Page 17

17

M ichelle

It had been a long time since I’d had butterflies in my stomach leaving work. Most days blurred together, a never-ending loop of shifts, studying, and exhaustion that bled into weeks, into months, into years—until I hit my goals. Until I made it.

My life ran on countdowns.

Six weeks until I graduate.

Thirty-six weeks until Christmas.

Two hundred and six weeks until I turn thirty.

But throwing Brooks into the mix was something I hadn’t accounted for.

And, surprisingly? It wasn’t awful.

He never tried to see me more than I allowed, never pushed when I told him I was too busy, too exhausted, too drained to be good company. He respected my boundaries but somehow still bypassed every excuse I tried to use.

I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. That I wasn’t letting him in. But it had been two weeks, and my face was getting used to curving upward every day.

I clocked out, rubbing the ache in my shoulders as I waved to Barb, one of the older waitresses.

“You look too damn happy to be heading off to study,” she teased, crossing her arms.

I shrugged, fighting the smile creeping onto my face. “I am. Trust me.”

She snorted, giving me a knowing look before turning back to her register.

As I stepped outside, the warm desert air hit me, the streets humming with the usual mix of low voices, distant sirens, and the occasional rumble of an engine too loud for its own good.

I pulled out my phone and sent a text.

Michelle: I’m free! Want to head over?

Brooks: Come to my place tonight.

I froze. It wasn’t that I hadn’t expected the invite. I just…I hadn’t been to his place since he’d been back. I hadn’t been in his space, in his bed, surrounded by his things, his scent, his control.

My heart picked up speed, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Being at my place meant I was on home turf. I could tell him to leave if I needed to. I could leave his if I wanted to, but it wasn’t the same.

It felt different. And I wasn’t sure why that thought freaked me out so much.

Before I could talk myself out of it, my phone rang.

I sighed and answered, tucking the device between my ear and shoulder. “Hello?”

“Was I too demanding?” Brooks’ voice was low, teasing, like he already knew I was overthinking this.

I let out a slow breath, my muscles relaxing at the sound of him. Three days apart felt like a month.

"It’s better when you ask nicely," I mused.

"I knew it." He rustled around, and I pictured him in bed, probably naked, the way he always slept. My pace quickened to my car.

“I’ll even let you borrow my toothbrush and a shirt,” he continued.

“Ever the gentleman.”

I sensed movement behind me and looked up instinctively, my body going rigid when I spotted two figures leaning against the alley wall.

They were watching me.

I gripped the mace in my bag, my pulse spiking, my fight-or-flight instincts flaring up so fast I felt a little dizzy. It could’ve been the same two guys from before.

Or it could’ve been someone else. Either way, I didn’t want to find out.

I unlocked my car fast, slid in, and locked the doors before I even exhaled.

Brooks was still talking, oblivious to the way my hands trembled slightly on the wheel.

"Just got in my car," I said, forcing my voice to sound normal. "I guess you should tell me your address?"

A pause.

“That’s right. You haven’t been here. Wow, what a milestone in our relationship.”

Relationship.

The word lodged itself in my chest, making my grip on the wheel tighten. He said it so easily, like it was just a fact. Like we were a we.

And maybe we were.

I wasn’t a fool. This was more than what we had two years ago—that was just lust, heat, something temporary.

This?

This was starting to feel dangerously close to something permanent. “Got it,” I said, my phone buzzing.

“I’ll let you go so you can focus, but drive safe, baby.”

That baby had me suck in a breath. I pulled up the map for directions when the back of my neck tingled.

I kept checking my rearview mirror, my hands still tight on the wheel. The figures had disappeared, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. I’d learned early on—trust your gut. If something feels off, it is.

I thought about getting another job, one in a better neighborhood, but that wasn’t exactly an option when my shifts had to be flexible for clinicals. So, for now, I just had to be smart.

Stick to day shifts when I could.

Make sure someone walked me to my car.

Keep my mace within reach.

A muscle in my jaw twitched as a memory flooded in uninvited. The drug dealer had showed up at our house when I was thirteen, shouting at my dad, demanding money. I had snuck out of my bedroom window, hiding behind the bushes while I listened to bodies hitting walls, to the sound of my mother crying, my brother cursing, my father promising things he would never deliver.

