Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  It’s been like this since we were kids. My brother’s childhood best friend is the only man in the entire universe who can get under my skin and bring out my ugly faster than you can blink, and I swear he takes joy in doing it.

  A ninety-five on your math test, Ellie? Why not perfect?

  Nice shot, but you’re still down by eight.

  Who taught you to hold a pool cue, a blind monkey?

  And damn if all that taunting didn’t make me try harder every single time.

  Because when he wasn’t taunting me, he was the first one holding out a hand to pull me off the pavement or out of the mud when I inevitably got trampled trying to keep up with Beck and his friends in soccer, street hockey, basketball, and whatever else I swore I was big enough to do with them.

  He eyeballs my breasts, and my whole body lights up like the Christmas lights all over downtown.

  “You gonna eat that whole carton?” he asks, and he’s not looking at my chest.

  He’s looking at my ice cream, and here I am, getting turned on at the idea that he’s finally noticed I’m a woman.

  I have issues.

  So many issues.

  I fling myself onto the couch next to him. “It’s loser ice cream, so yeah, I am,” I grumble. “Here. Have a bite, you drunk asshole.”

  Those gray eyes connect with mine, and dammit, that’s straight lust pooling in my belly.

  He’s sporting a thick five-o’clock shadow, and even sprawled out on the worn flowery couch in my parents’ basement, he exudes power and masculinity in a way I never would’ve expected from the skinny pipsqueak peeking out from behind his grandmother’s legs on the front porch twenty-some years ago.

  Or maybe it’s the tight black T-shirt, with his biceps testing the limits of the cotton and detailing his trim stomach, even sitting down, and the gray sweatpants hinting at a more substantial package than I ever would’ve given him credit for.

  Plus the knowledge that Pipsqueak Wyatt grew up to join the Air Force as some kind of badass pilot who flies untested aircraft, which takes a hell of a lot of guts, if you ask me when I’m willing to admit something like that about him.

  Which is apparently tonight.

  You used to like him, my subconscious reminds me, because it’s forgetting its place.

  I’d tell it to shut up, that I don’t go for guys who don’t appreciate me, except isn’t that what I just spent the last two years of my life doing?

  He reaches for my spoon, and our fingers brush when he takes it. A shiver ripples over my skin. I look away to watch the movie while I hold the carton for him to dig out a scoopful.

  George Bailey is arguing with Mr. Potter on the TV, and I can feel the heat off Wyatt’s skin penetrating my baggy Ryder Consulting sweatshirt.

  I snort softly to myself.

  Of course he wasn’t staring at my chest. He can’t even see it under this thing.

  You’re holding the basketball wrong, Ellie.

  It went in, didn’t it?

  Yeah, but you could be more consistent if you worked on your form.

  Damn him for sneaking into my head. Damn him for taunting me.

  Damn him for being right.

  Because I did work on my form, and Beck—who’s three years older than I am—quit playing ball with me after I beat him in a free throw contest when I was twelve.

  He said it was because he was working on other stuff with the guys, but I knew my brother better than that.

  I knew he quit playing with me because I beat him.

  Wyatt still took the challenge though. He’d tell me I got lucky when I won. He’d tell me what I did wrong when I didn’t.

  And I worked my ass off getting better and better until I beat him every time.

  And then he lost interest too.

  I take the spoon from him and grunt softly while I dig deeper into the carton. “You were such an asshole when we were kids.”

  He grunts back and snags the spoon again. “You were such an asshole when we were kids.”

  “You were just insecure about getting your ass beat by a girl on the basketball court.”

  “You just hated that you wouldn’t have been half as good without me.”

  I take my spoon back and shovel in. My extra-large bite of ice cream makes my brain cramp, but hell if I’ll let him see me hurt.

  Not that I can hide it. I know my face is blotchy from crying before I drove over here, and my eyes are that special kind of dry that comes after too many tears.

