by Lisa Suzanne
He clears his throat. “Where’s my brother?” He speaks quietly and without looking at me.
“Houston.”
He looks down at his plate. “You deserve better than him.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s my brother and I love him because he’s family, but someone like you can do better than someone like him.” His voice is a warning, and it splits my already fragile heart right in two.
I stare at him for a minute. I’m at a total loss. I have no idea what to say or how to respond to that. “What are you talking about?”
He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“He treats me well.”
He nods once. “I’m sure he does. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why did you?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he stands up. We’re both done eating, so he gathers our plates and sets them in the sink.
“Mark, why did you?” I repeat.
He looks at me, and the longing I feel for him, the memories of our one night together, the need and the craving inside me—they’re all there, all a mirror staring back at me.
It can’t be because he wants to be with me. He can’t be issuing me warnings about his brother because he thinks he’s better suited for me. That’s not realistic.
Is it?
I have the sudden urge to leave before something happens that shouldn’t. I force myself to remember why I’m here in the first place…because I spent the night in another man’s bed. His brother’s bed.
I pick up my purse once we’re done with the dishes. All the things I wanted to say to him have flown right out of my head. Instead, I’m leaving with the knowledge that he loves football and used to smoke weed before he got on stage. We didn’t exchange the words we needed to say—didn’t talk about how we connected on some other level that night, never mentioned whether he felt it or if it was all in my own head.
“You don’t have to go,” he says, suddenly standing between me and my path toward the door.
“I should.”
“I have a few things I’d like to say.”
My heart races. He takes a step toward me, and I freeze. He closes the gap between us, and my body betrays me as I automatically lean toward him. He takes it as a cue, and the next thing I know, his arms are wrapped around my waist and his mouth is crashing down to mine with an unexpected passion. His tongue brushes against mine with a tender desire that fills me with hope. He kisses me like a man starved, a man who needs my mouth to survive, a man who has gone without the things he needs for far too long.
He kisses me in a way that tells me everything he wants to say. He tells me it wasn’t just in my head. That night was different—for both of us. The connection we shared was special.
It’s brutal. His mouth batters mine, like he can’t kiss me hard enough, his tongue can’t get enough of mine. He’s reliving that night like I am, but even though it’s brutal, it manages to hold onto its sensuality. He has to do this now because once it ends, it’s over. His mouth does all the work—his hands have made their way under my shirt, but they’re motionless on the warm flesh of my back as his fingers dig into my skin. I feel his growing erection against my hip, and the memory of that very part of him piercing through my walls and pushing me to pleasure embeds itself in my chest, my mind, my veins. My very being.
It’s wrong. Some dark recess of my brain is telling me to stop, that this isn’t right, that I’m with another man—his brother—but I’m not strong enough to push him away. It feels too good, too right in his arms, his mouth on mine.
If this is wrong, then I’m content with being wrong.
If I thought the memories stuck with me before, his kiss is a physical reminder of the passion we shared that one night. I moan into him as I wrap my arms more tightly around him because I want this. I want him to hear what he does to me. I want him to know how much I want more—more than still fingers on my skin, more than our bodies buried beneath too many clothes, more than a stolen kiss in his kitchen.
More than just one night.
Out of the clear blue, it all stops.
He drops his hands from my body and pulls back from me. He moves out of my orbit, and I’m left with cold disappointment.
“Fuck,” he mutters, turning away from me. “I can’t do this.” He says two simple words that break my heart, his eyes downcast.
He can’t? He can’t because I’m with his brother? He can’t because of some other reason? Why is he stopping?
Why the fuck is he stopping?
Of the two of us, the idea that he might put a halt to things never entered my mind.
I clear my throat. “I shouldn’t.” My voice comes out as a husky whisper, and the questions in my mind are left unsaid.
He shakes his head, still avoiding eye contact. “No, you shouldn’t.”
“Neither should you,” I say, my tone more accusatory than I mean it to be.
“You’re right.”
I like being right, but in this case, I wish I wasn’t. An awkward beat of silence tenses between us. “I should go.”
“Wait,” he says, stopping me with a hand on my arm again. “I need to say something.”
We both stare down at his hand on my arm. “That’s what got us in trouble a few seconds ago.” I move my arm down so his hand falls, and then I edge past him and pick up my purse, slinging it over my shoulder and moving toward the door. I have to force each foot, one in front of the other, and not look at him again, because if I do, I don’t know what will happen.
“It’s not fair,” he says quietly as I reach for the doorknob. The pain in his voice is heartbreaking, even in its softness. “You were mine first, and I can’t stop thinking about you. Not even for a second since that night.”
I close my eyes, squeeze them shut like I’m trying to squeeze the words out of my head as if they never happened.
It doesn’t work.
The words float in the air between us. They land in my ears, twine through my auditory system, and envenom the nerve endings surrounding my brain until they become a part of me I’m sure I’ll never let go.
*
I cry the entire ride down the elevator.
How fucking dumb am I?