The next day, both my parents had black eyes, and Victor had been limping.

That had been the night I decided I was done with family. That I was going to get out. That I would never, ever rely on anyone but myself.

My phone vibrated, pulling me back to the present as I neared a stoplight.

Brooks: Don’t freak out, but I just got a boner thinking about you not correcting me when I said relationship. It turns me on when you accept what we are. Gets me all excited and happy.

I snorted, the tension in my chest loosening just a little.

Michelle: Well, settle down. I’ll be there soon.

His reply was a simple winky face emoji, and before I could stop it, I smiled.

I pulled into the nicer part of the city, the palm-tree-lined streets a sharp contrast to the cracked pavement and flickering streetlights I was used to. Brooks didn’t flaunt his money, but it was obvious he had it.

I was a little relieved to see he lived in a condo and not a mansion. Pulling up to a giant estate with pillars like Gideon’s house would’ve been too much. I parked on the street, self-conscious for a second about leaving my shitty car in a neighborhood like this.

It would stick out like a sore thumb. I made a mental note to leave before the sun came up.

Michelle: I’m here!

Brooks stepped off his small porch, looking ridiculously good in joggers that hung low on his hips, shirtless, barefoot, and smirking like he had all the time in the world.

My mouth watered.

If anyone asked what my type was, the only answer would be Brooks.

Before him, it had been whoever could give me an orgasm and leave by morning.

Now? My favorite color was his eyes.

My favorite flavor was how he tasted when he kissed me.

"Creeper status," I said, locking my car as I fought the urge to run to him.

His grin widened, and my pulse raced. He met me at the bottom of the stairs and enveloped me in a huge hug. “I missed your face. I can ignore the smell of pickles you brought with you, but your face, let me see it.”

He tipped my chin up toward his, and he stared at me for so long that I felt myself blushing at his perusal. “Yup. I like it a lot.”

“It almost makes up for the fact you insulted me.” I pushed his chest, but he caught my hand and pulled me back to try and kiss me. “Nope. No kissing. Let me shower the pickle smell off me.”

“I like pickles, though.”

“Don’t pout.” I had to smile at his frown. “I didn’t bring any other clothes, so I could just get naked here?”

His laugh rumbled as he wrapped his arms around me, lifting me effortlessly. “Now that’s the best thing you’ve said all night.”

Brooks led me inside, closing the door behind us with a soft click, and I took in the sharp, modern edges of his home.

It was a beautiful space, the kind of place you’d see in a high-end design magazine—all black and white walls, clean lines, and expensive-looking decor. The floor was tiled, sleek and cool beneath my feet, and a few minimalist art pieces lined the walls.

I ran my fingers over a sleek black welcome table, letting the contrast between my calloused hands and the smooth surface ground me for a second.

"You like looking at yourself a lot?" I teased, pointing to the three mirrors on the opposite wall.

Brooks smirked, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. "I hired a decorator before moving out here for good."

Something flickered in his expression, something I almost missed. Nerves.

"Logan tried to help," he added, "but made it worse."

I smiled. "What good are brothers?"

A new voice cut through the air. "I wonder that myself."

I jumped, turning toward the hallway where a man who looked eerily like Brooks stood leaning against the doorframe. I hadn’t even heard him come in.

"Sorry to scare you," he said, pushing off the frame with an easy, practiced grin. "I live here too. Nice to meet you, Michelle."

Ah. So Brooks forgot to mention that.

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he missed it. His glare was fixed on his brother, his jaw ticking, his eyes burning with something unsaid.

"Nice to meet you too," I finally said, eyeing Logan. He had the same gray eyes, the same strong jawline, but there was something lighter about him. Where Brooks was all controlled intensity, Logan seemed unapologetically easygoing.

And a little too flirty for his own good.

"I'm about to make some popcorn," he announced. "Want some?"

I should have said no. I wanted a shower. I wanted to crawl into Brooks’ bed and get lost in him. But then my stomach growled, and Logan grinned.

Brooks grunted, rubbing a hand down his face. "You could've told me you were hungry. I would’ve made something for you."

