CHAPTER NINE
brYCE
I won’t jerk off to my best friend’s little sister… again.
Hot water pelts the back of my neck like liquid bullets, steam curling up around the marble shower, heavy with judgment. I brace both hands against the slick tile and stare down at my traitorous cock, fully alert, completely unbothered by the moral implications of its current state.
Droplets bounce off my sensitive tip, sinful, provocative taunts running down my length. My hand hovers—hesitating. Threatening. A tremor of restraint coils through my gut.
This is absurd.
I am a grown man. A man with responsibilities and self-discipline. I will not enter into negotiations with my own rock-hard dick about Petra Brinkman.
Technically, this is the third time I’ve given myself this lecture.
The first instance was last night, after that trainwreck of a dinner.
After the… audible foreplay? I stripped out of my tux, still smelling her on my hands—jasmine and sin.
The lingering presence of her thigh under my palm.
Her fingers— God, her fingers —landing on my erection.
The challenge in her eyes as she whispered, “And what do I get if I do gag?”
I came in record time, biting my fist like a goddamn teenager.
And then at 3:12 a.m., I jolted awake from a dream so vivid, I could almost feel the ghost of her weight on top of me. Hear her throaty voice in my ear. My hand was already gripping my cock, stroking. Urgent. Instinctive.
This isn’t me. I’ve spent twenty-nine years building a life defined by discipline and restraint.
And yet here I am, starting my morning as if I’m some unhinged pervert in a luxury rain shower, contemplating round three like it’s medically necessary to keep me from losing my shit.
This would make it an unholy trinity in under twelve hours. A personal record I’m not proud of.
I don’t indulge. I don’t fixate. I don’t obsess .
Except… it’s Petra.
My brain’s been rewired. Every thought loops back to her. The way she leaned into my touch as I fastened her dress. The way her body trembled when my knuckles skimmed her spine. Ink painted over her curves, begging to be explored.
God, her tattoos.
I can’t stop thinking about the wildflowers etched across her shoulder blade. When my fingers traced their outline, she shivered. And that broken heart behind her ear—so small it was nearly missed—until my thumb brushed it and she went rigid.
There’s history inked on that skin. A warning label—and an invitation.
Who broke Pip’s heart badly enough that she needed to immortalize it? The thought stirs something possessive and primal in me .
I’d love to peel that pink dress off her body, exposing each hidden tattoo one by one.
I’d start at her neck, pressing my lips to her pulse point, feeling it race beneath my mouth as I worked my way down.
Would she be soft or sharp with me? Would those clever retorts dissolve into sighs if I used my teeth on the sensitive skin below her ear?
My hand wraps around my cock before I even realize it.
“Fuck.”
I stroke once, slow. Then again. My hips twitch forward, my eyes slam shut, and a guttural sound escapes my throat. Shame flickers. Followed immediately by a vivid mental reel of Petra straddling my lap, lips parted, pupils blown wide as she dares me to ruin her.
I’ve never acted this way. Not with any woman. Certainly not Amanda. In five years, I never once felt this consuming, desperate hunger. Sex with her was routine . A scheduled appointment. An emotional ceasefire . Always efficient. Always polite.
This—this obsession with Petra—is something else. It’s ravenous and unhinged and frightens me even as I chase it.
What is it about Pip that dismantles me? Is it because she’s forbidden fruit? Because she’s Gavin’s little sister? Is it her rebellion? Or is it simpler than that?
She’s real in a way no one in my world has ever been.
Or perhaps it’s because she called me missionary and boring , making me want to pin her to a wall and prove her wrong?
My hand moves faster now, my breathing ragged.
I told her: “We’ll have to spend the night exploring what else you enjoy choking on.”
Christ.
Who the fuck was that man? Not Bryce Sterling, heir to a financial empire.
I’ve never uttered words like that to any woman.
Amanda would have fainted dead if I had suggested such a thing. Our bedroom talk consisted primarily of “Is this satisfactory?” and “Be sure to let me know when you’re approaching completion.”
But with Petra? Some dormant beast clawed its way to the surface the moment she challenged me, awakening desires I wasn’t aware I had. Urges that involve holding those small wrists above her head while I make her beg.
With her, it doesn’t feel dangerous to be known. Like peeling back my layers wouldn’t scare her off.
My cock strains against my palm, the head swollen and sensitive, pre-cum mixing with water as I stroke from base to tip with increasing need.
