Winning Brynn (Seattle Strikers)

39. Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Brynn

I remember the night Alex and I were dropped unceremoniously onto the front porch of the Poppy Fields Children's Home.

It had been less than twenty-four hours since our parents had been killed by a drunk driver smashing into their car on the Interstate. Less than twenty-four hours since the police knocked on our door and told our sitter what had happened. Less than twenty-four hours since our little lives had been ripped apart.

Until then, we'd been happy.

Our parents had been good to us. They had loved us. Our mother had been especially gentle, our father a quiet man who spoke more with his actions than his words—so Alex tells me, anyway. I remember little of them now.

I’d only been six at the time, whereas he’d been ten. Old enough to understand what was happening and take the burden of my care upon himself. Old enough, also, to carry the memory of our parents with him even now.

So, there we stood, in the doorway of our new reality, his arm wrapped around my shoulders, me crying a waterfall of tears and him swallowing his own grief so that I could wallow in mine.

He let me sleep in bed with him that night and every night following for a year, despite how hard the staff worked to separate us.

But that's just who my brother is.

He is my strength and my safety net. My eternal protector.

And apparently, my biggest cockblock.

Since Leo kissed me in the middle of the night, my hulking, grumbly employer has avoided me at every opportunity. He's already long gone when Salem and I wake up in the mornings, though that's not unusual. What is new, though, is the ten-foot radius he gives me in the rare moments we're sharing the same space, or how he immediately disappears into his office every evening after getting his daughter down for the night.

The first night it happens, I'm understanding.

The second night, I'm irritated.

The third night, I'm pissed off.

And now, on the fourth night of his ridiculous avoidance bullshit, I'm downright seething.

Lifting my fist to his office door, I slam it three times against the thick wood. Without even waiting for an answer, I push my way inside.

"Leo Sullivan, I have a bone to pick with—wait, what is this?" My feet slam to a stop as I take in the room.

I've been in his office before, either chasing after Salem when she's decided to crawl her way inside or grabbing something Leo has needed when I've been in an obliging mood. I've never taken much time to really take in the space before, but I've seen enough to know that he has made some significant changes since the last time I came in here.

Namely, the stark-white backdrop now hiding the bookcases, a tripod mounted with an incredibly fancy-looking camera, and the softbox lights surrounding it on either side.

"Leo, what is this?" I ask again, my tone gentler this time, my eyes wide as I breathe it all in.

From his position on the floor, he drops the wires in his hands and lays his palms on his knees, looking up at me. There's a softness to his expression, a shy, almost vulnerable flicker in his gaze.

He clears his throat. "Well, you told me a little while ago that you were struggling to stay on top of your workload for your social media. And since it's because you're helping me out with Salem, I figured that the least I could do was try to find a way to make it easier for you."

I blink at him.

"I don't know anything about photography, so I just Googled what you'd need and bought the stuff it said was the best. Is it okay?"

"Yes," I breathe because my voice has abandoned me.

"You sure?" He climbs to his feet, the muscles in his shirtless abdomen contracting with the movement. I swallow and remind myself not to stare. "We can return anything you don't like, and you can pick out replacements. Whatever you need, just charge it to my card."

"Leo." His name is an awed whisper as I look to him with tearful eyes. "You did all this for me?"

He shrugs like it means nothing. Like it's not a big deal. Like it's not one of the nicest, most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for me. "Yeah."

"Look at this stuff," I murmur, ghosting my fingers over the Hasselblad camera mounted on the tripod. "This alone must have cost close to ten thousand dollars."

"Twenty," he says simply.

"Twenty thousand dollars?" My jaw drops. "Are you fucking insane?"

His lips purse as he fights to stifle a laugh. "I assume you don't want to know what the rest of the stuff set me back, then."

Pushing the heels of my hands into my eyes, I take several deep breaths through my nose. "No," I squeak. "Not unless you want to give me a coronary."

I don't know he's in front of me until I feel his fingers wrap around my wrists and gently pull my hands away from my face. Keeping my eyes glued to his feet, I hear him release a small, shuddering laugh.

"I must admit, this isn't how I imagined this would go."

"I'm sorry," I sniff, hastily brushing a tear from under my eyes and praying he won't notice. "I don't know what to say."

"How about thank you?"

"Oh, yes, that." I'm still staring at his bare feet—his incredibly masculine, annoyingly pretty, bare feet. "Thank you, Leo. So much. But I can't accept it."

His finger slips beneath my chin, tilting my head up and forcing me to finally meet his eyes.

"Yes, you can."

"No, I—"

"You can. " He's so stern right now, so resolute in his mission to gift me this obscenely expensive and touching gift. "And you will, Brynn. You don't have a choice, I'm afraid."

"But why would you—"

"Because I wanted to," he interrupts. "Stop trying to talk me out of it, okay? It ain't gonna work."

Reluctantly, I nod. Then slowly, I let my lips spread into a small, grateful smile, hoping he can see in my eyes just how much the gesture means to me.

Dark irises sparkle back at me in both relief and amusement. "Good."

It's only now that I realize he hasn't dropped his hand from my face. It's just suspended there, his fingers tickling against my neck, his thumb pressed into the cleft of my chin.

It hits us both at the same time, our proximity. And yet, neither of us moves. Slowly, so fucking slowly, his thumb slides up to stroke across my bottom lip.

I gasp. I can't help it. One small touch from this man has the power to set me aflame, to make me burn in a way I never have for anybody else.

I watch as his pupils dilate, his gaze dipping to track the movement of his thumb on my lips.

Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop, I chant in my head.

"What are you doing?" I whisper instead.

He shakes his head, his eyes fixed on my mouth. "Don't talk."

Wetting his own with a sharp dart of his tongue, he slips his thumb between my lips, pressing down gently on my tongue. And I latch on. That's the only word for it. I trap him inside with my teeth, flicking my tongue over the ridges of his digit, swirling it over him the way I dream I could do to another part of him.

I'd do it right now if he'd let me.

I'd drop to my knees and show him just how fucking grateful I am for what he's done for me.

"Fuck ," he hisses through his teeth, nostrils flaring. He can't look away, can't drag his gaze away from the point of our connection.

And I can't look away from him.

His eyes, blazing with fire. His wide, strong shoulders. The ridges of his abs as he sucks in shaky breaths. He is, without a doubt in my mind, the most erotically attractive man I've ever seen in my whole twenty-four years of existence.

"Fuck it," he growls.

And then he's on me.