Something in his tone made my stomach flip, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral.

"I had other things on my mind," I said, voice light, teasing.

The heat in his eyes flared, then disappeared just as quickly.

"We’ll have time later." His voice softened, but there was an edge to it, like he wasn’t done being annoyed with me. "We need to get you food first. And popcorn isn’t real sustenance. Grilled cheese is the only acceptable meal this late at night."

“Oh, really?”

“Trust me.”

I followed him into the kitchen and almost gasped at how large and beautiful it was. There was so much counter space I could’ve taken every article of clothing I owned and folded them on it. They were black and shiny counters with black cabinets that were positioned evenly along the walls. A long island stood in the center with low-hanging lights. “You have the best kitchen.”

Brooks gave me a small smirk, like he didn’t quite believe me. "Yeah?"

"Yes. So much yes."

I dropped my torn purse onto the sleek black island, the leather worn soft from years of use, a couple of small holes near the strap that I kept meaning to fix.

Sitting on one of the barstools, I let my fingers skim the cool countertop, taking in the sheer size of Brooks' kitchen—so much space, so much functionality, like it had been designed for someone who actually cooked rather than someone who probably door-dashed half his meals.

This place was a stark contrast to the kitchens I grew up in—ones with flickering lights, cluttered countertops, half-broken appliances, and cabinets missing doors.

For a fleeting second, I felt out of place. Like I had stepped into a world I didn’t belong in. But the feeling passed.

Because fuck that.

I had spent most of my life feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere—because of my parents, because of my brother, because I was always one mistake away from sinking. But I wasn’t that girl anymore.

I decided my worth. No one else. I was here and I’d earned the right to be.

"Do you cook a lot?" Logan asked as he started pulling out ingredients.

There was something comforting about the casual ease of the moment—him making popcorn like this was something he did all the time, Brooks buttering bread with the kind of focus that made it seem more serious than it was.

I smiled, watching the effortless rhythm between them.

They were so different, but there was an unmistakable bond there—one that made my chest ache a little.

I had never had that with Victor.

"Not really," I admitted, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the island. "Most of my meals are microwaved or whatever I grab from the restaurant. But I'd love to learn how someday. The whole process interests me—trying different flavors, spices. Just… creating something from nothing."

Logan glanced over his shoulder, his smirk easy. "So why don’t you take a class? There’s a million videos online."

I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. "I lack time. That’s why I’m over here at midnight."

He didn’t miss a beat. "I thought it was a booty call."

"Well, it is. But with food," I deadpanned.

Logan threw his head back and laughed, and even Brooks, who had been stealthily ignoring us, let a smirk tug at his mouth.

I grinned, feeling the tension from earlier loosen, like it had been a tangible thing wrapped around my ribs. "Now that we got that out of the way…" I prompted.

Logan tipped the pot, letting the kernels sizzle against the hot oil, the scent of butter and salt already filling the kitchen.

"You like being a manager at a restaurant?" he asked, his tone genuinely curious. "Brooks talks about you a lot, and while it’s annoying, I feel like I already know you."

Something warm unfurled in my chest. The idea of Brooks talking about me to his brother was unexpected, and I didn't know what to do with the way it made me feel.

I glanced at Brooks, but he didn’t turn around. Just kept grilling his fucking bread, like this wasn’t a big deal.

Like it didn’t just soften something deep inside me.

"I do," I answered finally. "But it’s not something I’d want to do forever. The hours are rough—no holidays off, late nights, no weekends. It’s manageable for now, but not long term."

"But at least you get to leave work at work," Logan pointed out.

I nodded, grateful he got it. "Yeah, exactly. I don’t have to bring it home with me, which I’ve heard other jobs require."

"That’s true. I work ten-hour shifts on the weekend most of the time."

Logan leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, his easy grin so much like Brooks’ that I felt myself mirroring it.

I played with the loose string on my sweater, my fingers absentmindedly twisting it, my eyes scanning the room. For all the modern decor, there was one area of the kitchen that felt different. More personal.

It was tucked near the back wall, by a row of tall windows. A small collection of framed photos. Unlike the rest of the house, they weren’t perfectly curated.

