Page 15 of The Woman at the Funeral (Costa Family #11)

Blair

The last thing I needed was a business trip to Georgia—dealing with a client who wanted to know why it wasn’t classy to hire forgers to replicate some of the classics.

Gee, I don’t know. Because anyone who knows anything about art would know that The Girl with the Pearl Earring is on display at The Hague.

On top of the fact that someone who only had a net worth of ten million could never afford an original like that, even if it was for sale.

Which it wasn’t.

And likely never would be.

In the end, I managed to curate several pieces for local artists as well as order a few from an artist I knew was going to be the next big thing. He’d have bragging rights in a few months. And increase his net worth. Which meant he was likely to recommend me to any friends who asked.

I was originally supposed to catch a plane the following morning after doing some sightseeing.

But I’d been so cranky and miserable that I decided to head back to the city right away.

A terrible decision. There were two delays and so much turbulence that I, someone with a lot of experience flying, felt queasy and panicked.

Then to get home to learn that someone had been rifling through my home while I was gone, it was all too much.

I expected to slip into the bath and just have a good, long cry.

Instead, all I could do was think about Nico out in the living room in nothing but sleep pants again. I’d been a little disappointed in the camouflaging the dark material provided.

All those thoughts, well, they had the desire pinging off every nerve ending, had my skin feeling electric, and a pressure building so hard on my lower stomach that there was no way I could just ignore it.

So I let myself reach down, to touch myself to thoughts of him. And I promised myself it would be the last time.

Somehow, though, even after that, I lay in bed not sleeping, thinking of him out there, wondering what he would do if I walked out and lowered myself onto him, if I buried my face in his neck to breathe him in, if I kissed my way down his chest, then licked the grooves of his muscles.

What sounds would he make if I took him in my mouth?

If I worked him until he was tugging my hair, until he was bucking up into my mouth, until his whole body was tensed and aching for release?

I grumbled at myself, rolling over and counting backward from five hundred until my mind was bored enough to finally just pass out.

The problem was, I had dreams of him. I woke up still aching.

I climbed out of bed and made my way into the kitchen, ready to make us each some coffee before getting started on breakfast.

Maybe cooking would help focus me. Or at least give me a few minutes of a break from my desire.

The problem was that I made his coffee, then brought it over toward the couch when I saw him stirring.

And my delicate pink blanket had fallen off the side, half-wedged under the back cushions. Leaving him fully on display.

I swear his pants had slipped down lower in his sleep.

And with the early golden light spilling in through the many windows, even the dark material was doing nothing to hide the way his hardness was straining against the material.

I don’t remember putting his mug down, but I must have at some point while my gaze had been raking over him.

I could feel Nico’s gaze on me. And I knew there was no way he didn’t see my desire. I could feel it in my heavy eyelids, in the flush across my cheeks and chest, in my quick, shallow breathing.

Against the material, his cock twitched.

And there was no stopping the little whimper that escaped me in response.

When he spoke, his voice was rough from sleep.

“You can touch me if you want.”

I think I short-circuited.

That was the only explanation for how my hand lifted, reached out, then slid over to cover him through his pants.

Nico’s breath hitched, and his hips bucked slightly against my touch.

Spurred on by his reaction—and my own curiosity—my fingers curled around his thickness and stroked him once. Twice. Three times.

Another little sound escaped me.

This time, it had Nico folding up.

The movement made my hand fall away from his cock, but his hand rose instead, sinking into my hip.

Coaxing, but waiting, giving me the chance to make my own decision.

The second I stepped closer, he was reaching with both his hands, pulling me down until I was straddling him.

There was no hesitation in dropping my hips down on his lap.

Nico’s breath hitched as a soft moan escaped me when his hard length pressed against the barely-there material of my shorts and panties.

His hands slid to my ass, sinking in, using it to rock me against him again.

But I didn’t need the assistance. My own hips were already rocking, rubbing against his hard length.

My head fell back on a moan. And Nico’s face was right there, his lips pressing into my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

I’d just done another delicious little rock against the thick need pressed against me when there was a staccato rapping on the door.

I jerked up hard, losing the feel of him.

Nico’s head pressed forward, resting his face between my breasts for just a second, taking a deep breath.

