Page 37 of The Wrong Brother

But I can’t keep my eyes off her for long. The way her body moves to the rhythm, the curve of her smile, the sheer magnetism she exudes…it’s intoxicating. And maddening.

When another man gets too close, placing a hand on her waist, I can’t take it anymore. I down the rest of my drink and head for the bathroom, needing a moment to compose myself.

I shove the door open and head straight to the sink, gripping the edge so hard my knuckles ache. My reflection stares back at me…tense, flushed, and unrecognizable. The music outside is muffled but still pounding, each thump a reminder of her, of how she moves to it, how she lets them watch her like she’s meant for all of them. She isn’t. She isn’t meant for me either, but my dick doesn’t seem to think so.

My hands clench and unclench, and before I can stop myself, one drifts lower, palming the strain in my pants. My cock is thick, heavy, pulsing against my palm. The heat radiating from it feels unbearable, the veins pronounced and flushed, throbbing with every maddening thought of her. I squeeze, and the ache sharpens, driving me to the edge of control. My jaw tightens as I curse under my breath.

I squeeze hard, a sharp hiss escaping my lips, but it only stokes the fire, the need crawling through me like a fever. The alcohol isn’t helping…it’s making everything worse. Or maybe it’s just her.

I slam into one of the stalls, locking it behind me. My hands tremble as I yank at my zipper, freeing myself from the unbearable constraint. The cool air hits me, and I groan low, wrapping my hand around my length. It’s rock hard, the head swollen and already leaking, greedy for something more than my touch. I stroke it roughly, the slickness of precum easing the movement, but it’s not enough. The friction feels torturous, pushing me further into desperation.

I press my forehead against the stall wall, stroking harder, faster, imagining her…the way her dress clings to her, the sway of her hips, the teasing glance she threw over her shoulder earlier, like she knew exactly what she was doing to me. The thought of her lips, her skin, the way she moves, bold and intoxicating, has me groaning louder, my breath hitching.

Every pump is a struggle between release and restraint, the pressure building like it’s going to rip me apart. My grip tightens, my strokes become brutal, and finally, with a guttural growl, I shatter. My body jerks violently as I come, hot and thick, spilling over my hand. My head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, and all I can see is her…her smile, her laugh, her body moving to the rhythm, claiming every corner of my mind.

The relief washes over me in waves, leaving me trembling, spent, and still wanting. She’s inescapable, her presence a torment I can’t seem to escape. I clean myself up quickly, my breaths still uneven. But even now, all I can think about is going back out there and claiming her…even though I know that I have absolutely no right to.

This is torture. She’s torture.

Back on the floor, my eyes lock onto her immediately, drawn by the subtle tension in her posture. She’s surrounded by two men now, their stances too close, their smiles too persistent. She’s still smiling, but it’s polite…forced. The way she shifts her weight, inching back ever so slightly, tells me everything I need to know. She’s uncomfortable, trying to maneuver away without making a scene.

For a moment, I hesitate, forcing myself to assess the scene instead of barreling in. But when one of the men leans in closer, his hand brushing her arm as he murmurs something into her ear, I can’t hold back any longer.

I push through the crowd, my stride deliberate, each step fueled by an anger I can’t quite contain.

The music pulses around me, the bass thudding in time with my heartbeat. People part instinctively as I move, catching the sharpness in my expression.

By the time I reach her, she’s taken another step back, her discomfort more apparent now as one of the men blocks her retreat. Without a word, I step between them, my hand closing firmly around her arm. The warmth of her skin against my palm is grounding, but my focus stays on the men.

“She’s with me,” I say, my voice low and even, carrying enough weight to make my intentions clear. There’s no room for argument in my tone…just cold, unwavering certainty.

The men exchange glances, hesitation flickering in their eyes. One of them opens his mouth as if to protest, but I step closer, my frame looming over theirs, and the unspoken threat in my stance makes him falter. He mutters something under his breath…a weak attempt to save face…and then steps back, pulling his friend with him.

I don’t move until they’ve retreated into the crowd, my gaze following them until I’m sure they won’t be back. Only then doI look at her, my grip on her arm loosening but not letting go entirely.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice quieter now, but no less steady.

"Yeah," she says, her voice soft. I don’t hear her much, though I make out the word from the movement of her lips. For my own sanity, I don’t stay too long. But then she reaches up on her tiptoes for some reason needing to let me hear. Very bad idea.

Then her warm breath seeps into my ear, and my eyes shut for a moment.

I suddenly know that I cannot bear to leave her here. She needs to break away from these leeches around her. And so do I.

I don’t let go of her arm, guiding her off the dance floor. “Let’s get another drink,” I suggest, needing something to ground me.

At the bar, I glance at her and signal the bartender, reordering something new light for her…cranberry juice. No alcohol this time; she’s had enough for one night. When the drink arrives, she sips it absentmindedly, her hazel eyes scanning the crowd. It’s not until she sets the glass down that she frowns, realizing the vast difference.

“There’s no alcohol” she says, looking at me with mild disbelief.

“No,” I reply calmly, sipping my own whiskey. “You’ve had enough.”

Her lips purse in a small pout, and she waves the bartender back over, determined to rectify the situation. “Vodka. Double. Add it to this.”

I turn to her sharply, arching a brow, but I say nothing. The bartender hesitates, glancing at me for approval. I sigh and nod, letting her have her way. She watches as the vodka is poured into her cranberry juice, and then, with a defiant lift of her chin, she takes a long, deliberate sip.

I lean back, sipping my drink as I watch her, my gaze fixed on the way her lips curve against the glass. She finishes the concoction quickly, setting the glass down with a satisfied exhale.

“There,” she says, her tone slightly smug. “Much better.”

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