Page 53 of Organized Chaos
He roared, yanking me down to take my lips. I was barely lucid but felt his greedy tongue exploring my mouth without holding back. By the time he pulled back, I could do no more than slump against him.
Brandon wrapped his arms around me.
“You came inside me,” I reproached.
He kissed my neck, and I felt his grin against my skin. “Worried that I’ll knock you up, then leave to buy a pack of cigarettes and never come back?”
“That’s not the point.” I did a quick calculation in my head. I’d be in the seventy-two-hour window for Plan B upon my return to Paris.
Brandon sifted his fingers through my hair silently. There was a long pause before he murmured, “Just so you know... I’d take care of you.”
I didn’t contradict him, irritated. Lifting my hips, I hopped off and shifted over to my side of the bed.
Brandon laughed as if it were cute. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Clutching from under my arms, he threw me on top of him like I was meant to be used as his personal throw blanket. He tussled my hair with a satisfied grunt, but it was hardly comfortable sleeping on top of another human being.
“I can’t sleep like this.”
“You can’t sleep either way,” he retorted.
Placing my palms flat, I tried to jimmy myself up. In retaliation, his hands landed flat on my shoulder blades to drag me back to his chest.
“Stop,” he mumbled. “Tired. Need sleep.”
Exasperated, I surrendered. Guess there could be worse places to spend the night than on top of Brandon Stupid Cooper.
***
THE NEXT DAY, I LUGGEDaround on wooden legs, grappling with the dilemma of how to disclose the truth to Brandon.
In the end, I took the cowardly way out, indulging between the sheets for hours after we returned from the outdoor activities he had planned.
Forbidding as ever, Brandon was sprawled naked on the bed for the second night in a row, having kicked off the covers. Would there ever be anything gentle or sweet about this man?
The moonlight glinted over a set of hard abs so mouthwateringly perfect it made me want to store the image in my reservoir to drool over later. Veins ran down the tanned rippling slopes, stretching onto the ink painted on his torso. Though I had struggled to make it out on both nights, I believed it was a tattoo of an animal of some sort.
Frustrated with another sleepless night, I hopped off the bed and lazily inspected my surroundings. Over the years, I had only seen Brandon in public settings, never in his element and certainly not in his childhood bedroom.
The details of the room surprised me. I always presumed we shared similar interests. Upon closer inspection, it was a wishful fantasy.
The color scheme of the room was ombre. Not my style. His bookshelf—while perfectly respectable—boasted of reading material that wasn’t to my taste. Everything was immaculate, orderly, and pristine, opposite of my room.
I walked past his desk, fingers brushing lightly over his personal belongings. An item badgered at my mind enough to do a double-take.
I stiffened mid-step.
The nameMilo Sinclairwas distinctly printed on an official-looking document. Without a second thought, I picked up the stack of papers.
There were multiple contracts pinned together with a paperclip. There was an odd similarity between the documents. When I flipped through them, I realized they were all contracts for divestiture. Contracts Milo had sanctioned.
Why would Brandon carry these around?
Brandon, Milo, Jaci, Alexa, and Asher put up seed money when they started their business. The amount translated into their individual ownership stake. Milo invested his entire trust fund to become the majority owner.
Nevertheless, they needed more capital to turn their beta model into a reality. To gain prospective investors, Milo gave up minuscule ownership ratios throughout the years. These contracts documented each percentage he had forfeited in exchange for capital.
I frowned. It was a hell of a lot more than he should have given up.
