Chapter 4
Darby
I’m just pouring myself a cup of coffee when Blake and Loki blow into the kitchen like a category-five hurricane, disrupting everything in their path.
Blake with his very solid, very sweaty, and very manly presence.
Loki with the audible panting of what I’m sure I’d sound like looking at Blake if I weren’t forcibly keeping my comments to myself.
One second, it’s just me, my chipped mug, and the quiet drip of the coffeemaker; the next, there’s six-plus feet of panting, glistening man barreling through the space like the kitchen personally offended him.
I can’t believe he does this every morning.
Who wakes up and voluntarily runs until they’re drenched in sweat before the sun is fully committed to the day?
It’s all I can do to make the trek down the hallway to the kitchen for coffee without needing a nap afterward.
He has so much energy in the morning. It’s offensive on a cellular level.
I turn and lean against the edge of the center island, needing to drink him in as much as I do my coffee.
I tell myself I’m just stabilizing, that my knees are wobbly from a caffeine deficit, not from the way his shoulders fill the doorway.
If I don’t brace myself, I might slide down the cabinet and end up as a human puddle on the floor, and that feels like it would give too much away.
He hasn’t seen me yet, and it's only a matter of seconds before he does, so until then, I continue to take my fill and mentally file it away to be brought out later. That’s the deal I’ve made with myself: look, don’t touch; suffer now, fantasize later.
There are only so many times a girl can see a guy dressed only in shorts, boxers, a towel, or swim trunks before she must either tear said coverings from his body and take her fill or slink off to some dark corner and rub one out.
Given my current emotional stability level, I’m firmly in dark-corner territory.
Which is unfortunate for me. Because since I moved into his spare room, I’ve realized that Blake is a Man.
Capital M. Yes, he’s my bestie’s older brother and someone I’ve known since childhood—keeper of the good snacks, giver of rides to the movies, occasional teen tormentor—but he’s also six feet of sinewy, well-proportioned, muscular magnificence.
How I never noticed before is baffling. It’s like my brain finally took him off the no-fly list and moved him to destination: potentially ruinous life choices.
I shift slightly, rubbing my thighs together to stem the rush of heat between them. The cheap tile is cool under my bare feet; it’s not helping.
I wipe my chin in case I’m drooling over him, then close my eyes against the visual onslaught of masculine virility in front of me, try to appear unaffected and disinterested.
Somewhere near my ankle, Loki’s claws click on the tile as he trots in and flops dramatically at my feet, tongue lolling. Even the damn husky is panting over him. Or, he’s tired from their run. Either way.
“Mornin’, Darbs,” Blake says.
His deep, raspy voice sends shockwaves through my nether regions. It’s not fair that his voice sounds like that before coffee. My thighs want to open wide, give him their best come-hither invitation, and welcome him inside. My hips give the tiniest, traitorous twitch, like they’re testing the idea.
But I won’t let them.
Damaged goods like me don’t get the guys like Blake.
Guys like Blake are for women who don’t come with disclaimers and baggage and the lingering scent of other girls’ perfume on their heartbreak.
They’re for women who look good in the morning without trying, who don’t flinch when a phone buzzes because they’re not expecting bad news or worse apologies.
“Sleep okay?” he asks.
Of course he asks. Of course he’s kind and considerate on top of being hot and capable and annoyingly decent. The universe really went all-in on making him my exact problem.
I keep my eyes closed and try to look natural.
And not like the lascivious harlot I am.
I nod in response to his question, because I don’t trust my voice not to come out as a moan or an overshare.
If I open my mouth, I might confess how many nights I’ve lain awake in his guest room listening for his footsteps in the hall, how many times I’ve bitten my lip picturing the water streaming over his shoulders in the shower.
If my ex taught me anything, it’s that I’m not the kind of girl guys want to love and stay faithful to.
I’m fun, I’m convenient, I’m good for a while.
Then I become…extra. Too much. He said I belong on the “Go Backs” shelf.
Like I’m one of those impulse-buy trinkets people pick up in a store, carry around in their cart, and then abandon on a random shelf when they realize they don’t actually want to spend the money on something so trivial.
Return to stock. Slightly damaged. Marked down.
I have no reason not to believe him. He was the only guy to stop the rotating door of almosts and maybes and “you’re so cool, but I’m not ready for something serious.
” The only one who made it past the three-month panic window, moved my stuff into his closet, left me my own toothbrush by his sink.
He picked me. Stayed. Promised things. Future trips. A life.
And then he made me listen while he broke that promise in the bedroom, not even bothering to close the door all the way.
So no, I don’t trust my judgment. And I definitely don’t trust the part of me that wants to throw myself at Blake like he’s the last good man on earth. The last safe place. The last everything.
I take a careful sip of coffee, willing the burn on my tongue to override the burn everywhere else, and keep my eyes closed like if I don’t look at him, maybe I won’t let myself want what I absolutely, positively cannot afford to lose.
Blake stops next to me to grab a bottled water from the fridge.
The scent of man sweat drifts by—the good kind that’s clean and a little soapy—not the gross, grungy, dirty clothes kind.
His arm brushes against mine as he opens the bottle, and a shiver of desire runs through me.
I want to roll my eyes at myself with how pathetic I’m acting. But this is Blake.
My best friend’s brother.
One of the most decent guys I’ve ever met.
Not to mention one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen.
He’s not the type to shop from the ‘Go Backs’ shelf.
“You awake, babe?” Blake trails a finger up my throat, stopping under my chin to tilt my head slightly.
Every muscle in my body tenses. My breath catches.
I clutch my coffee tighter to my chest and let my eyes flutter open.
He’s standing so close, the scant hair on his abdomen tickles my knuckles.
My gaze travels lazily up his sculpted body, past the broad shoulders, up the oh-so-lickable neck, along that movie star jawline, to those deep-green eyes I want to drown in.
The color is so similar to Bristol’s, but the heat in his is like nothing I’ve seen before.
His gaze drops to my lips, making me wet them with my tongue nervously, but my mouth is dry. If I could remember how to move, I’d take a sip of coffee to wet it. The sizzle of chemistry is so palpable between us, I feel caged in.
“I’m awake,” I croak.
A half smile graces his face as he nods once, then takes a step back.
The heat of his body goes with him, jolting me like a jump from the hot tub into the pool.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear we hadn’t just had a sexually charged interaction based on how quickly he’s able to school any emotion on his face.
He brings the water bottle to his lips and drains half of it quickly.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, mesmerized, and wonder if it’s possible to lust after an Adam’s apple.
“I’m going to grab a shower. I reek. I’ll see you later.”
I want to tell him there’s no need, that he smells good, like a walking sex-vertisement, but I’m pretty sure my voice has left the vicinity of my body. Instead, I watch his ass as he disappears down the hall toward his bedroom, whistling a tune I don’t recognize.
He must do squats.
No one is born with an ass that nice.
I slap myself to shock me out of my lust-filled stupor, refill my coffee cup, and head for the guest room I temporarily call home. Where I should really hole myself in until I’m over this infatuation with Blake Moore, or I die—whichever comes first.