“That’s Zeno.”

“Your brother ?” I gasped, jumping off his lap, my nerves jittery, frazzled. The desire was still a vice grip in my core, aching and unfulfilled. I could still feel the scratch of Nico’s scruff on my neck.

A part of me wanted to say screw it to anyone on the other side of the door, walk back there, strip out of my bottoms, climb on his lap, and let him slip deep inside me. Then ride him until we were both panting, moaning, and climaxing together, not caring about who might be overhearing.

I glanced back just in time to see Nico tucking his hardness upward to discreetly hide his erection in his waistband before climbing off the couch.

Just the sight of that had me practically shaking with need.

“I brought what you asked for,” Zeno called through the door. “And I’m expecting some of that banana bread coffee you mentioned.”

Glad for something to do, I walked back into the kitchen to start another cup as Nico opened the door.

And in walked a guy who, at a base level, looked a lot like his big brother. They were both tall, both fit, both dark-haired, and had amazing bone structure.

But unlike Nico, Zeno’s hair was long. The skin peeking out of his neck, down his arms, and below his knees was all covered in tattoos.

He had an eyebrow ring and painted nails.

And, inexplicably, he was wearing shorts printed with rubber duckies riding pink flamingo pool floats and a gray shirt with a tie printed down the front. On said tie? Sharks.

He had a large backpack slung over one shoulder and a garment bag over his arm.

He handed the bag to his brother (who was likely glad for something to hide behind) and made a beeline for me.

“I hear you are the keeper of the banana bread coffee,” he said as a greeting.

My lips curved up, charmed despite his terrible timing.

Or was it great timing?

Because surely it was a terrible idea to let that go any further. Not only was he my dead husband’s oldest friend, but he was now my neighbor. There were so many ways it could go wrong.

“I make the syrup myself,” I told him, waving the glass jar at him.

“Give me a bump,” he demanded, offering me the top of his hand. To, presumably, drop the liquid onto. I got him a spoon. “Yes, much more civilized,” he said with a twinkle in his brown eyes as I poured the syrup onto it.

He put the spoon in his mouth and let out a moan.

“You should sell this. You’d make a fortune.

” He glanced around. “An even bigger fortune,” he said with a charmingly lopsided smile.

He caught my gaze sliding over his outfit, and the smile went a little self-deprecating.

“I’m clearly the brother who doesn’t have his shit together. ” He gestured down at his outfit.

“I dunno. Gav might fight you for that place,” Nico said, coming back out of the hall bathroom fully dressed.

Internally, I wept.

Even if the man did wear a suit really well.

“Oh, but did Gav have to use toilet paper as a coffee filter this morning? I don’t think so.”

“Put them on auto ship,” Nico suggested.

“That is a good idea.”

“Now,” Nico added with a quirk of his lips that suggested he knew that if it wasn’t done right that moment, it wouldn’t get done at all.

“Right. Right,” Zen agreed, reaching for his phone.

“Do you want your coffee hot or iced?” I asked.

“Precious,” he said, shooting me another of those charming smiles of his, “I would drink two-day-old burnt coffee out of a dubiously clean cup. However you want to make it is fine by me.”

He walked over toward the dining table to set his backpack down on a chair as he typed away on his phone.

“If you saw his dirty mug collection, you’d know that was true,” Nico said.

“He has executive dysfunction,” I guessed.

“Good guess.”

“My college boyfriend had ADHD. He couldn’t think straight if someone was playing music or a dog was barking in the distance. And as soon as he put something away in a cabinet, he forgot it existed. He ended up with six of the exact same binders because he kept forgetting he already bought them.”

“Is that why you broke up?” he asked. What he wasn’t saying hung between the words. Because I was a little on the anal side, did his spacey tendencies drive me up a wall?

“Oh, no. That would be the chronic cheating.”

“Oof,” Nico said, wincing. “Sorry.”

“Turns out he couldn’t remember he had a girlfriend when I was out of sight,” I said, rolling my eyes.

It had been long enough that I could laugh about it now.

Besides, the grief over that relationship was overshadowed by the loss of my grandmother directly after.

“You’re not a cheater, are you?” I asked Zeno when he came back to take his cup of coffee from me.