Some were slightly crooked, the edges of the frames worn, like they had been moved from another home. Like they were loved.

I stood, walking toward them, my gaze catching on one in particular. A woman stood between the brothers, her arms wrapped around them, their smiles wide, real.

Their mom was beautiful.

Petite, dark-haired, her curls framing the same gray eyes her sons had. They looked so happy. The photo had to be from a few years ago—Brooks looked a little younger, a little less weathered by the sun, and Logan was wearing a graduation gown.

Something about it made my chest ache. "She really is beautiful," I murmured.

Brooks’ body stiffened. The temperature in the room shifted.

I felt it immediately—the way the easy flow of conversation suddenly came to a halt, the way Logan exhaled, slow and measured. Brooks didn’t respond so I turned back, and his eyes were already on me.

But they weren’t warm like they had been earlier. They were guarded. Like I had just stepped over an invisible line.

Logan, however, sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "She is," he said quietly, moving to stand beside me. "It’s crazy that was only four years ago. So much has changed since then." He exhaled, shaking his head.

"Sometimes, the uncertainty of the future suffocates me,” Brooks said.

A lump formed in my throat. Because I knew that feeling. I knew exactly what he meant. And when I finally looked back at Brooks, his expression was closed off, his shoulders tight.

Something had shifted between us, and I didn’t know how to fix it.

He cleared his throat, the warmth missing from his voice as he said, “Come on, Michelle. The sandwich is almost ready.”

I rubbed my hands over my arms, chasing away the sudden chill in the air. Logan shifted beside me, rolling his shoulders in a shrug, but even he felt it.

The shift in Brooks. The air between us had gone from warm and teasing to closed off and cold, and I hated how fast it happened—how I barely understood what I had done wrong.

I sat back on the island, forcing myself to act normal, but something unsettled twisted deep in my stomach. He didn’t want me knowing something. I could feel it. And that shouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t like I had a right to every part of his life.

But still, it stung. I met his mom. I knew her.

I had told him everything—about my past, my family, the kind of things I had never said out loud before. It terrified me to let him in, to hand over pieces of myself that I couldn’t take back.

And now he was pulling away.

Why? Why did he get to choose what he shared, while I had laid myself bare?

But it was his choice, and I let him make it.

I smiled when he slid the grilled cheese in front of me. I said all the right things. I laughed when Logan told an elaborate Tinder nightmare story about a girl who tried to invite her pet snake to dinner with them.

I didn’t push. Didn’t press Brooks to explain why he suddenly didn’t want me talking about his mom.

But as the night wore on, as my body settled into the comfortable rhythm of being around him, those thoughts lingered—quiet but sharp, like a slow, dull ache I couldn’t ignore.

And when it was expected for me to follow him to his bedroom, I hesitated.

What won’t he tell me?

Why do I care?

The two thoughts tangled in my mind, making my stomach feel tight, uncomfortable. This was the kind of mind-fucking I avoided

This was why I had rules. I could have sex. I could walk away before things got messy. I could keep my heart out of it and never have to deal with this stupid ache in my ribs.

This was not supposed to happen.

And yet, instead of leaving, instead of sneaking out while I still had some control, I found myself asking, "Can I shower?"

“I was teasing about the pickles, Mitch,” Brooks sighed, his voice soft but amused. "You don’t really need to shower. I’ll still lick every part of you."

His words sent a sharp jolt through me, my body instantly awake, but my mind wasn’t there yet.

"You better," I muttered, playing along, even as my chest still felt too tight. "But a hot shower sounds nice, if you don’t mind?"

His expression softened, and instead of arguing, he opened his bedroom door, ushering me inside.

"Want a tour first?"

I chuckled. "Who needs a tour of a bedroom?"

He smirked, motioning toward the space. "Bed, dresser, laundry I should probably do… and the bathroom."

Then, his jaw ticked slightly, and he added, "The reason I chose this place is the bathroom."

Something in the way he said it caught my attention.

"Oh, this sounds exciting." I dropped my bag near his dresser and went to open the door, but before I could, his hand pressed against my stomach, stopping me.

I stilled. His touch was warm, steady. But it was his eyes that made me pause. Because there was something there. Something hesitant.

