CHAPTER THIRTEEN
brYCE
I lost control. Again.
I should feel guilty about how quickly I broke—embarrassed, even. But shame doesn’t register when I’m still reveling in the feel of her pussy’s angelic chokehold on my fingers.
My guest suite feels like a prison cell, even with the ocean stretching wide beyond the giant windows.
I’m too wound up to appreciate the view.
I sit on the edge of the bed in nothing but silk boxers, hair still dripping from the blistering shower I took to erase the jungle heat. And her touch. And her taste.
It didn’t work.
I’m supposed to be settling into my evening routine—analyzing market trends and reviewing IPO documents. Instead, I’m rock hard over the phantom sensation of her wicked grip around my cock.
I scrub my palms down my face, rough stubble biting back. She obliterated my willpower in seconds. What the hell is wrong with me ?
Who does that? Who fingers his best friend’s sister against a tree while she jerks him off like it’s some team-building exercise for deviants?
Me, apparently.
Sterling men don’t lose their composure. We don’t make guttural sounds when we come. We don’t bite women’s necks like predators.
But that’s exactly what I did.
The memory sends a wicked pulse of heat down my spine—and lower.
I reach for the scotch, my fingers trembling slightly as I bring the glass to my lips.
The amber liquid burns as it goes down. And Christ, tucked away in my suitcase is that damn shirt, stained with her lipstick.
I should have thrown it away, but there it is, folded carefully like some kind of twisted souvenir.
The digital clock on the nightstand glows 11:52 p.m.
“You’ll be the one knocking on my door tonight.”
The arrogant prediction echoes in my head. I had delivered that line with such insufferable confidence, so sure I’d left her dripping for more. Convinced I held all the cards.
And now, it’s pushing midnight.
I stalk toward the balcony, anxious for some air. The night breeze carries the whisper of distant waves and the rustle of palm fronds, but underneath it all… silence.
Deafening, mocking silence.
Was the whole thing an elaborate game? Get the billionaire to blow his load in the jungle and walk away laughing? Was I a conquest? Her one-time power play to bring the rich boy to his knees?
I bet Petra’s in her room right now, texting her friends, rating my orgasm noises on a scale of one to pathetic .
“Guess what, girls? I jerked off Bryce Sterling. He came so fast, I thought he was sneezing. And then he whinnied like a dehydrated pony.”
I bury my head in my hands. Jesus.
Or maybe— fuck —maybe I was too aggressive. Too rough. Maybe when I pulled her back against my chest and covered her mouth to muffle her cries, she felt trapped.
Shit. What if I crossed a line? What if she didn’t come knocking because she’s afraid to be alone with me?
I fall onto the bed, a man defeated, the Egyptian cotton sheets cool against my overheated skin. The phone on my nightstand is a glowing beacon of bad decisions. I snatch it up, thumb hovering over the screen as my mind cycles through increasingly desperate options.
Maybe I should text Gavin. Not about the sex stuff, obviously. Just… ask if Petra mentioned me. Casual. Brotherly concern. Hey, how’s your sister? She seemed exhausted after the ATV ride.
“What in God’s sweaty name are you thinking?” I mutter to the empty room, tossing the device. “You can’t text him. He’ll figure it out in five seconds, drag you back to the jungle for a ‘bonding hike,’ and push you off a cliff.”
I pick up my phone again. I could message her. And say what? Thanks for putting 110% into that handjob. How about we finish what we started?
No. Out of the question. That’s pathetic.
But what if she’s lost? It is a huge house. What if she can’t find her way to me through this labyrinth of hallways?
“Sterling, you’re grasping at straws. She’s fine. Her room is literally across the hall from yours. She’s probably sleeping and hasn’t thought about you once.”
My brain isn’t listening. It simply plays back a reel of her sweet sounds, smells, sighs, and sensations.
Listen, brain. Petra is trying to one up me. She thinks if she holds out longer, she wins. If I cave, if I go to her first, she will never respect me. This is Classic Pip—rattle the unshakable gentleman.
How did I not see this coming?
I grab the scotch, take a swig, and immediately regret it. The ice has turned to water, transforming aged perfection into lukewarm disappointment—kind of like my entire evening.
Fuck, I want her.
12:03… Blaring proof I’m a failure.
I should let it go. Stay here. Be rational.
Instead, I catapult off the mattress and head for the closet. If she wants a reaction, very well. She shall have one. No more games. Just two adults who clearly need to address unfinished business.
