Page 128 of Brazen Mistakes

Trips tries to run his fingers through my hair, immediately getting them caught in a tangle and cursing. “The car was driving funny, so he pulled over. The lug nuts were loose, and one was gone. But then there was a cop there, then a second, both with guns drawn.” He gives up on my hair and instead pulls me tight to him, and a shuddering breath escapes my lungs, the revelation like lightning on my already fried nerves.

“That had to have been terrifying.”

Trips says nothing, only brushing his palm along my back. The thought of RJ having to deal with that has shivers coursing through my body. “He wasn’t even doing anything wrong. And two cops drew guns on him?”

“He said someone called in a drunk driver matching the description of Jansen’s car.”

Bryce’s name immediately pops into my head. But not everything terrible in the world revolves around me and my crazy ex.

Broken girls get broken toys.

No. It can’t be him. It doesn’t make sense. RJ just had shitty luck.

A few tears stream, and I rub them into Trips’ shirt—it’s already disgusting. What’s a few more smears of mascara on black organic free-range cotton?

He shifts, glancing at his watch. A strangled sound falls from his lips, leaving me to reach for his wrist. It reads 12:01.

“Happy New Year, Crash,” he whispers.

His hand comes to cradle my cheek, and I look up at him, not sure if I want to kiss him or hide from him. “Pretty shitty start to the year.”

“In like a lion, out like a lamb.”

“That’s the merry month of March, Grumps. Not the new year.”

The warmth of his palm eases the last of my shivers. “Same difference.”

He searches me, and I gaze up at him, the thumps and yells of celebration above us barely registering.

But instead of kissing me, he just rests his forehead against mine. He keeps his hand on my face, and I let him. I don’t know if I could move from his touch if I tried.

This is better, safer. Right?

Once it’s clear I’ve calmed down, he pulls back, stripping out of his wet shirt, giving me a few breathless moments to stare at his ink-covered back before he pulls on a clean one.

“Why don’t you get changed? We’ll probably have to wait for a while, so wear something comfortable.”

Forcing my mouth shut and covertly checking to make sure I haven’t drooled, I force myself to take a step toward the door. “Got it.”

My hand is on the knob when his hand covers mine. His other arm wraps around me, dragging my back to his front. His teeth graze the skin under my ear, and I whimper.

Not safe.

But I want him. Fucking mixed signals and all.

Trying to twist in his arms, he tightens his hold, not letting me move. He releases the knob, snaking his free hand up the back of my dress, unhooking my bra before palming my breast. “Shit,” I whisper, and I swear he echoes me.

Unable to turn, I press my hips back, wanting to give something, anything, not just taking, but he shifts so I can’t grind against him. And as seeming punishment for seeking that contact, his other hand claps down between my legs with a muffled thump, the contact softened by my clothes. But the intention is there, violence under rein, and I tilt my hips forward, wanting more.

“Fuck,” he whispers, tweaking my nipple and then hissing as I moan.

Looking over my shoulder, I meet his hooded gaze, wanting his lips. Wanting so much more, but this too. All of it. Everything. From him.

His nostrils flare, his lips pressing into a tight line.

Then, as quickly as it started, it’s done. He’s across the room in an instant.

The ground gets my attention as I fix my bra, giving us both a moment to recover. To get back to pretending there’s nothing between us.

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