I walked out of Mark Ashton’s place for the second time. I didn’t even give him a chance to explain what he meant.
I can’t. It doesn’t matter how many times I repeat the same stupid shit in my head—I’m with Brian. I’m falling for Brian. Brian loves me. It doesn’t make anything better, doesn’t help me feel like I did the right thing. Doesn’t cure my broken heart.
At least I have my sunglasses this time, so I slip them on and cry as I wait at the valet station. I keep crying as I pay to get my car back and drive home.
His words replay over and over, like a song he might sing to me. It’s not fair, fair fair. You were mine, mine, mine first. I can’t stop, stop, stop thinking about you.
His brother was right.
The realization hits me with the force of a hurricane.
Mark’s saying the right things, doing what he can to charm me, to try to steal me away from Brian. This is just a game to him, but he’s using my emotions as his pawn, and that’s not fair to me.
“Hey, how was your ni—“ Jill starts when she sees me walk in, but she stops short when she looks up at my tear-streaked, red, puffy face. “Oh my God. What happened?”
Seeing my best friend and all her concern only brings on another bout of sobs.
She tosses an arm around my shoulders and leads me over to the couch. “What did Brian do?”
I shake my head.
“Who did this?”
I inhale a shaky breath, and let out his name on another sob as I collapse on the couch. “Mark.”
She sits next to me. “That fucking asshole. What did he do?”
I love her. I love how she stands up for me without knowing the story. I love how she’s on my side no matter what. I shake my head. “Not like that. I t
hink I love him.”
“Of course you do, babe. So do I. He’s Mark Ashton. Everyone loves him.”
“But Brian.” I swipe at the tears.
“You love Brian, too?”
I nod. “I think so.”
“Start from the beginning.”
I draw in another shaky breath. “I went to that dinner thing last night at Mark’s place but Mark was out of town. Then Brian got a call late last night, and he had to go to Houston right away. I stayed over because I drank wine all night. When I got up this morning, I was all alone in the penthouse. Then Mark walked in.”
“Oh, shit.” She’s sitting on the edge of the couch—like she’s on the edge of her seat as she waits for me to tell my story. “What happened?”
“He kissed me.”
“Oh my God, Reese!” She grips my wrist. “What does this mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything except that I cheated on Brian.” I shake her off.
“You had sex with Mark?”
My brows draw together in confusion. “Yeah, almost two months ago.”
“Not this morning?”
I shake my head. I know she’s getting at the fact that a kiss might not be considered cheating, but I’m not looking for a loophole. I’m guilty of my crime. I didn’t initiate it, but I certainly didn’t stop it.
She folds her arms across her chest. “Okay, so you kissed, then what?”
“He stopped it and I left.”
“That was it?”
I shake my head. “He said some things when I walked out.”
“What did he say?”
“He can’t stop thinking about me,” I paraphrase.
“Oh my God,” she says for the third time since I walked in the door.
“It doesn’t matter. I like Mark. I might even love him. But I could love Brian, too. Mark doesn’t want me, he just doesn’t want Brian to have me.”
“I don’t know,” Jill says. “I saw the way he looked at you at the party. I don’t think it’s just a game to him.”
“It doesn’t matter. Brian’s the right choice.” I say it adamantly, mostly to try to convince myself that it’s true. “The safe choice.”
She huffs out a mirthless laugh. “Safe and love don’t mix, babe.”
twenty-three
I’ve just stepped out of the shower when I hear incessant pounding at my front door. I ignore it as I towel dry and then comb out my wet hair, as I apply my face cream, and as I pull on my panties and bra. When it keeps persisting, I have to stop ignoring it. Whoever it is won’t go away.
I grab the closest pair of shorts and shirt and run to the front door.
Imagine my surprise when I find, out of all the people in the universe who could be there—those door-to-door insect repellent salesmen, landscapers, some delivery service—Mark Ashton standing there.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, and then heat creeps into my cheeks as I realize Mark fucking Ashton is standing on my front porch and I have wet hair and not a trace of makeup on.
“Do you actually own any other shirts?” he asks.
I glance down at what shirt I grabbed off my floor. It’s the same Vail shirt I’ve been wearing almost every time I’ve seen him. The heat in my cheeks deepens.
“Did you come here just to ask me that?”
He shakes his head.
“Then why are you here?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m not sure.”
“Your pounding on my door seemed pretty sure.”
“I was sure I needed to see you. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now.”
“How did you even find me?”
“Becker.”
“You just said, ‘Hey, Beck, where does my brother’s girlfriend live?’”
“Something like that,” he says dryly. “Can I…uh…can I come in?”
I notice his hesitance. Mark doesn’t strike me as a person who is ever hesitant. To see him unsure of himself is unnerving.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“I came all this way.”
“All fifteen minutes from your penthouse suite?”
He chuckles. “Yeah.”
I glance behind him and see a black Yukon in my driveway. Someone sits in the driver’s seat and another person sits in the passenger seat as the car runs.
“Come on in,” I say, opening my door wider.
