Page 103 of Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

I can’t fucking help myself when it comes to her. That’s the one truth in my life, the one true thing in all the lies I keep telling myself to keep sane.

I limp out into the living room, my knee aching like a bitch from the cold, but I forget all about it cuz it’s warm inside, and Gigi’s curled up on the sofa, changing channels on the TV.

With her pale hair in a long braid falling over one shoulder, her socked feet folded under her, her short skirt riding up, she’s… hot. This girl is so damn hot. She’s holding her mug in her other hand, and she licks her lips absently as I pad quietly into the room.

Fuck. Me. A hot wave of arousal hits me, and I swallow hard, my borrowed sweats suddenly tightening at the crotch.

She glances at me and smiles, her gaze zeroing in between my legs, and shit, I want her so fucking bad I’m ready to push her down on the sofa and fuck her right here, consequences be damned.

“Sit with me,” she says, and her voice sounds a bit uneven, like she’s out of breath.

“Why don’t you sit on me instead?” My voice is rough like I’ve been smoking too many cigarettes.

“Rett…” She licks her lips again, and I want to push her sweater up and lick her nipples, then make my way down to her pussy, fuck her with my tongue and fingers until she comes. I remember her taste, and the memory only serves to make me harder, until my dick’s trying to drill a hole through the sweats.

Then Merc walks in and fuck, I’d almost forgotten about him, lost in the haze of this damn lust. I drop down quickly beside her, drawing a cushion with golden tassels over my lap to hide my hard-on.

This clusterfuck just goes to show how much control I have over myself tonight: exactly nothing. A big fucking zero. My mind’s in this damn tailspin and won’t focus on one thing, on what I should be doing.

Like getting out of here. Not coming here in the first place. Checking on Sebastian, on the gang. Doing what I’m supposed to do.

“Where’s Mom?” Gigi ask, and licks the rim of her mug.

Okay, it’s fucking clear. This girl’s trying to kill me.

“Just out visiting one of her friends. She’ll be back soon.”

Yeah, this is an alternate universe like the one I’ve dreamed of all my life, where moms do normal stuff like visit each other for tea and gossip, bake cakes and keep pretty houses, not live in nursing homes and start to forget how to speak, or—

“Here.” She passes me a mug with a smile, and I automatically take a sip, burning my tongue.

I gasp, but I take another sip, my eyes closing. It’s a sugar orgasm. Melty marshmallows, thick chocolate and heat slipping down my throat to my chest. A different kind of heat, one that unclenches my tightly wound muscles and spreads to my limbs until I lean back on the sofa with a sigh, warmed from the inside out.

“Good, huh?” Merc says, a note of smugness in his voice. “I make the best hot chocolate this side of town.”

“My little brother is so humble,” Gigi mutters, laughter in her voice.

Yeah, I can’t begrudge her a brother like that. A family like that. She was always kind to me. She deserves this. She deserves the best.

Even if I want her to choose me, the worst choice, even—

“You’re thinking too hard.” Gigi arches her back slowly, like a cat, and my eyes instantly go to her tits.

My fucking mouth goes dry.

So I take another sip of hot chocolate, glad for the burn, and settle back against the cushions.

Two seconds later, she turns and curls up against me, her knees pressed to my side, her eyes looking up at me, a teasing flicker at their centers. “You haven’t tried the cake.”

As if I can swallow with her so close to me, her scent everywhere, and fuck, I’m getting hard again. My body’s getting so tuned to hers, just looking at her stretching on the sofa, still fully dressed, gets me raring to go.

“Get a room you two,” Merc says, but when I look up he’s smirking and toasting us with his mug, so I just shake my head.

She flips some more channels and settles on music vids. “You like rock?”

“Yeah, it’s cool.”

“Really? Favorite groups?” Merc’s eyes go all bright, and he looks like an excited eight-year-old talking about his toys—if eight-year-olds were as tall and almost as wide as me, with some damn impressive biceps. He must be, what, eighteen? He was quite younger than me in school, I remember that.

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