Like he was waiting for me to notice.

"Hiding more from me?" I teased, but my voice wasn’t as carefree as I wanted it to be.

His brows pulled together instantly, his expression tightening like he was trying to read between the lines.

Shit. I shouldn’t have said more.

"What?"

I didn’t answer. I kissed him instead.

It was instinct, a way to push past whatever was happening, whatever this weird tension was.

At first, he was rigid, caught off guard, but then my hands slid over his shoulders, down his chest, and he melted against me. He kissed me back deeply, possessively, like he was trying to pull me back to him, trying to remind me where we were.

"Fuck, I missed your mouth," he groaned against my lips.

"Good," I whispered, pushing him backward, walking us into the bathroom when I finally saw what he meant. "Holy shit."

“I told you.”

Brooks kept kissing me, his teeth grazing my neck, his hands sliding over my hips as I took in the massive, marbled bathroom. The huge glass shower. The sleek lights.

And the biggest fucking tub I had ever seen. I blinked at it, mouth slightly open.

"You could fit a whole army in this thing," I muttered.

He laughed, reaching around me to turn on the faucet.

"What excites you more?" he mused. "Shower sex or bath sex?"

I ran my fingers over the smooth porcelain, my heart pounding too hard for reasons that had nothing to do with the water temperature.

“I want to be inside that tub. Now.” I stepped away from him, walking up to it like it was a sacred artifact. “I would fuck this tub if I could."

"In a weird way, I get what you mean."

His chuckle was warm, but when I glanced back at him, his eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, watching me like I was something he was trying to memorize.

“I don’t have any bubble shit,” he admitted, “but the jets make up for it.”

My voice squeaked. “Jets? Oh, I’m getting wet already."

His grin widened, and when I turned back toward him, he was already stripping off my dress. I let him.

I lifted my arms, let him slide the thin fabric over my head, leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties. They weren’t fancy. Not delicate lace or anything meant to seduce.

But the way Brooks looked at me, like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing sent a sharp, hot shiver down my spine. His hands skimmed over my breasts, his fingers lightly pinching my nipples, making my breath hitch.

Then, slowly, he knelt, dragging my panties down my thighs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to my hip.

I used the extra second to remove my bra, tossing it somewhere behind me before reaching for his shirt. But before I could pull it off, he stopped me.

"No. Not yet."

I frowned. "Are you trying to kill me?"

He grinned, wicked and sure. "I want you to enjoy your bath," he murmured, voice gravelly, thick with meaning. "While I watch."

A shiver ran straight through me.

"Get in."

The water was hot, almost too hot, but I sank into it anyway, letting it swallow me whole. Brooks reached in, adjusting my position so my head rested against the back, my arms comfortably placed on the built-in rests.

And then he just stood there. Watching me. Like I was something worth watching.

"Close your eyes."

I smirked but did as he said. Not because I wanted to obey.

But because, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to run.

I rested my eyes for barely a second before a soft, teasing touch sent a shiver down my spine. Brooks' fingers were light at first, nothing more than a slow, lazy drag over my nipples. A brush of a fingertip, a feather-light circling motion that had my breath hitching.

Then, he pressed harder.

A slight pinch, then a slow roll, his touch growing more deliberate, more focused, like he had all the time in the world to play with me.

A low whimper escaped my throat, my body arching instinctively into his hands.

But when I opened my eyes, ready to glare at him, he shook his head.

“Nope. Close.”

The command sent heat shooting straight through me.

“Okay.” My voice came out breathless, the desperation thick in my tone, and I coughed to cover it. He didn’t react, just kept going, teasing, exploring.

The slow, lazy torment continued, his hands molding my breasts, kneading, pulling, his thumbs dragging over my nipples, making them pebble under his touch.

I squirmed, the heat of the water only adding to the fire already simmering inside me. Then, his touch moved lower.

Down my stomach, his fingers ghosting over my skin, barely reaching my center before retreating—over and over, teasing, torturing, making me ache for more.

"Brooks," I whispered, my hips arching, trying to push against his fingers.

Still, he barely touched me.

He was playing a dangerous game, and he knew it.