  I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve talked to him solo since he and Beck and the guys graduated high school. He’s changed. His voice is deeper, if that’s possible. His body definitely harder—god, those biceps, and his forearms are tight, with large veins snaking over the corded muscle from his elbows to his knuckles—his square jaw more chiseled, his eyes steel rather than simple gray.

  And it’s not like he lost custody of his kid because he’s an asshole.

  Beck was blabbering all about it at Christmas dinner yesterday. Dude got so screwed. The military gave him orders here, so Lydia moved first, with Tucker. She hated military life. But then his orders got changed last-minute so he ended up in Georgia, she filed for divorce, and he’s been fighting the military and the courts ever since to get back to where he can be closer to his kid. He’s in hell right now. And if he cuts bait on the military, they’ll toss him in jail for being AWOL. He’s fucked. He’s SO fucked.

  There goes George Bailey, leaving Mr. Potter’s office to go get drunk.

  Wyatt tips back his beer. A holiday brew. Like that can take away the misery of hurting this time of year. I don’t know why he’s here instead of taking advantage of every last minute with his kid, but then, I don’t know much about divorce either.

  Maybe this isn’t his Christmas to see his son. Maybe Lydia’s being an asshole.

  One more bottle sits on the end table next to him, but just one.

  Drowning his sorrows with a broken George Bailey.

  “I’m sorry about your shitty divorce,” I say.

  Sullenly.

  Just in case he thinks I might have a twinge of sympathy for him. That won’t do for either of us.

  He sets the bottle down and grabs the spoon again.

  “So you’re sharing because you feel sorry for me.”

  “Maybe I’m sharing because I’m not a total asshole.”

  “But I still am?”

  I heave a sigh. I don’t want to be sitting here with Wyatt Morgan any more than I want to give in to the urge to go running over to Patrick’s swanky condo in the Warehouse district and beg him to give us another chance.

  I was supposed to be getting engaged this Christmas.

  Not dumped.

  And I can’t tell if that searing pain in my chest is my heart or my pride.

  Or both.

  Probably both.

  It’s not like the sex was even good the other night, and he rolled over and checked his email right after, so logically, I know I’m not missing anything.

  But my damn heart still hurts.

  “Misery loves company more than it cares what the company is,” I tell Wyatt.

  He looks at me while he shoves the spoon back in the carton, then waves a hand in a circle, gesturing to me. “This is you being miserable?”

  “I know, I make it look good.”

  “I thought you looked like this all the time.”

  “Asshole.”

  He smirks, but it’s a dark smirk. Like he wanted me to call him an asshole, but it didn’t make him feel as good as he hoped it would. “What the hell do you have to be miserable about?”

  “I broke a nail.”

  He snags my hand and lifts it, turning it to inspect my perfectly trimmed, newly manicured nails, and tremors skittle out from the point where his thumb rests inside my palm.

  It’s like he’s turning me on.

  Patrick hasn’t turned me on in months. That’s what’s supposed to happen, right? You settle d
own with one person and get yourself into a rut and the sex becomes routine instead of exciting. It’s normal, right?

  Or you were an idiot who should’ve dumped him a year ago, my subconscious helpfully offers.

  I snatch my hand back, but I’m still ridiculously aware of Wyatt beside me.

  The hitch in his breath.

  The subtle scent of cinnamon and beer wafting off him.

  The way his gaze is still trained on me. “So you got dumped too,” he muses.

  “Shut. Up.”

  That would’ve been more effective if I’d been able to say it without dribbling peppermint crunch ice cream down my chin and my voice wobbling.

  He reaches out and wipes the drip off my chin, and I realize he’s leaning into my space.

  My heart’s pounding. My breasts are getting full and heavy. My mouth is going dry, even with ice cream still lingering on my tongue, and I almost choke when I swallow.

  “Merry fucking Christmas to us,” he says. His nose is inches from mine, and his lids are lowering over darkened eyes.

  “There’s no fucking going on,” I point out, my breath getting shallower as I glance down his just-barely-off-center nose to his stupidly perfect lips.

