Filed To Story: Craving The Wrong Brother Book PDF Free by Elysian Sparrow
“You should change your locks,” he says.
I freeze, mascara wand hovering mid-air.
“Why would I want to change my locks?”
He steps into the doorway, folding his arms. His reflection is all muscle and shadows in the glass.
“They’re easy to pick.”
I raise a brow. “And you know that how? Have you picked locks before?”
His lips twitch. “As a matter of fact, I have.”
I turn around, narrowing my eyes. “I am very interested in this story.”
“Well, you’re not getting it.”
“Come on. You never tell me anything about yourself. Were you a little thief?”
He chuckles softly, something dark and warm ur Successfully unlocked!bout it soon. I promise.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to the mirror, fixing my hat something that doesn’t scream I just got thoroughly railed in the middle of the workday.
I watch him behind me, slipping his shirt on, smoothing the black fabric over the hard lines of his body. He looks dangerous like this and yet domesticated in my space somehow. Military Buge
Who would’ve thought I’d lure a man into my apartment in the middle of the day for sex? But the truth is-that’s not entirely why I brought him here.
His mouth is filthy, he could talk my panties into being wet and dropping down my legs in a heartbeat, but when it comes to himself, he’s weirdly tight-lipped. And some part of me-maybe the stupid part-hoped that by bringing him into my space, he’d bring me into his. That he’d sit on my couch, stare at my ceiling, and maybe say something about his past and present life. What keeps him awake at night.
That’s what Google said, anyway. ‘Invite him into your space so he learns to trust you? Ugh. We’re just a few days into this relationship, and I’m one article away from becoming a psychotic girlfriend.
I smooth the last piece of hair back into place and glance at him in the mirror again.
He’s completely dressed now.
With the way he’s looking around my bedroom right now, searching for God knows what, maybe he is already feeling at home and would start spilling his secrets soon. One can only hope.
Don’t push, I tell myself.
“Let’s go,” I say, turning around and trying to walk past him.
He catches my wrist.
Pulls me in.
And kisses me-deep, intense, slow enough to steal time from the world. When he finally lets me go, my knees are wobbly.
“Don’t start anything,” I murmur, eyes still closed.
“I just wanted to leave my scent on you,” he says. “You washed it off.”
That makes my eyes open.
“You’re weird.”
He grins.
I shake myself out of his grip and head for the door. He slaps my ass as he follows behind me.
“Seriously?”
His only answer is a smirk.
Outside, we head for his car-a Porsche 911 that growls so loud it draws stares from the old couple on the second-floor balcony. I glance up at them, then quickly down again.
I’ve never liked attention.
Knox, it seems, thrives on it. I mean, both cars I’ve seen him drive practically scream Look at me.
He pulls away from the curb with one hand draped over the wheel, and we glide through the city. The windows are down just enough to let the air slip in. I lean back against the seat, watching the buildings blur past. Then, just as we’re about a block away from my office, I spot a familiar strip mall up ahead with a very visible pharmacy.
I tap the window. “Can you stop here?”
“Why?” he asks.
“I need to get something from the drugstore.”
“Are you unwell?”
“If not wanting crotch goblins classifies as an illness, then yes.”
He parks with a chuckle. “They’d be cute, though.”
“Don’t even go there.”
I reach for the door, but he catches my wrist.
“Let me get it,” he says. “Don’t want you spending your little fortune on morning-after pills.”
I scowl, but he just grins wider-completely unfazed-and taps the tip of my nose with his index finger. Then, without a word, he steps out of the car.
And then I’m alone.
In his car-the only personal space of his I’ve ever been in without him there.
One voice in my head tells me not to do it.
Don’t.
But the other voice-the nosy, curious one-wins.
I lean over the console, fingers hovering above the glove box.
Military Bugs
Locked.
That makes it worse because now I’m more curious.
I start checking for keys. There’s a bunch in the center console. I try one. Two. Third time’s the charm.
It clicks open.
Papers. Receipts. A lighter. A stray pair of sunglasses.
And then I see it.
A gun.
Black. Sleek. Resting like it’s been waiting to be found.
I stare at it, breath caught in my throat.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough that when I finally hear footsteps approaching, panic flares in my chest. I shove everything back, lock the glove box, and don’t have time to return the keys to where I found them. I just clench them in my palm.
Knox opens the door, a pharmacy bag in hand.
“I wasn’t sure how much of it you wanted,” he says casually, sliding into the driver’s seat. “So I bought ten.”
I bite my lip, suddenly aware of how weird I must look, just sitting there and staring at him like he’s got a target drawn across his forehead.
“What is it?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Nothing,” I say, too quickly. Too high-pitched. My voice skips over itself like a stone tossed wrong on water.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me. Then-slowly-his eyes drop to my closed fist.