Filed To Story: Craving The Wrong Brother Book PDF Free by Elysian Sparrow
I kiss him back just as hard. Tasting the faint trace of whiskey on his lips, feeling every nerve in my body respond to his. There’s nothing soft about this moment. It’s claiming. It’s raw.
When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against mine. His breath
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“I’ve been meaning to do that since I saw you in istlobby warm on my lips.
I’m still breathless and unsurprisingly horny. How does one become so needy all the time? I had him today. Literally hours ago.
And I still want more. Share A Bed
“Take me to your house,” I whisper, hands resting on his chest. “I want to see where you hide at night”
He smiles at that a quiet, sideways curl of his mouth that makes my stomach dip-then guides me into the car like it’s instinct. Like we’ve done this a thousand times. His hand stays warm against the small of my back as i lower myself into the seat. He doesn’t speak, just shuts the door gently, then rounds the hood and gets in on the driver’s side.
The car roars to life. We pull away from the hospital with nothing but the sound of the engine keeping us company. It feels weirdly intimate-like the world has shrunk to this car, this air between us. I settle into the seat and glance at the glowing clock on the dashboard,
Fifteen minutes pass.
Then twenty.
I turn toward him. “So this place of yours that’s supposedly ten minutes away…”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “Time is subjective.”
“Is that so?”
His lips twitch like he wants to laugh but is trying not to give me the satisfaction.
I shake my head and let out a breath through my nose, smiling despite myself. The things this man does are a constant mystery to me. What did he think would happen if he didn’t lure me to his house? That I’d make a pit stop, wait for him to leave, and sneak back to Finn? Is it insecurity or distrust? If it is distrust, is it toward me or Finn? I have a lot of questions! need answers to, and I’m going to get them one at a time. I’m patient.
The drive stretches past Bronx lights, then into Riverdale. By the time he finally turns onto a quiet, tree-lined residential street, I’ve stopped counting the minutes.
The house he pulls up to doesn’t scream bachelor pad or criminal enterprise. It’s modern. Soft black siding, large glass windows with warm amber lights glowing behind them. A low privacy hedge runs along the perimeter, and the lawn looks like it’s been trimmed with actual scissors.
He parks in a private drive, hits a remote, and the garage door lifts. As soon as the car slips inside, the door rolls shut behind us.
Once he shuts off the engine, he opens his door and comes around to mine. Pulls it open like we’re on some kind of old- school date. And when I step out, his hand finds mine.
I let him lead me.
Inside, the air is warm and clean and smells faintly of cedar and something spicier-like his cologne but softer. We walk into a wide, open space that looks like something out of a magazine. Minimalist but not cold. Dark wood floors. Cream walls. Tastefully placed art. The living room bleeds into a sleek kitchen with black marble countertops and matte gold hardware. A low fire glows in the gas fireplace like it’s been waiting for someone to admire it.
“You really have a bad concept of timing,” I say as he closes the door behind us.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Did we exceed ten minutes?”
I side-eye him. He smiles.
Then I notice him slipping off his shoes by the door.
“Am I supposed to take mine off too?”
He looks down at my feet. “Why would you want to bring your muddy shoes into the house?”
“Didn’t know you were a germaphobe.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “Haha. Funny. Take your shoes off, Bunny.”
I kick off the flats I’d thrown on in my rush to the hospital, placing them beside his. Before I can step away, he bends and adjusts mine until they’re lined up perfectly.
Huh.
Weird.
Add that to the long, ever-growing list of Things I Don’t Understand About Knox Hartley.
He takes my hand again and starts leading me up the stairs. The hallway is dim but clean, and I can’t help glancing in’ rooms we pass. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. A stash of rifles? An underground drug ring? A sign that I’ve gon in too deep?
Nothing, of course. Just closed doors and a house that looks like it was staged by someone way too obsessed with symmetry.
“Here we are,” he says, opening a door to what I assume is the master bedroom.
It’s massive. King bed, soft gray comforter, floor-to-ceiling windows. Warm lighting and no clutter. It looks like no one lives Share A Bed here, like everything is always this neat.
“I see you like massive beds,” I say.
He smirks. “Sometimes I roll.”
“Fair warning.” I say, stepping inside. “If you push me off the bed, you’re coming down with me.”
I strip off my hoodie and let it drop to the floor.
His gaze drops too, falling on my bare chest.
His eyes change the way they always do when I undress-like he’s trying to memorize every curve before he even touches me. I tug down my sweatpants slowly, watching the tension in his jaw build with every inch of skin I reveal.
When I’m completely naked, I don’t move.
I just wait.
He comes forward without a word, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me flush to his chest. Then he leans down and kisses my forehead.
“You don’t have to worry about me pushing you off the bed,” he murmurs.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m staying in the guest room.”
I stiffen.
I pull back. “Come again?”
His face is unreadable now. Just calm. Like this is normal.
“I don’t share a bed with anyone, Sloane.”
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“You can’t possibly be serious,” I say. “You want to leave me on this bed all alone?”
I expect him to laugh in that dark way of his, saying gotcha.
But I see it in his eyes.
He actually means it.
There’s no teasing glint, no trace of smugness or mischief. Just this unreadable flatness-like he’s trying to keep something buried under control.
I grip his hand. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Sloane, listen-“
“No, you listen. I’ve obeyed you all evening while you bossed me around like some war general. Now it’s my turn.” I yank his hand, firmer this time. “Get on the fucking bed, Knox.”
That gets me a smile from him.
“Feisty,” he says. “That was stimulating. Do it again.”
“I’m not playing.” I keep my hand locked around his, not budging. “Don’t turn this into a joke.”
His smile lingers, but something changes behind it-something quieter, more fragile. Not weak, no. Knox doesn’t do weak. But… afraid?
Is that what this is? Fear?
I step toward him and wrap my arms around his waist, resting my head against his chest.