The fantasy takes hold again, darker this time. My strokes turn rougher, faster. My hips jerk forward. I’m chasing it now—chasing her.
Would she want it this way?
Fast. Dirty. Rough.
Would she taunt me? Push me to go harder?
Beg me not to stop?
“Petra…” Her name escapes on a ragged exhale.
What would she say if she saw me like this? The great Bryce Sterling, reduced to jacking off in the shower? Would those red lips curl in her knowing smirk? Would she let out her smoky laugh that makes my cock twitch?
Or would she press that spectacular body against mine, rise up on her toes, and whisper, “Need some help with that, Moneybags? ”
I’d have an aneurysm and die smiling. But last night, the mood snapped like a rubber band. I still don’t understand what happened.
Did I go too far?
Was it the ring?
Echo?
The moment he declared her his “muse,” her expression shifted. One second she was teasing me, pushing me, daring me to cross the line, and the next, she was ice.
No smile. No jokes. No comebacks.
She didn’t say another word to me the rest of the night.
I wanted to go to her room. Ask. Demand. Hell, plead for an explanation.
But I didn’t.
“Goddamn it,” I growl.
I lean my face against my forearm on the shower wall, my jaw locked with the sort of guilt that never washes off.
I chose a million-dollar ruby to match the shade of her lips. Of course she refused to wear the damn ring.
What the hell was I thinking? Petra hates flashy wealth. I should’ve known she’d see it as an attempt to dress her up like some Sterling-approved showpiece. Or worse—she was afraid of the responsibility, worried she’d lose something so valuable.
Regardless, I backed her into a corner with my expectations. And once again, she defied them.
Her name pulses through me with each punishing stroke. Petra. Petra. Petra.
I can almost feel her in here with me—pressed between my overheated body and the cool marble wall, water plastering that wild black hair to her skin, red lips parted on gasps bouncing off the tiles.
One of my hands would be in her strands, angling her head back to expose the pale column of her throat.
The other gripping her hip as my fingers dug in hard enough to leave marks.
I’d say her name with every thrust then demand she say mine in return.
“Say it, Pip. Say my name.”
“Make me, Moneybags,” she’d say, gasping and fighting her growing arousal.
My muscles coil tight as I near release.
I imagine those plump, red, dick-sucking lips.
God, I crave that mouth—around me, on me, owning me.
I want to be fucking her mouth with the kind of hedonistic pleasure I’ve spent my entire life denying.
And when her rebellious hazel eyes stare up at me through dark lashes, it’s game over.
My orgasm slams through me—no warning this time. Just detonation.
Rope after rope of come sprays against imported marble before being washed away by the water, evidence of my weakness disappearing down the drain.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I gasp, chest heaving like I’ve run a marathon, my cock still pulsing in my grip.
I have no idea how many more releases I’ll need today. Five? Ten? Before I finish drying off?
Because this?
It’s the only choice I have.
I have to keep my distance.
** *
I haven’t seen Petra all day. Not that I’ve been looking for her.
Okay, fine. I have.
The tearoom. The gardens. The waiting area outside the massage cabana.
I engineered three unnecessary trips past her suite, lingered in hallways with no purpose, and subjected myself to a fifteen-minute conversation with Hana Choi about the “transformative power of jade face rollers”—all in hopes she’d seen Petra earlier.
Still no sign of her.
Now I’m seated with Gavin for our lunch meeting at Casa Cashmere’s poolside outdoor pavilion, barely tasting the exquisite meal in front of me because I’m busy monitoring the perimeter like a Secret Service agent watching for threats.
Or in this case, a 5’9” woman with a smart mouth and black eyeliner.
The pavilion exudes tropical luxury. A thatched palapa roof soars overhead, supported by bamboo columns wrapped in fairy lights. The teak floor shines. White curtains flutter, showcasing twin infinity pools that disappear into the Pacific. The jungle provides a lush, private setting.
Despite the midday Mexican heat, we’re both in suits.
I was raised that Sterling men don’t “dress down,” even when the humidity makes it feel like we’re wearing portable saunas.
My navy Tom Ford clings to my back, while Gavin’s charcoal Armani stays impeccable.
The man could walk through a hurricane and be runway ready.
Hidden fans and a top-notch cooling system keep the air pleasant and scented with plumeria. Three motionless servers in matching white uniforms blend into the décor so well, they’re barely visible. One materializes to refill my water glass the instant I glance at it, then swiftly disappears .