Page 27 of Don’t Fall For Your Ex-Boyfriend's Brother

Chapter 13

Millie

Yep. This is about to happen. Right here in my quaint little bookshop. Where if anyone walked by and looked in they would see exactly what is happening right now.

Do I care? Nope. Not one bit.

Should I care? Probably.

Wait.

I should definitely care.

“Wait,” I gasp, my voice breathless, just before Tripp's mouth makes contact with the most intimate part of me.

He freezes, his green eyes snapping up to meet mine, concern flickering in their depths. “What?” he asks, his tone softening as he searches my face. “Are you okay?”

I nod, though my heart is pounding, and glance nervously toward the window. The curtains are drawn back, and the faint glow from the streetlights outside filters in, casting shadows on the walls. “Anyone can see us,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the thudding of my pulse in my ears.

Tripp’s gaze follows mine to the window, then he looks back at me, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Let them see,” he says, his voice low and husky, filled with a daring edge as he lowers his head back toward my center. “Let the whole world see.”

My fingers tangle in his hair, halting his movement, feeling the soft strands slip between my fingers. “I live right upstairs,” I say, my voice a bit shaky as I plead. “We can go up there, please.”

He pauses, his expression shifting as he looks up at me. Then, he gives me the most gorgeous, panty-melting smile I’ve ever seen, one that makes my knees weak and my breath catch. He picks up my dress, handing it to me and I quickly slip it on as I pull my panties up. “Okay, little bunny. Hold on,” he murmurs, and in one swift, effortless motion, he lifts me into his arms as if I weigh nothing at all. “Lead the way.”

A laugh bubbles up from my chest as he carries me like a groom would carry a bride, cradled securely in his arms. The room spins slightly from the sudden movement, but I’m too giddy to care. I make sure the front entrance is locked, double-checking the door with a quick glance, then point him toward the back door that leads to the small, narrow stairwell.

Tripp pushes the door open with his shoulder, the hinges creaking as he steps into the darkened stairwell. The air is cooler here, the scent of old wood and paint surrounding us as he carries me up the flight of stairs to my apartment. Each step echoes softly in the confined space, heightening the anticipation that thrums between us.

At the top, he sets me down gently, only so I can fish out my key from the pocket of my dress, my hands trembling slightly with excitement. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers, his voice a tender caress that makes my heart skip a beat as I fumble with the lock.

His words send a rush of warmth to my cheeks, my heart rate skyrocketing. No one has ever looked at me the way he does, like he’s absolutely starved for me, and the intensity of his need is both exhilarating and overwhelming. Finally, the lock clicks open, and I push the door wide, feeling like I’m about to step into a new world with him, one where nothing exists but us.

I lead him into my cozy apartment, the familiar scent of vanilla and old books immediately wrapping around us like a warm embrace. Tripp stalls just inside the doorway, his eyes widening as he takes in the space.

“Wow,” he whispers, his voice full of awe. “This is kind of a great place.”

He slowly turns in a complete circle, absorbing every detail. The living room is a curated chaos of mismatched furniture that somehow fits perfectly together—an overstuffed armchair with a patchwork quilt draped over the back, a vintage velvet sofa in a deep emerald green, and a coffee table made from an old trunk, its surface cluttered with stacks of books, a half-burned candle, and a teacup that’s probably still warm from earlier.

The walls are lined with bookshelves that overflow with well-loved volumes, their spines worn and faded. Interspersed among the books are small trinkets and curiosities—an old typewriter, a collection of pressed flowers in delicate frames, and a few whimsical sculptures that add to the room’s eclectic charm.

Soft, golden light spills from a series of mismatched lamps, casting a warm glow that contrasts with the cool night outside. The windows are framed by heavy curtains in rich, jewel-toned fabrics, currently drawn closed to keep out the world beyond.

Tripp’s gaze lingers on a small nook by the window, where a cozy reading chair is tucked away, surrounded by more books and a potted plant that reaches for the light filtering through the curtains.

“This place is so you,” he says, finally turning back to me, his smile softening as he takes in the cozy, lived-in feel of the room.

“Thanks,” I say, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind my ear.

“Millie, I…” Tripp starts, but then suddenly stops. He stares at me for a full five-seconds before crossing the hardwood floors covered by Bohemian rugs and stopping when he’s right in front of me. “I need to taste you. I need to feel you coming all over my tongue. I need it more than I need my next breath.”

Hearing him talk to me like the way the hero in his book speaks to the heroine has me nearly buckling at the knees. I nod. “Please, Tripp,” I whisper.

He hauls me over his shoulder, caveman style, and I let out a laugh. “Bedroom?”

“In the back. That way,” I say, pointing so he can see which direction I’m pointing to.

He rushes through my apartment, down the hallway, to the last door on the left. Once inside he tosses me gently onto the bed. “I’m not going to be very gentle with you tonight,” he says, stalking me like I’m his prey.

---