Page 21 of Pucking Revenge

With a laugh, I snag the cup from him and bring it to my lips, my eyes never leaving his as I do. When the flavor hits my tongue, there’s no holding back the moan that escapes me. “Pumpkin spice. It’s like you know me or something.”

Brooks chuckles and dips his chin. “Sure do. And I learned early on that pumpkin spice is the key to your heart.”

I point to myself and lift my brows in a who me? kind of gesture.

His response is a smirk and a pointed look at my bed. It’s covered in a burnt-orange quilt, and front and center is a pillow that says Pumpkin spice is my spirit animal. It is fall, after all, so it’s fitting. I love decorating and only just switched out my seasonal decor. It makes my little apartment feel homey, and for a girl who grew up without that kind of warmth in her life, these little things hold a lot of meaning.

With another sip of coffee, I spin around so I can finish getting ready. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I let out a frustrated breath. It’s confirmed. My hair is a wreck. “Sorry, I was on the phone with Lennox, and I lost track of time. Let me just throw my hair up, then I’ll be ready to go. We still have time, right?” I snatch my phone from the other side of the bed and tap the screen to check.

Brooks shrugs and sits on the edge of my mattress. He’s so big he makes my queen-size bed look minuscule. “No rush. The party doesn’t start until seven.”

I snap my head up and frown at him. “Then why did you tell me to be ready before six?”

The smile that breaks out across Brooks’s face is devious, like he’s about to zing me. “Because you’re always running late.”

“Rude,” I quip, though he’s not wrong. “I just like making an entrance.”I spin back to the mirror and scan the surface of my dresser for a hair tie.

Brooks’s gaze warms my back so thoroughly I don’t have to look to know he’s watching me. “You sure do,”he rasps.

I give him a shy smile in the mirror. “You trying to tell me something, big guy?”

“Big guy. Hmm, I like that a hell of a lot more than Brookie.”

Laughing, I pull my hair into a loose ponytail and arrange a few curls so they frame my face, then I set it with spray. “There, how does that look?” I ask, spinning toward him.

He shrugs. “I think my hair looks better, but that’ll do.”

I roll my eyes, though he’s not wrong. He’s got his hair back in that damn bun again. The long hair makes him look just a little less perfect. Like it’s his one fuck-you to the world. Only Brooks doesn’t think like me, so he probably doesn’t keep his hair long to spite anyone. He’s Brooks. Good-Boy Brooks. Saint Brooks. Always polite and respectful. Holding doors and making room for others. He probably says thank you when he comes.

The second that thought pops into my head, my mind conjures an image of Brooks with one hand on his monster cock, grunting out a thank-you as he lets loose, spurting everywhere.

I giggle, and my face warms. Did I really just picture Brooks coming? Holy hell, Sara.

“What are you laughing at now?”

I cup my mouth to quell the glee escaping me. “Sorry.” I shake my head, but I can’t catch my breath.

“Sar.”

“Fine.” I pull in a deep breath and compose myself. “I was just…well, you’re always so polite. I was thinking that you probably say thank you when you come.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move. His green eyes rove over me, but his lip doesn’t even tick up. There’s nary a smile nor a grunt. No, Brooks is staring at me like I have seventy-five heads.

“Well, that joke went over like an old man’s toot.”

He continues to stare at me without giving away a hint of what he’s thinking.

“Okay, let’s go.” I snag my purse from my dresser, flip the light switch, and head out my bedroom door with my coffee cup in hand. In the living room, I set my coffee on an end table and pick up the cream faux-fur shawl Lennox also had delivered.

Brooks appears at my back, startling me, and lifts my ponytail. With a gentleness that seems impossible for a man his size, he smooths my hair out over it, then he leans in close. His lips are a whisper against my skin, causing a full-body shiver to rock me.

Then with the slightest brush against the shell of my ear, his voice all gravel, he murmurs, “If you ever saw me come, the only person who would be saying thank you is you.”

A half hour later, I’m still tongue-tied and a little shocked. My best friend has a dirty mouth, and I never knew it. Fortunately, I’m easily distracted, and the sights and sounds that accompany a seventieth birthday party for one of the wealthiest people in Boston is quite the distraction.

Brooks didn’t share any details about the party other than to tell me that I’d want to dress up. Preston Langfield is one of the wealthiest men in the world, so that was a given.

With what I know about the man and his status, I was prepared for a party to end all parties, so I’m ill-prepared when I step inside a tiny Italian restaurant and find only one long table set for about twenty people.

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