I stare at the silk robe just hanging there. Getting fully dressed is admitting defeat—as if I’m preparing for a meeting instead of whatever sexual standoff is about to unfold.
The robe wins.
I slip into the midnight blue silk, not bothering to tie it completely—loose enough to appear casual, but still dignified. Not vulnerable. Just appropriately annoyed at being kept waiting.
I storm to my door, hand on the handle, and exhale dramatically. Time to march across that hallway and remind Petra Brinkman who she’s dealing with.
I pull it open—
And my brain sputters.
There she is, smirking at the threshold. All my filthiest fantasies in the flesh.
THUD! I shut the door so fast, it shakes the frame.
“Fucking hell.”
My hand hovers over the lock mechanism. I flip the deadbolt. Flip it back. Then flip it again.
Open it, you coward. Pretend you have some semblance of game left.
Or you could test your luck, jump off the balcony, and go hide in the jungle.
Stop being pathetic. You’re a Sterling. Sterlings don’t retreat.
Swinging the door wide, I allow my robe to slip open, revealing my bare chest. I lean against the frame, aiming for nonchalant, hoping it appears effortless.
“Good evening,” I say, dragging my gaze up her body. “I thought you’d lost your nerve.”
Her grin could power half of Mexico. “You’re the one who seems to have lost your shirt somewhere between opening and slamming the door.”
Her eyes drop—lingering on purpose.
I cross my arms. “I do not slam doors.”
“I’d call that a slam. Unless it was the sound of your composure hitting the floor.”
“I was… ensuring proper door functionality.”
“For an eternity and then some. What were you doing in there—fluffing the merchandise?”
“It’s a complex locking mechanism.”
She laughs—this rich, throaty sound that goes straight to my dick. “Right. Well, I’m here to collect on your little wager. You said I’d come knocking today. “ She taps an imaginary watch. “But it’s 12:14 a.m., Moneybags. Welcome to tomorrow.”
“So you’re winning on a technicality?”
“I’m just showing you who’s edging who.”
My eyes narrow. “Why are you dressed up? Is there an occasion I’m unaware of?”
“I dress for the mood I want to inspire. Tonight’s vibe? Make the billionaire beg.”
She executes a ravenous spin. So torturous, my neural pathways scramble.
Jesus fucking Christ, that dress.
It’s the crimson halter from when we went shopping at Sebastian’s boutique—molten silk that hugs every dangerous curve like a map to temptation. The back dips scandalously low, revealing that tattoo I can’t stop thinking about (and she knows it) .
She peers over her shoulder with calculated innocence. “See anything that needs closer inspection?”
“Wait…” I force my thoughts to align. “You only showed up to gloat about timing?”
“Not exactly.” Her eyes rake down my torso, then lower to my hips. “I came to see if your boxer situation had resolved itself. There he is. Mr. Happy, waving his silk flag of surrender.”
I instinctively adjust my robe, which is failing spectacularly at concealing his interest.
“You’re absolutely maddening.”
“Your body disagrees. You’re at full mast, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
“Do you ever stop?”
“Only when someone shuts me up properly.”
My brain glitches. I can do that.
She steps closer. “Ready to admit I outplayed you?”
I shake my head, despite every instinct screaming surrender. “Not happening. Sweet dreams, Pip. Try not to lose sleep over what could have been.”
I start closing the door with exaggerated slowness—calling her bluff.
She doesn’t budge.
Until there’s just a sliver to look through.
“Wait.” She exhales. “All right, fine. I’ll say it… I want you, Bryce.”
The confession pours over me like warm honey and wildfire. Everything I’ve tried not to feel floods into me at once.
I open the door wide. “Thank Christ, because I’ve been out of my mind wanting you.”
One pull, and she’s flush against me. My mouth crashes into hers, like she’s oxygen and I’ve been suffocating for years. Her lips part on a breathy noise I sense more than hear—and then, it’s heat and tongue and her taste flooding my senses.
THUD! Somehow, one of us manages to close the door.
Her mouth is wild and confident. Like she owns my lips and is only here to remind me. I match her intensity, opening her up and sinking in. She fights back, because that’s who she is. Who she’s always been.
This is exactly what kissing her felt like years ago—like grabbing hold of a live wire and choosing electrocution. Every safe, predictable part of my life is going up in flames, and I’m too far gone to worry about the ashes.
My hands slide down to cup the globes of her ass, squeezing through the crimson fabric. She gasps against my mouth, the noise shooting straight to my groin. Then her fingers twist into my hair at the nape of my neck and yank—hard. There’s a sting of pain, and it excites me.
A lot.