  “There’s not, is there?” he muses while his gaze darts to my lips too. “There’s only getting fucked over.”

  Every time he says fuck, I get a shot of heat between my legs.

  “You’re in my bubble,” I whisper.

  “Maybe I’m trying to annoy you to make myself feel better.”

  “Maybe if you wanted to annoy me, you should take your clothes off.”

  Holy shit, I just said that.

  He holds my gaze for half a second, and then his shirt goes flying. He settles back against the couch, still leaning into my space, but now with acres and acres of hard chest and sculpted stomach and cut hips and that perfect trail of hair arrowing down to disappear under his sweatpants.

  “Now, what are you going to do to annoy me?” he asks.

  I should dump this carton of ice cream on his head.

  But I want to do something else.

  Something wrong.

  But right? Maybe?

  Screw it.

  Thinking’s what got me in trouble with Patrick. I thought he was what I wanted. I thought I loved him because I thought I should. I thought he’d be a good partner. I thought we wanted the same things in life.

  I thought Wyatt was annoying.

  But my body isn’t thinking.

  My body just wants.

  I slap the ice cream onto the wobbly end table that my brother broke years ago, and then I peel off my sweatshirt and the stained college T-shirt beneath it.

  “Annoyed yet?” I purr.

  Oh, crap, I’m purring.

  His gaze dips to my chest, and his sweatpants tent.

  Holy hell.

  Wyatt Morgan is packing, and it’s making my clit tingle.

  That hasn’t happened just by looking at a man in months.

  “Yeah,” he says, his voice thick and low. “Yeah, I’m fucking annoyed.”

  I rise and shimmy out of my leggings, because this is a bad idea, but every good idea I’ve ever had hasn’t gotten me what I wanted in life, has it?

  “Christ, Ellie,” he rasps out.

  “You only wish you looked this good,” I tell him, but I can’t keep my voice steady either.

  I’d blame the ice cream for the heady tingling in my fingers and toes, but my blood’s not spiked with anything more than sugar.

  I let Wyatt take his time looking at me, because I know I look good. I hit the gym for weights four mornings a week. I run marathons. I still have curves. I don’t run without a heavy-duty sports bra and my ass could squash a supermodel, but I won’t apologize for being built like a woman.

  I am a woman. A strong, powerful, unique woman who deserves exactly what I’m seeing in the raw desire in Wyatt’s gray eyes.

  If he’s never noticed my body before, he’s noticing now.

  “You need to put your clothes back on,” he says, but his eyes aren’t in agreement with his words.

  His eyes are offering to use my body to make my brain forget what my heart’s suffering.

  “Or what?” I ask.

  He visibly swallows, but he doesn’t answer.

  He doesn’t look away either.

  I slip one bra strap down my shoulder, letting it hang in the crook of my elbow, not off, but not on either.

  “Ellie,” he warns, his hand going to his pants over his cock, like he can’t decide if he wants to press it down to stop it, or if he wants to jerk himself off while he watches me strip.

  “You’re hurting,” I say, slipping my other bra strap halfway down my arm too. I’m still covered by my simple satin demicups, but I reach behind me like I’m going to unhook the band, and we both know he’ll be getting an eyeful of my breasts if I do it. “I’m hurting. I don’t want to hurt. Do you?”

  “No,” he rasps out.

  “Don’t you want to just say forget them and feel good for a few minutes?”

  “Yes.”

  I shut down all the warning signals alarming inside my head, because they’re not all don’t screw your brother’s best friend.

  Some of them are you know how long it took to forget him the last time you got a crush on him.

  And some he’s unavailable, dumbass, and so are you. You know you can’t do this without feelings getting involved.

  Can’t I?

  “You’re probably a terrible lay,” I say as I drop my bra.

  He rises, and his pants hit the ground.

  So do his boxers.

  I take in the sight of his cock bobbing and straining, and I have to physically stop myself from reaching for it.

  He’s long. Thick. With a blunt head and dark curls framing his balls, so unlike Patrick’s total blondness.

