Page 1 of Hard to Take

1

BROOKE

Sweat. Heat. Longing.

Miles’s hands span my waist. His rough palm across my stomach heats my skin, sparking a thrum of desire that streaks lower as he bends his head between my thighs.

Then all I feel is his tongue.

This man’s fucking tongue teases me, sending jolts of electricity that make me arch against him as my hands fist in the sheets.

“How do I know it’s not fake?”

The woman’s voice over the phone snaps me out of my fantasy. I narrowly avoid tripping on a crack in the curb, my suede knee-high Stuart Weitzman boots saving me from tossing the two coffees stacked and balanced in a gloved hand.

“It’s genuine.” I catch my breath from the near miss. “Last season’s hottest seller. You carry this bag and everyone will notice.”

The woman buying my designer purse considers. “Do you have more pictures of the interior?”

I glance up at a street sign. I’m half a dozen blocks from my destination, so I pull up at a corner and click into my photos.

Vail, the Kappa retreat and my failed attempt to land a brand deal with my sorority sister’s company feel a hundred years rather than one week in the past.

But rent is due and I had to take the gut-wrenching step of starting to sell off my wardrobe.

“Here you go.” I hit Send on an image of the inside of the bag.

My gaze is pulled to the top of my cracked phone screen and one of the pictures Miles and I took on that rooftop when we were pretending to be dating.

He’s behind me, his arms around me, his cheek pressed to mine. It’s not even our closeness but the expression on his face that hits me. His wide grin and the way he holds me tight say I’m everything he wants and he’s never letting me go.

The cold air sticks in my throat.

“Would you take five hundred? It’s not really my color but I could dye it.”

Her request is devastating. At least we’re not on a video call so she can’t see me cringe. “Seven hundred. And if you’re set on dying it, for the love of Gucci, don’t do it yourself. I’ll give you the name of a guy who does customizations.”

We make plans for her to pick it up and I click off moments before I brush through the doors of my friend’s studio, coffees balanced in one hand.

“Hi, beautiful!” Nova rises to greet me. “I’m covered in paint,” she warns.

“Paint is temporary. Friendship is forever.” I hug her before nodding toward her work-in-progress, an abstract swirl of colors.“What’s this?”

“Trying something new.” She accepts the coffee with a grateful hum.

My friend’s career is still on the rise, but she’s best known for more literal images, including the massive installation at the Kodiaks’ arena featuring the starters from last year’s winning team. This is softer and more organic.

“I like it. It’s a whole new Nova.”

She laughs. “Thanks. But let’s not pretend that my latest painting is the most important thing we need to discuss.” Her eyes brighten.“I haven’t seen you all week and you owe me major details. What happened at the retreat?!”

My heart kicks against my ribs as memories rise up without permission.

The way he charmed every Kappa and her date and defended me against my enemies.

The feel of his mouth on mine in the coat closet.

The way he touched me in the bed we were never supposed to share.

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