CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Brandon
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Brandon
“IT’S YOU” — L? SPIRIT
Present Day
I’ve finally managed to get a moment alone, a moment away from the chaos of the reception to look for her.
I find her leaning against the edge of the bar holding what I’m guessing is her third glass of champagne. Her heels are kicked off underneath a nearby hightop table and her dark curls hang loosely down her back.
She’s not drunk. There’s nothing messy about her. She’s just beautifully softened around her normally sharp edges.
The music is still thumping in the background.
She doesn’t see me at first—or maybe she does and pretends not to.
Her fingers trace slow circles along the rim of her champagne flute.
She laughs at something Tony says, but it’s half a second later than it should be.
A little forced. She’s thinking too much and trying not to—I can tell, even from a few feet away.
I’m just checking on her.
That’s all.
Tony makes another dumb joke, and Johanna wobbles a bit as she gives another fake laugh and shifts her weight.
I take the opportunity to step in behind her.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
Tony glances between us.
“Do I need to—” he says, actually reading the room for once in his life and clocking the energy shift. “Yeah, I’m just gonna go ahead and relocate myself. I’ll just…” He pauses awkwardly, already backing away. “Be over… there.”
Once he’s gone, Johanna’s head turns towards me slowly and her eyes find mine. The music fades into nothing, and once again, she’s the only thing I see.
“I’m fine, Brandon,” she says, turning to face me and lifting her chin slightly like she’s daring me to argue with her.
She’s trying to lace her voice with its usual edge, but even though she doesn’t want it to be, it’s softened—warmed by champagne and something else she won’t know how to name.
There’s heat there, and dare I say—something reckless.
“Uh huh,” I smirk. “Sure you are.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I ask, my pulse already picking up. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to force me to be responsible.”
Despite my better judgement, I huff out a quiet laugh.
“Someone should,” I say. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight.”
“I’m not drunk,” she insists.
“I know.”
That’s just it.
She’s just tipsy enough for the truth to be close to the surface. Just loose enough to stop pretending. Any more champagne and the opportunity to finally get to the bottom of all this will be lost.
I can’t have that happen.
She studies me for a long beat, waiting for me to make my next move. Maybe waiting to see if I’ll back down. The celebration continues around us. Music, laughter, toasts… none of it reaches us.
“Are you going to give me a lecture, Dad?” she asks. “I already have Grayson for that. I don’t need it from you, too.”
“That’s not my intention, no.”
“Then what is your intention, Brandon?”
I hesitate as the question hangs between us.
I have a lot of them—intentions—but I have to do this right.
“I’m taking you home.”
Her breath catches at the thought of being alone with me. It’s barely perceptible to anyone else, but I clock it immediately.
Silence stretches between us. Her gaze drops briefly to my lips—quick, almost involuntary—before flicking back up to meet my eyes. It’s such a small movement, but it hits me harder than any declaration ever could.
She’s actually considering this.
“You really think that’s a good idea?” she says, so softly the music almost drowns her out.
No—it’s actually a terrible fucking idea.
Even if it is, I’m so sick of letting avoidance and “bad timing” dictate everything we do.
“No,” I admit, deciding honesty might get me further. “I don’t—but I’m done caring about it. I want to figure this out. Don’t you?”
Her lips part slightly. After a few moments, she gives a slow exhale.
“Okay,” she says. “Yes.”
Perfect.
I’m getting her out of here before she has a chance to change her mind.
I’m not giving either of us time to overthink it.
I turn her towards the door by the shoulder before sliding my hand easily down to the small of her back. As I guide her through the crowd, the reception continues to roar behind us.
She doesn’t protest.
There’s no hesitation.
She stays right by my side, like it’s the most natural place in the world for her to be.
The coolness in the night air hits us right as we step out of the car in front of the girls’ hotel. We figured we’d be safer from Tony Interruptus there—in a band-member-free zone.
She exhales slowly, and I can see the shift in her body as we walk through the lobby.
“Still sure?” I murmur.
She stops short in front of the elevators and forces me to look at her head on.
“Stop asking me that,” she says, the edge returning to her voice. “I wouldn’t have come back with you if I didn’t want to be here.”
I know she’s right.
One thing has never changed about her—Johanna Harris doesn’t do anything without the utmost intention.