  “You probably lay there like a cold limp noodle,” he says.

  “Try me.”

  He’s suddenly crushing his mouth against mine, and he tastes like cinnamon and beer and summer, and his skin is hot against mine, his tongue unforgiving, his cock hard against my belly while his hands roam up my sides to tease the underside of my breasts.

  I moan into his mouth. He groans in response. Our tongues clash, an inevitable extension of the war we’ve always waged since before we were old enough to understand it. I scrape his back with my nails. He squeezes my breasts. I push his shoulders until he’s on his knees, following him all the way down to the ground.

  This is insane.

  I should stop.

  “Condom,” he sputters. “Wallet.”

  I grab it off the end table. “Hurry up before I change my mind.”

  He stills.

  Like he’s changing his mind.

  So I grab his cock and pump it in my fist before he can tell me no.

  I don’t want to think.

  I just want to feel.

  And right now, my skin is on fire, my pussy is aching, and my breasts are heavy and desperate for attention.

  “Fuck, Ellie,” he groans, his head dropping back while he fumbles for the condom.

  As soon as he’s pulled it out of his wallet, I snag it and tear it open. “Touch my breasts,” I order.

  “Christ, so soft,” he mutters while he tests the weight of my D-cups and teases my nipples.

  Every brush of his thumb over one of my tips sends a shockwave of desire straight to my core. He alternates. One nipple. Then the other. Like my body is an instrument, and he’s teasing new notes of arousal to the surface.

  “So hard,” I mutter back while I roll the condom down his steel shaft.

  I cup his balls, and the next thing I know, he’s rolled me onto my back, his mouth sealing over mine again. We fumble together to yank my panties off. I part my legs and arch into him, and he pushes into me.

  It’s new. And weird.

  But not unwelcome.

  He fills me, sliding easily into my soaking heat e
ven as he stretches my inner walls, and I tilt my hips to take him as deep as I can.

  “You drive me insane,” he rasps as he pumps into me.

  I don’t answer, because oh, yes. “There. Right there.” I buck my hips, the tension building high and tight right in that deepest part of me that he hits every time he thrusts in.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” he orders.

  Against my will, I open them.

  He’s watching my face while he hammers inside, faster and deeper, watching me gasp in pleasure while he fills me to the hilt and pulls back just long enough to make it that much better when he strokes deep inside me with the next thrust.

  How long have I hated Wyatt Morgan?

  And how long have I possibly just been afraid?

  Told you so, my subconscious whispers, but he hits that sweet spot deep inside me again, and I come completely undone. My orgasm roars out of me, squeezing and pulsing and spasming around his hard cock, a silent cry on my lips while he groans and strains, holding himself inside me while he grits his teeth, eyes still penetrating mine, anger simmering, pain simmering, release simmering.

  The two of us are quite the pair.

  And it’s not nearly as terrifying a thought as it should be.

  I’m panting, my breath loud in my own ears, when he suddenly freezes.

  “Oh, shit,” he whispers. He pushes up to his knees, pulling out so quickly and covering the goods so fast that my vagina almost gets whiplash. “Fuck. Ellie.” He shakes his head, gaze darting in a panic around the room. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

  The words take a minute to sink in.

  And he takes advantage of my dumbfounded silence to hop back into his clothes. “Shit. Sorry. I—”

  “Shut up.” I lunge for my own clothes. Tears are flooding my sinuses, and they’ll be leaking out my eyeballs in approximately two seconds if I don’t get myself under control. “Just shut up.”

  I dive for my clothes too.

  “Ellie—”

  “Shut. Up.”

  That sympathy. That regret. That this was a mistake. It’s all in the two syllables of my name on his lips.

  Crap. Dammit.

  He moves toward me, but I shove him in the chest until he backs off.

  He’s right, of course.

  It’s Wyatt.

  He’s always right. If this was a mistake, if I’m a mistake, then yeah, clearly I’m a mistake.