Chapter 1
Trevor
Ifucking hate weddings.
Probably because I’m a miserable prick. Because, objectively, I should love them.
I get to dress up. Look nice without everybody acting like it’s a fucking crime to care about the state of my skin.
I get to eat good food, drink good wine, and enjoy live music.
Plus, since my circle is limited, I get to do all that with my family.
By all accounts, days like this should be some of my favorites. Instead, I’m counting down the minutes until it’s socially acceptable for me to leave so I can go check my email without catching shit.
“Don’t they look good together?” My mother sits next to me, expression wistful as she watches my younger brother and his new wife slow dance next to the outrageously expensive pool he built her.
I tip back a swallow of bourbon, hoping it will take the edge off. Even though the last three glasses didn’t. “Yup.”
I don’t know what else to say. Of course they look good together. Brooke is gorgeous and brilliant, and Toby has loved her unconditionally for over a decade. Today is probably the best day of their lives up to this point.
Technically, I’m happy for them.
But seeing their newly wedded bliss jabs at a sore spot I will carry forever.
“I’m just so happy that after all this time they were able to find their way back to each other.” My mother sways with the music, hands stacked in the center of her chest like her heart is so bursting with love, she’s having to physically contain it within her chest.
“Me too.” It’s not a lie, but I would agree with her regardless. Now is not the time to start a conversation with my mother. Not unless I want her to start questioning why I’m not trying to find someone to build a pool for.
I drain my tumbler, in need of the alcohol as much as I am the excuse to change locations.
I’m not stupid enough to believe Deidre Bradshaw’s going to be satisfied now that three out of five of us are paired off.
She’s never been a woman who does anything halfway.
I know she fully intends to finish the job she started.
Unfortunately for her, I think she’s hit the end of the road, and is about to run into a brick wall.
Two brick walls.
I get to my feet, lifting my empty glass along with my brows. “Would you like me to get you something while I’m up?”
My mother doesn’t even look my way. She’s too busy giving all her attention to the bride and groom. “I’m fine. Thank you, though.”
I walk behind her chair to avoid blocking her view, grateful when it seems like I’m going to be able to sneak away without being noticed. I know it’s rude to leave without saying goodbye to the guests of honor, but I’m pretty sure the last thing they care about is my lack of manners.
All they care about is starting a life together. A future that’s all promise and possibility.
Good for them.
I pass off my empty glass to the catering staff handling cleanup, then head for the hall bath to take a quick piss before heading home. It’s not a long drive, but it’s a bumpy one, and I don’t feel like adding any more misery to my plate right now.
The half-bath is occupied, door closed, fan running. Because of course it is. Since I’m ready to get the fuck out of here, I head for the stairs. Brotherly privilege should afford me the opportunity to use whatever bathroom I want, right?
The closest one on the second floor is attached to Brooke and Toby’s bedroom, and I’m just tipsy enough not to care about invading their personal space.
I bump my way into the bathroom, turning my nose up at the mess scattered across the vanity.
Brooke has left all sorts of shit across the marble surface.
Cluttering the space with curling irons and hairspray, she’s turned my brother’s formerly meticulously kept bathroom into a tornado of feminine destruction.
And now he gets to put up with it for the next fifty years.
Damn, I’m a petty asshole. But I need something to tamp down the jealousy coursing through my veins.
I do what I came to do, tugging my tie loose with one hand as I go, and pulling it completely apart before washing my hands.
For some reason—possibly bourbon—I’m hot as hell, and go to work stripping off my jacket before unbuttoning the shirt beneath it.
No reason to sweat my ass off on the drive home.
I’m tugging the hem from the waistband of my pants when the door to the bathroom flies open.
Maren’s eyes widen on me before narrowing to slits. “I thought you left.”
I continue yanking at my shirt, my movements more aggressive with her sucking the air from the room. “Keeping tabs on me now?”
She snorts. “If I am, it’s only because I want to be sure no one’s about to tell me what I should and shouldn’t be doing.”
Fucking this again. Every goddammed time I cross Maren’s path, she’s bitching about the same fucking thing. And I’m sick of it.
I’m sick of everything.
“Fine.” I throw my arms wide. “If you want to take on every dangerous asshole who crosses your path, be my fucking guest.” Someone, somewhere must have told this woman she’s invincible, because every time I turn around, she’s putting herself in a dangerous position.
First it was with Dead Dan, and most recently William Sheppard.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut and whatever happens, happens. ”
Maren laughs, the sound ominous as it fills the bathroom. In true Maren form, she steps toward me, finger out, ready to take on yet another man twice her size. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut if your life depended on it, asshole.”
She’s not wrong. But I’m never one to back down from a fight, even when I know damn well I’m not on the winning side.
But this time I can win. Because this time we aren’t at work. There’s no one else watching, and no one else to judge the tactics I use.
Moving fast enough she doesn’t see it coming, I grab her face with one hand, holding her jaw as I crowd her space, sending her stepping back. I swing the door closed before she can escape, trapping her body between it and me.
But I don’t stop there. Pressing hard against her, I bring my face close to hers, using my grip to keep her attention on me. “Then maybe you should find another way to occupy it.”
This is a game between us. One we both stretch the limits of. Maybe not quite as much as I am now, but today has me feeling not quite as much myself. Not as in control. Not as focused.
At least not on the right things.
Right now I’m having no trouble focusing on the way Maren’s pupils dilate and her breathing speeds. I know it’s not fear—the woman isn’t afraid of anything, especially me. That leaves one, much more problematic, reason for the change.
