Page 40 of The Wrong Brother

The car slows as we pull up to the hotel, and my stomach twists with something I can’t name. Relief, maybe, or disappointment. He opens the door and steps out without a word, waiting for me to follow. I feel a pang of sadness as I slide out of the car. He’s still not talking to me. The tension between us is unbearable, and I hate it.

“Say something,” I whisper, my voice barely audible as we step into the elevator.

He glances at me, his expression still unreadable. “About what?”

“Anything,” I say, my voice breaking slightly. “I’m sorry.”

His brow furrows. “What are you apologizing for?”

“If you’re not mad,” I say softly, my chest tightening, “then why won’t you look at me?”

He pauses, his gaze finally shifting to meet mine. His gray eyes are stormy, unreadable, and my breath catches in my throat. “Jenny,” he says, his voice low, almost a warning. “You’re drunk.”

The words should sting, should snap me back to reality, but instead, they make me smile faintly. He’s looking at me now, really looking at me, and in the soft light of the elevator, he’s even more breathtaking than I remembered. “Maybe,” I say,my voice barely above a whisper. “But you still haven’t said anything.”

He exhales sharply, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting some internal battle. And then, before I can think, before I can second-guess myself, I lean closer. My heart pounds in my chest, my lips parting as I tilt my head up to him. The air between us is charged, electric, and for a moment, I think he’s going to pull away.

But he doesn’t.

The air between us thickens, heavy with a tension that feels almost tangible. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat louder than the quiet hum of the elevator. He looks at me, his gray eyes intense, searching, as though trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t entirely understand.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, his hand lifts, and before I can fully process what’s happening, his fingers brush against my temple. His touch is warm, feather-light, as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is intimate, tender in a way that makes my breath hitch.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, my voice barely audible, the words trembling as they leave my lips.

“What are you doing?” he throws the question back at me.

Neither of us answer, but there’s no need for words in this moment. They feel like an interruption…an annoyance.

Instead, his hand moves, grazing the curve of my jaw before sliding to the side of my neck. His palm rests there, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin just below my ear. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver through me, and I can’t help but tilt my head slightly, leaning into him as if pulled by some invisible force.

The elevator stops, the faint ding signaling our floor, but neither of us moves. His thumb strokes the edge of my jaw, his gaze never leaving mine. I feel like I’m standing on the edge ofsomething vast and unknown, and all I can think about is him…the way his hand feels against my skin, the way his eyes hold me captive.

My thighs clench together instinctively, heat pooling low in my belly. My clit throbs with a need so intense it’s almost painful, and the ache makes it impossible to focus on anything but the man in front of me. I swallow hard, my breathing shallow, as the moment stretches between us.

His head tilts down, and I feel his breath warm against my lips. Every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire, every ounce of my focus narrowed to the way he’s looking at me…like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

And then, his lips brush mine. It’s so light, so fleeting, that I almost wonder if I imagined it. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he moves closer, his lips returning to mine with more intent. The kiss is deep and slow, unraveling me with every soft, deliberate movement. His hand slides to the curve of my waist, pulling me closer, and I melt into him, my body pressing against his as if we were made to fit together.

The world falls away, and all I can feel is him…the warmth of his lips, the faint hint of whiskey on his breath, the way his chest rises and falls against mine. His other hand moves to the small of my back, steadying me as I lean into him, my fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt.

Every thought, every worry, every doubt fades into nothingness. All that exists is this moment, this kiss, and the way he makes me feel like I’m burning alive in the most exquisite way possible.

Zack’s hands tighten on my waist, pulling me closer until every inch of me is pressed against the hard line of his body. His kiss deepens, consuming, demanding, as if he’s trying to draw out every hidden part of me I didn’t even know existed.My fingers twist in his hair, the soft strands between my hands anchoring me as my knees threaten to give way.

He pulls back suddenly, his breath hot and ragged against my cheek. “Jenny,” he murmurs, his voice thick with tension. “We should stop.”

I look up at him, my chest heaving, my hazel eyes meeting his stormy gray ones. His face is shadowed with conflict, but his grip on me doesn’t loosen. “I don’t want to stop,” I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can think them through. “I can’t.”

“You’re drunk,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction, and the way his gaze drops to my lips betrays him. His control is cracking, the sharp lines of his jaw tightening as if he’s holding himself back by sheer will.

“I’m not,” I insist, though the wine has left me buzzing, my inhibitions stripped raw. “Not enough to not know what I’m doing. Please, Zack.”

This is a lie, and the chill that grips my heart at the words makes me know that I am lying to myself. I do not know what I’m feeling, or maybe I know, and it is terrifying, but in this moment, I am completely out of my control because I need to feel, to a greater extent, all of this fire that his mere presence burns me with. Maybe before the end, before we go too far, I will find the courage to stop for the sake of my future with Brett, but this moment is definitely not the moment.

His hand moves to my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek as if he’s trying to read me, to find the answer he’s searching for. “This is a bad idea,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“Maybe,” I breathe, my hands trailing down to his chest, the solid warmth of him beneath my fingers sending a shiver through me. “But… just a little more?”

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