my breasts if I do it. “I’m hurting. I don’t want to hurt. Do you?”

“No,” he rasps out.

“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.

   
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