I smirk, feeling like I’m finally getting the upper hand with her. “What’s wrong, Maren? Can’t decide if you want to fuck me or fight me?”
Maren’s jaw drops open. “Are you kidding me?”
That isn’t the denial I was expecting. Which is not a great thing. Not when I’ve spent all day staring down the reality of the life I chose. The life I will always choose, again and again.
“Have I ever struck you as a man who kids?” I fight the urge to run my thumb over her lower lip.
And fail.
“I think the reason you claim to hate me so much is because you want me so much.” It sounds like I’m psychoanalyzing the woman pressed against me, but she’s not the victim of my bourbon muddled brain’s sudden strike of clarity.
Thankfully, it still possesses the power of deflection, so instead of claiming the accusation for myself, I put it directly on her.
If for no other reason than because it will piss her off, and one of us needs to find the strength to stop this moment in its tracks.
But instead of getting angry, Maren laughs, this time seeming genuinely amused. “You think I want you?” Her chin lifts as she straightens, coming nose to nose with me. “I think it’s you who wants me.” Her lips twist into a smirk. “I bet your dick is hard right now just thinking about it.”
Fucking hell. I know better than to take this woman on. I should have realized any headway I thought I’d made was nothing more than smoke and mirrors.
But I can’t stop now. Can’t back down. I’m already going to be walking out of this house miserable and alone, I’m sure as shit not going to do it without my pride.
So I stare her down as I throw down the gauntlet, ready to back off when she makes her escape. “There’s only one way to find out.”
It’s a dare. A challenge. Pushing things farther than I believe they’ll go.
Because I’m stupid. Willfully ignorant on a topic I probably know a little too much about.
Because like me, Maren doesn’t back down. Not from anyone. Not from anything.
Before I can blink, her fingers are locked onto the solid line of my cock where it throbs in my pants. Her expression turns victorious. “That’s what I thought.”
It takes everything I have to bite back a groan when she gives me a little squeeze. But this is war, and I will fucking win it.
“Awfully cocky for a woman who’s probably drenched her panties thinking about me.” I lean into her ear, letting my lips brush against it. “Imagining all the ways you could find to shut me up.”
I’ve never thought about what it would be like to fuck Maren.
Certainly never imagined the way she would squirm under my tongue as I teased her to the edge, leaving her hanging over and over again until my only two options are death at the hands of a tiny woman or giving her what she wants.
And definitely never thought about how good it would feel to sink into her while she tells me what an asshole I am and scratches lines of her hate into my skin.
I’m also a liar.
“Sorry to burst your bubble.” She still hasn’t let my cock go and is now thumbing across the tip where it’s trapped just below my waistband. “But my panties are as dry as the Sahara.”
“I don’t believe you.” Not for a second. Not with the way her chest is rising and falling and her hand keeps flexing against my shaft. “I think you’re a liar.” Just like me.
Maren narrows her eyes. “I think you’re just looking for an excuse to touch me, because you want me so bad.”
A minor technicality I’m not going to admit. “Fine.” I manage a shrug. “If you want to forfeit your win by omission, that’s your choice.”
Maren’s expression turns outraged. “Fuck you.”
“You claim you don’t want that.” I straighten away from her. “But since I don’t have any proof to the contrary, I’m going to assume it’s actually what you want more than anything.”
I don’t know what my end goal here is. To win. Not to lose. What Maren claims, and to finally get to touch her the way I’ve imagined more times than is likely healthy. Possibly all of it.
“Fine.” She grabs the flowing skirt of her dress, hiking it up to her waist and revealing a shapely set of legs that would wrap perfectly around my hips. One hand grips my wrist, wedging my palm between a set of thighs I’m already picturing smashed against my ears. “See?”
Oh I see. I haven’t stopped seeing since she lifted her dress.
But she’s also wrong. Very, very wrong.
And I can’t stop myself from rubbing it in.
Literally.
“Sorry to break the news to you, sweetheart…” I shift in her grip just enough to glide one finger along her soaked slit.
“But I’m pretty sure the Sahara never floods.
” Instead of pulling my hand away like I know I should, I sink one finger into her body, groaning.
“Fuck you’re wet for me.” I breathe in her scent, desperate for just a little more of what I deny myself. “Tell me to stop touching you.”
Please. For the love of God. Stop this before things go too far.
But, like always, Maren does the exact opposite of what I’ve asked of her. Instead of slapping me or shoving me away like she should, she drops the bunched fabric of her skirt to grip the open edge of my button-up as she grinds against my palm. “You started this. You better finish it.”
I fucking love how demanding she is. That she chooses anger over every other emotional option available.
I even love that she hates me. It always felt safe.
Like my thoughts about her didn’t matter because making them a reality was never an option.
But the way Maren moans when I shift my hand to put more pressure on her clit is very fucking real.
I’m torn between relief and frustration when she finally comes to her senses, planting both hands in the center of my chest to give me a hard shove.
We stand there, staring at each other, chests heaving.
I bring my thumb to the finger I just had inside her, sliding the digits against each other, savoring the feel of her slick on my skin.
I could make her feel good. I know it.
I could also make her feel the worst she’s ever felt, and that’s why I need to let her leave. Why I need to stay away from her and make sure she continues hating me.
Maren straightens away from the door, shoulders squared as she prepares to tell me what I desperately need to hear. That she hates me. That I’m an asshole. To stay away from her.
But Maren says none of those things. Instead, she says something that will likely lead to my complete and total downfall.
She takes a step toward me, hunger in her gaze as four devastating words slide between her perfect lips. “Get your dick out.”