I give her a soft smile before leaning over, my arm brushing lightly against hers, to press the button to summon the elevator.
The lobby is quiet this late. There’s a couple checking in at the front desk. A bellhop pushes a luggage cart across the marble floors to the valet. No one recognizes us. No one’s paying attention.
Still, I don’t touch her.
Not yet.
Even though it’s killing me. Even though it’s been killing me since we left the wedding. Even though it’s a minor miracle we left the limo fully clothed. Because I know if I allow myself to go there—especially knowing none of our nosey friends are around—I won’t be able to control myself.
At last, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. We step inside together, and Johanna presses the button for the fourteenth floor.
The doors close, and the only noise in the air is the hum of the elevator as it begins to rise.
She leans back against the mirrored wall, arms crossing loosely over her chest before one hand drifts down to trace idle shapes against the bare skin of her arm.
I step closer to her, hoping like hell she can’t tell how desperate I am to close the distance between us.
“You’re staring,” she says quietly, glancing up to meet my eyes again.
“It’s impossible not to.”
Her breath catches as she shifts her weight.
“You look at me like that,” she murmurs. “And you make it very difficult to keep pretending this is a mistake.”
“Good.”
I take another step forward. Slowly. Deliberately. My hand comes up to her jaw—not forcing, not demanding anything—just enough to tilt her face upward towards mine.
“Last chance, Hurricane,” I whisper.
She stiffens at the sound of the nickname. Since day one, I’ve never been able to let it go.
“You can still walk away.”
Her eyes flick down to my lips again, just like they did earlier—except this time, I see the desire behind her gaze.
“I’m not walking away.”
Her words are all the permission I need.
I create some distance, just enough to pull the elevator’s emergency brake, before I move my hand up to thread my fingers through her hair.
The kiss I press against her lips isn’t rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s surprisingly controlled—six years of restraint built up to this moment. I don’t want to lose it now.
Her fingers fist in my jacket, pulling me closer as her back meets the mirror with a soft breath. I deepen the kiss carefully, letting it build instead of explode.
The small sound she makes—quiet and involuntary—nearly unravels me. It feels like all the blood in my body has rushed straight to my dick.
I place kisses up her jawline until my lips land just by her ear.
“I know we said we’d talk,” I whisper. “But all I can fucking think about right now is how you taste.”
“Conversation’s overrated,” she replies as her breathing intensifies.
My free hand slides down to her waist, tracing the curve of her hip before I brush the delicate black silk of the slit of her dress aside just enough for my fingers to explore the lace of her panties. It doesn’t take much before I feel her starting to tremble at my touch.
“Do you taste as good as I’ve imagined, Hurricane?”
I pull back just enough to look at her, but my hands remain exactly where they are.
I sneak a finger between her thighs and underneath the thin fabric of her panties and I let out a groan as I realize how fucking wet she is for me. I drag my finger between her folds slowly until I reach the hood of her clit.
I stop short, because I swear I feel a small, metal ring… there.
“Johanna,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady because—fuck. “Are you… pierced?”
“Maybe,” she says with something almost reminiscent of insecurity. “What do you think?”
I never thought I would find a piercing like that attractive.
It hadn’t ever crossed my mind as something I’d be into, but I can’t deny—now that it’s right in front of me—I’m excited.
I remind myself I don’t really know her anymore, but I’m eager to get to know this version.
No matter who she is, no matter what lifetime we’re in, I’ll always want her.
“Everything you do—everything you are—is fucking intoxicating, Johanna,” I assure her with more honesty than I’ve felt about anything in a long time.
I flick the jewelry playfully, which earns a subtle whimper, before sliding a finger inside of her and watching her head fall back in pleasure. Now coated with her arousal, I bring it up to meet her lips.
During the nights we shared together all those years ago, this was always her show. She made all the moves. I let her believe she was the one in charge because I was so taken aback by how brazen and confident this sexy little goddess was.
But now?
She’s about to find out who’s really in charge—and who always has been.
I’ve spent years thinking about this moment.
Since I met her, I’ve dreamed about how she would sound when she fully submits to me.
There have been more than a few times over the years when I’ve stroked my cock, thinking about her whimpering for Daddy as I finally give her what she’s so desperate for.