Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79521 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79521 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Only I realize how wrong I am when I open the front door and step inside of the clubhouse.
Deception is a funny thing. I question my sanity, wondering if what I felt at the park was of my own making, or if maybe I’m stuck in a nightmare, because there is no way Briar is on the fucking couch with a whore in his lap.
Only it’s his cut, his battered boots, and his favorite pair of jeans under the greedy hands and licking mouth of some girl I’ve never seen before.
The chills from earlier are quickly replaced with seething anger so hot and incendiary the room may catch fire from my will alone. Before I go full Carrie on this place, I look over and find my brother smirking at me.
“Hey, Princess.”
Briar doesn’t even flinch at TJ’s words, and it’s then I realize the man is passed out under the whore’s wandering hands.
I hitch my head in her direction while holding TJ’s glaze. “You aren’t the only one who knows how to handle a knife, big brother, but I won’t be as disciplined or discerning as you.”
His grin grows wider at my warning.
“You can’t ruin the man’s good time,” TJ taunts.
“Oh fuck,” Ronan hisses when he notices me standing in the middle of the living room before turning his attention back to the other woman. “Hey, honey?”
I don’t know if he has a hero complex, or if he doesn’t want to be the one to clean up the blood spill, but Ronan stands and urges the girl off of Briar’s lap. The club VP doesn’t even move when the woman is removed.
“Ronan,” I hiss as he starts to guide the grumbling girl away.
“Eighty-sixed. You got it, Princess.”
“Briar!” I yell, kicking his boot with my own shoe.
He jolts, but his eyes are slow to open. An empty whiskey bottle slides out of his hand and clanks as it hits the floor.
“Baby?” he slurs when he looks up at me.
Heat burns my cheeks with the pet name. Silence is heavy around us, and I know everyone in the room is glad they have front row seats to this. I’d insist they all get the fuck out, but that will only draw even more unwanted attention to us.
“Where did she go?” Briar asks as I reach down for him. “A little help, TJ?”
Chuckling, my brother gets off his ass to help me lift Briar to standing.
“Why were you letting that girl lick all over him?” I glare over Briar’s shoulder as we slowly make it across the room.
“He’s a grown man,” he argues. “I’m not his mother or his warden.”
“He was passed out, shithead.”
“Such a pretty mouth saying such nasty things,” Briar grumbles.
“He wasn’t passed out when they got started.”
Agony takes up residence in the pit of my stomach at his words, but I keep my grip on Briar.
“I was going to kill her instead of you,” Briar slurs as TJ reaches for the bedroom doorknob.
“You drank a little too much to be murdering anyone’s pussy, bro,” TJ grunts as we shift Briar’s weight onto the bed. He stands back, shaking his head as he looks down at his friend. “You coming?”
I shake my head, not pulling my eyes from Briar’s unconscious body.
“Be careful, Princess.” He kisses my forehead and leaves the room.
I stand still just watching him for long moments before I set to work getting his heavy boots unlaced and off of his feet. I should stop there, but I don’t. I roll him on his back and wrangle his cut and shirt from his lifeless body. The t-shirt lands on the floor, but with respect, I hang his cut over the lone chair in front of his small desk on the other side of the room.
Even drunk and asleep, his muscles bunch under my fingers as I sweep them over his stomach to the top button of his jeans.
“Jesus, what are you doing?” I mutter as I free that first button.
He wouldn’t want this. If he were awake, he’d grip my hand and shove me away. He’d spew some more bullshit about hurting me or that what I’m doing isn’t allowed no matter how much we both want it. With determination, I pop free the other three buttons of his fly and tug at the jeans, rolling him back and forth until they’re almost past the defined muscles of his ass. His boxers slip, revealing a decadent tan line I’ve never seen before.
The stark contrast of the white flesh compared to the golden skin above it is confusing. He hasn’t taken his shirt off in front of me in years. When does he remove it? Who gets to see the hard-working muscles on his back and the ripple of bumps on his stomach?
Not tempting myself any further, I hitch his boxers back into place before tugging his jeans the rest of the way off. They’re cast aside, joining his t-shirt on the floor.