Page 46 of The Wrong Brother

I snicker, burying my face against his side out of embarrassment over the weird noise that just came out of me. I might as well snuffle like a freaking horse. “You mean, like everyone else, you assumed I’d be a stuck-up prude?”

“No. That’s not what I meant. That’s what I was struggling to avoid—I didn’t want to imply that I thought negatively about you before. I didn’t. But—” he shakes his head, struggling with what he wants to say. “I didn’t expect you to be so…playful. Or adventurous. You have a very surprising, very sexy, naughty side to you, Catherine Brookner.”

“Not usually,” I admit.

“How so?” He shifts his head so he can meet my eyes.

“You know, I’ve read romance novels for years. And I haven’t had much, um experience, in real life. But I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I might like, what things I’d be up for trying. It’s a pretty vulnerable thing, though. I’ve never trusted anyone enough to let loose.” I feel like I should be nervous about admitting something so sensitive, but I’m not. With Rafferty I know, without even having to pause to check the balance sheet, I’m safe. His smile is like the petals of a spring flower opening in the sunshine. It blooms slowly, revealing all this hidden beauty for me and me alone.

“You’ve never been like this with anyone else?”

I shake my head. “Only you. You make me feel like…more. Like I can be a boring accountant but also a woman that straddles her hot guy’s face against a window.”

He chuckles and the sound fills me with warmth. “Do you have a list?”

“A list?”

“Of things you might like. A list of what you want to try.”

“Oh,” I blush. “Maybe a mental one?”

“Well, how can I work at bringing your fantasies to life if I don’t know what they are?” His expression isn’t playful. He’s completely serious and it adds another layer to all of my complex feelings.

“I guess I should consider putting pen to paper. What about you? What fantasies can I help you with?”

“You already did. I don’t have anything else.”

“I did? What was it? Had you always dreamed of touching a woman in a restaurant? Or fucking against a big window?”

“No, it was you.”

“What was me?”

There’s a long pause before he answers quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The fantasy was you. Being with you.”

I don’t say anything, shocked into silence. I press a kiss to his chest and chance a peek up at him. He’s asleep, a soft smile on his face. I sit up, watching him in the moonlight. He’s so gorgeous. The sharp planes of his face, his hard body, the tattoos and beard and long blond hair. But it’s more than that. He exudes thoughtfulness and caring. Could he have genuinely meant that just being with me was his fantasy? For how long?

Now I can’t sleep. I’m wide awake and reviewing every interaction I’ve ever had with Rafferty. Every compliment. Every kind gesture. Every smile. Then I balance that list against my worries in the beginning: the reasons I tallied for why this couldn’t be real or why I shouldn’t be attracted to him. My mind is spinning.

I slip out of bed, closing the door quietly behind me. I settle on the couch, turn onPsychquietly and pull out my embroidery basket. I sketch out another patch. I’m not sure how dirty I want to go with the design so I set aside the idea I had in my head and instead draw out a frame of shower heads, shampoo bottles, and bubbles. I choose my colors, stretch the fabric on a frame and sew, curled up in the corner of the couch. I make a lot of progress, getting the center font completely finished and half of the frame while I listen to the show and let my mind work on my list in the background. It’s incredibly, noticeably unbalanced. A couple of hours later I hear the door open and footsteps coming down the hall. Rafferty looks bleary-eyed and not quite awake. He leans down, kissing my cheek, his hands heavy on my shoulders.

“Why’d you leave, Kitty Cat?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” I turn off the tv and put my sewing things back in the basket so I can take his hands. He looks so cute and confused. “Come on. Let’s go back to bed.”

“Can I hold you?” He rubs his eye with the back of his fist and I can see 11-year-old Rafferty so clearly it makes my heart ache. He climbs back into bed and I scoot in next to him, letting him wrap his arms around me. I’ve never been a cuddler. I like my space. I’ve truthfully never had a man, other than Rafferty, sleep in my bed. In college, dorms were uncomfortable. I never stayed over or had someone stay. And none of my relationships since then ever got to that point, like I knew there wasn’t any security even before I found out about the cheating. Now I have a giant man in my bed, we’re spooning, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Raff kisses the back of my neck, his breath tickling me. He pulls me closer and his breathing slowly deepens. I snuggle against him, cozy and safe, and drop off into a deep and satisfying sleep.

* * *

My alarm goes off what feels like minutes later and I have a moment of confusion. There’s a hand on my breast and a big, strong leg wedged between mine. Mmm, Rafferty. He feels so good and I’m super comfortable. I hate that I have to get up and I miss his touch the moment I slip away from him. As quietly as I can, I complete my morning routine. I leave Rafferty a note, kiss his cheek softly enough to satisfy myself but not wake him, then head to work. Throughout my morning my thoughts stray to the bearded blond I left in my bed. His thoughtfulness, the way he looks at me like he truly sees me, the things he does to me, how he always puts me first—there’s an ember keeping my chest warm without the worry of it dying out.

Me:I really, really liked waking up in your arms

Love:I really, really liked having you in my arms

Me:Was the coffee still warm for you?

---