He steps in and we’re alone in my house. Jill’s at work. His driver and another man are outside. It’s just the two of us in here, and as I turn around and gesture for him to follow me, I can’t help when my eyes land on the couch where I just gave my boyfriend oral sex a few days earlier. I think of Brian—so many memories of Brian here, memories crashing into each other as I lead Mark through my home. We stop in my kitchen. I lean up against the counter, and he stands a few feet away, his hands in his pockets.
He looks nervous when he speaks. “I just wanted to clarify what I said earlier.”
“When I left?”
“Yeah.”
“Not much to clarify.”
“You heard what I said?”
I nod. “It’s not fair, you’re right.” I lower my voice even though it’s just the two of us. “I still think about that night all the time. I still think about what we shared. I couldn’t stop thinking about it until I met someone who helped me move on.”
His eyes close as if he’s in pain. “That’s the difference.”
“What is?”
“You moved on.”
“Not completely,” I admit.
His eyes glisten with hope.
“But you’re Mark Ashton. Mark Ashton. Bad boy rock star extraordinaire. I know your reputation.”
Frustration creases his brow as he throws up his hands. “I’ve told you. It’s lies. It’s some stupid fucking image the media built and I let them because I didn’t care. Now I care.”
“Brian told me about how you two are competitive.” I have nothing to lose with honesty here, so I let it fly. “He told me how you always go after what’s his.”
“A, that’s not true, and B, you were mine first.”
“I never belonged to anybody.” The words come out harsher than I mean for them to, and his face falls. I forge ahead. “You can’t stand there and act like you want more with me. He told me about you. He was honest when he said he’s terrified I’ll leave him for you, and he doesn’t even know what happened between us.” I motion between the two of us, and then I let out a breath. “I know about Kendra,” I say quietly.
His brows shoot up in surprise. “He told you about Kendra?”
“Sort of,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me your side of it?”
“No matter what I say, I’m going to look like the bad guy even though I’m not. It’s so fucked up.”
“Even more reason why we can’t do it to him, Mark. It doesn’t matter how I feel about you. I have to go on pretending like there’s nothing between us. Don’t you see how it’ll break him if he knew?”
Mark blows out a defeated breath and turns away from me, pacing in front of me without meeting my eyes. “I had this plan in my head that we’d have breakfast when you woke up after the night we spent together. I figured I’d ask for your number, ask you out again. I planned to tell you how our night meant something to me, that in one night you awoke these intense feelings in me that no one has ever touched. No one. It wasn’t just about sex, not to me, not from the moment I saw you walk into the dressing room that night with your friend. If you hadn’t been so bold as to practically beg to come home with me, I’d have asked you anyway.” He stops pacing and finally looks up at me. His gaze is full of intense heat, passion, pain. “But you were gone when I woke up, so I never got the chance to say any of that.”
My heart twists in my chest. I’m having a hard time believing the fact that Mark Ashton is standing here in my house. I think it’s even harder to believe that I’m rejecting him.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask, unable to form the right
thoughts to respond to his confession.
He nods for me to go ahead.
“You said you haven’t stopped thinking about me. Why didn’t you try to find me?”
He shrugs. “I had a first name and the fact that you’re a teacher. Not much to go on. I didn’t even know for sure if you lived here. People travel to our shows all the time. Vegas is a popular destination.”
“What about Jill?”
“I remembered you had a friend who worked for a paper. I didn’t know her name or what paper. I didn’t know your last name. I tried, Reese. Believe me. I had my guys working on it, and it blows my fucking mind that you were right in front of me the entire time. Fucking my brother.”
He says the last part under his breath, and it feels like a physical blow to my chest. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
He takes a step toward me. I want to back up, to stay out of his orbit, but I can’t—my ass is already butted up against my kitchen counter, a counter where I have other memories with this man’s brother.
“So that’s it?” he asks, his voice husky as he takes another step toward me.
I lift a shoulder, more unsure than I’ve ever been about anything in my entire life. Everything about this—about us—is both right and wrong. No matter what I do here, someone is going to get hurt, and somehow, I think either way it’s going to be me. How the hell did I manage to get myself in this mess—to get myself in the middle of two brothers?
“I guess,” I finally say.
He takes another step toward me, his smoldering gaze both menacing and innately sexual. He’s only a foot away from me. The memory of his lips on mine from this morning is still fresh. I can still taste him, still feel his fingers as they dug into my flesh. My entire body throbs for him, with the epicenter of the ache square in my core, seismic waves rolling out in painful tremors.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper. He’s close enough that I smell peppermint. I catch the faintest hint of sandalwood.
“Everything,” he whispers back. He gazes at me for a long beat while my heart beats erratically in my chest and butterflies batter against my stomach. The tension between us is palpable, as is the sexual energy, the desire, the passion. It’s a tangible thing I can take and hold in my arms. He’s going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. And just when I think he’s going to do it, that he’s going to rush toward me and take me in his arms, back where I know I belong despite everything, he backs away, breaking the fragile thread that binds us.
