Page 8 of Protected By my Brothers Best Friend

Apparently, my dream girl has skipped way too many lessons on discrete passive aggressiveness. I try not to laugh. “Are you okay?”

“Of course! How was your walk? You tell her how much you hate country music?” I assume this comment is because Alaina is from Nashville. I’ve never seen this side of Iris. It’s kind of cute the way she’s pissing all over me to stake her claim.

Alaina turns toward me. “Me too! Everyone thinks that I love it because I live in Tennessee, but it’s so boring and sad. Why do people listen to music that makes them cry? I don’t get it. I’d rather listen to rock.”

“What do you do for a living, Alaina?”

“Oh, I work in a plastic surgeon’s office.” She flips her hair back, which I’m also sure is fake. “I get everything thirty percent off. I can get quotes for you guys, too. I mean, Iris, if you’re looking for liposuction or—”

I turn toward Alaina. My tone bites as I growl, “She doesn’t need anything.”

“I’m just saying,” Alaina continues, “it’s there if she wants it. Everyone can use a touch up and she has a little extra around the jaw line and around her waist.”

I don’t commonly fight women, but this one is out of line. Way out of fucking line and my blood is boiling.

I stand from the table and turn toward her. My tone harsh as I say, “That’s enough!”

Alaina grins as though she’s getting off on the drama. That’s the difference between women. Some of them cause drama for the sake of drama. So many people act like it’s just their emotions, but emotions and drama are two completely different things.

“She’s a big girl. She can speak for herself.” Alaina’s tone is curt as she says, “She clearly could use some help, and it’s okay. We’re all—”

“Enough.” I take Iris by the hand and lead her into the kitchen, ignoring all the eyes that follow us. She doesn’t need to hear anymore bullshit. I may have been checked out for the last few years, but I know Iris has always been sensitive about her looks, and Alaina was just being mean. If Alaina wants to turn her body to plastic, that’s on her. Suggesting it to others is outright ignorant.

The kitchen door swings closed behind us and Iris leans against the back counter, her eyes like waterfalls.

“She’s right. I do need plastic surgery.”

I study her for a moment, watching her soft hands as they brush tears away, all while her hair moves around her face. She’s gorgeous. Even in sadness, the woman glows. My hand rests on her cheek. “You do not need plastic surgery. You’re perfect.”

“I’m not her. That’s what men want. They want a perfect, little doll they can play with, fuck, and make them look good.”

Laughter piles up in my throat. “I’m sure some men want that, but I don’t. Honestly, not all men are like that.” My cock thumps against my zipper and I pull her against my chest. Drums beat at the inside of my stomach and my hand moves to the back of her neck. Before I think through the thought, I pull her against my lips and I’m tasting the sweet sauce from the pizza she ate and dragging in the scent of wildflowers from her hair.

Years of longing and yearning disappear in seconds, but something else develops. A need, an urge, a desperation.

I growl into her mouth and take her harder until our tongues touch and we’re twisting them together in passion.

Fucking hell!

My cock is hard, and my hands are wild, running over her skin, touching her… everywhere.

She sighs and tugs at my shirt, unbuttoning each button until my chest is exposed, and her fingers are buried in my hair.

Laughter sounds just a few feet away, the only thing separating us from shocking everyone we love—a thin wall.

My hand moves over her smooth leg and up her thigh, until my finger rubs against the thin cotton of her panties.

What am I doing? What are we doing? I actively feel it happening, but I’ve lost control. This is why I’ve kept my distance. I didn’t trust my body not to react.

I’ve thought about this so many times. I’ve dreamt about it even. Her in my bed, bent over, while I eat her little pussy and listen to her come over and over again. The sweet sounds her body would make. The way she’d feel when I stretched her open.

Fuck!

She moans and I palm over her wet core, kissing her neck, scraping my teeth across her shoulder. How do I walk away from this? How do I breathe her in and leave, knowing I’ll never have this to myself?

“I need you,” I groan lowly in her ear.

“I need you, too,” she sighs, her lips against my cheek. “I need you right now!”

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