Page 22 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

Holding my gaze, Travis swipes his finger under my jaw and holds me like that, touch featherlight over my neck, a complete opposite from every other place he touches me. The desk knocks against the wall, clattering the artwork on either side of us. He fucks me with my pulse under his finger, his lips lowering to my jaw, until I come so hard and fully around him that I can’t see anything but that incredible sunburst, turning supernova.

“Are you from the city?”

I blink at Travis as I stumble back from the bathroom, eyes trying to adjust to the low light of the room. He’s in the bed, reclined casually in nothing but his boxers, one arm up over his head. Even in the dim light, I can see that his eyes are unfocused, his pupils blown out.

His gaze sweeps over me, taking me in, and I feel like a doe standing in the beam of his headlights. Just minutes before, this dress felt like too much clothing—now it’s like I’m covering myself with a hand towel. My legs are unsteady, my body still thrumming from the afterglow of the orgasm.

The best orgasm of my life.

I know it’s fucked up to compare brothers, to hold them up side by side like that, but I can’t help it. I can’t stop myself from thinking about the fact that in the entire time we were together, Alex never once made me feel likethat.

Ravished.

“Uh,” I finally manage when I get far enough into the room to start looking for my underwear. It’s hard for me to search and think at the same time. “No, New Jersey.”

Travis makes a noise low in his throat and I lift my head up, raising an eyebrow at him, “Don’t tell me you’re that pretentious.”

He makes a face that’s surprisingly open, surprisingly boyish. “No. Just surprised.”

“Why? I don’t seem like I’m from Jersey?”

“No. You don’t. Are your parents from there? Did you move after school?”

As always, my chest locks up tight at the mention of my parents. At the daunting thought of explaining to this man who just had his dick buried inside me that I mostly grew upwithouta mom or dad. That I am, in some fundamental way, inherently unlovable.

My therapist would call thatthe story I’m telling myself. Logically, I know that kids in the system aren’t there because people don’t love them, and I would never assign that label to any of them.

But still. I can’t shake the feeling that it applies to me.

“You’re asking a lot of questions,” I say, pausing the search for my underwear. Perching on the edge of the mattress, I cross my arms—not missing the way his gaze dips to my chest—and study him. “What about you? Are you from the city?”

It dawns on me that despite the fact that I readily hooked up with this man, I don’t really know that much about him. A quick Google search supplies his family lineage and his mother’s name, but I know very little about his life.

And, based on what I’ve seen of him so far, I expect him to shut this line of questioning down. To shake his head and rise up out of the bed, wishing me a good night, making sure to throw something in about this stayingcasual.

He might even make it clear that he’s had his fill and we won’t be doing anything like this again.

A flush of dread rushes through me as my mind whirs, jumping from one thought to the next so quickly that trying to slow it is like chasing a runaway train.

What if Travis was just waiting to fire me? What if this was some sort of revenge fuck? Would Alex do something like that? Would Travis?

Honestly, I wouldn’t even be that upset about it. Which probably says something about me, but I’m too scatterbrained to really examine it at the moment.

“That depends on who you ask.”

Travis’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts, and my eyes fly to his as my mind tries to process what he just said. Before I can ask about it, he goes on.

“I grew up in Manhattan,” he explains, “but my Mom is from Korea.”

It occurs to me that, from my internet research, I was vaguely aware of that fact. But it’s different for him to tell me. When he tells me, it feels like he’s admitting something. Sharing. It’s more intimate than me finding out from the internet.

“Did she go back? To Korea?”

Travis shakes his head. We’re sitting what feels like miles apart on the bed. My legs twitch to rise, to cross over to him and tuck myself into the soft space between his shoulder and his neck, but is that what this is?

A minute ago, I was waiting for him to leave, or even to gently imply that I should go. But now he’s chatting sleepily with me, like it was always the plan for us to spend the night in this room together.

Wasthis always Travis’s plan?