I snuck a glance at him, desperate, aching, and what I saw made my entire body tighten with want. His face. His dedication.

The sheer concentration in his expression, like I was something to be studied, to be memorized. No one had ever looked at me like that.

Like I was the air.

"Please," I whispered.

He bit his bottom lip, his jaw flexing before he finally gave me what I wanted. His right hand circled my swollen, aching clit, while his left kept tugging at my nipples, pushing me closer, higher, faster than I could handle.

The pleasure was blinding, a white-hot pulse that built deep inside me, coiling tighter, hotter until it exploded.

My scream echoed off the tiled walls, the water sloshing against the sides of the tub as my body convulsed around his touch. Lightning, sharp, exhilarating, all-consuming, shot through me, my body pulsing, shaking, unraveling.

By the time I caught my breath, my limbs felt liquid, my muscles boneless. But the moment I met his gaze, I made a snap decision. I wanted him on top of me. I gripped the waistband of his joggers, yanked him forward, into the water, onto me, crashing my lips into his.

He groaned, the sound deep and guttural, as my legs wrapped around him, trapping him against me. The kiss was fire and hunger and heat, all teeth and tongue, my body grinding against his thick length.

“Baby, let me?—”

I didn’t let him finish. I sucked his tongue into my mouth, making him curse into my lips, his hands gripping my hips with bruising force.

"Fuck, I need to be inside you."

"Yes, you do."

I reached between us, fumbling with his waistband, desperate to feel him, skin on skin, no more teasing, no more games. But before I could pull him into me, his hands clamped around my thighs, and suddenly, I was weightless.

He lifted me like I was nothing, stepping out of the tub, his muscles tense, strained, shaking with restraint. In two seconds flat, he had me on the bed.

I barely had time to catch my breath before he covered my body with his, his mouth closing over my breast, sucking hard, making me cry out as his teeth scraped against my nipple.

"If I'm going to fuck you hard," he growled against my skin, "I want you on the bed where I won’t hurt you."

A thrill shot down my spine, my breath shaky, needy.

“Then do it,” I dared.

And he did. Without warning, he slid inside me.

Hard.

Deep.

I gasped, my nails digging into his back, my thighs squeezing his hips as he set a punishing rhythm. This wasn’t just fucking.

This was taking. Claiming. Consuming.

"I need you on your stomach." His voice was gravel, dark and commanding. "I want to see your ass when I fuck you."

He didn’t wait for a response. He flipped me over, spreading my thighs with his strong, steady hands, and then he was inside me again, stretching me, filling me completely.

I saw stars.

I felt everything. A sharp smack landed on my ass, sending a wave of pleasure crashing through me.

"You're fucking perfect," he groaned into my hair, his thrusts deeper, faster, rougher.

I was already close again. The tingling started deep, spreading fast, crawling over my skin, my bones, my soul.

"Keep going," I begged, gripping the pillow, the pleasure so intense it nearly stopped my breath.

I screamed into the bedspread, my release detonating inside me, ripping through me with violent, consuming force.

Brooks wasn’t quiet. He groaned loudly, thrusting harder, deeper, his hips stuttering as he found his own release, his lips brushing over the back of my neck, down my spine.

The tenderness of it stunned me. Tenderness wasn’t part of the plan. Brooks collapsed beside me, his breathing ragged, his body still buzzing.

“How does it keep getting better?” he muttered, running a hand over his face, his chest still rising and falling hard.

"My ears are ringing. Seriously."

I didn’t respond. Didn’t trust myself to say anything that wouldn’t make me sound wrecked. Because I was. Because I couldn’t ignore the way he kept his hands on me, even after. Because I couldn’t ignore the way he smoothed my hair from my face, like he wasn’t done touching me yet.

"You still with me?" he asked, pulling me back to the moment.

"I’m awake, yes."

He didn’t buy it.

His forehead creased, his jaw tightening slightly. "Let's talk."

"Or sleep?" I tried.

He shot me a stern look, then got up, grabbing my legs, pulling me off the bed in one swift motion.

I yelped. "Uh, what’s going on?"

"We're getting back in the tub," he said, carrying me bridal style. “And talking.”

Oh.

That’s all.

No big deal.

I was fucked.