Page 37 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

Her eyes—green? Beer bottle brown?—meet mine, heavily lidded. Her chest heaves, rocking her breasts, and her back arches when I push in just a little. I want to watch her expression change, want to see how she takes every inch of me.

Hooking my hands under her knees, I hold her legs up and slowly bury myself in her. I stare at the crease of her hips, the soft spot beneath her chin, how she drops her head back, the way her throat bobs almost erotically in her neck.

I hold back as long as I can, taking her slowly, drawing it out, trying to hold her in my mouth like a fine wine.

But when she reaches up, palming her own breasts and rocking needily into me, I can’t keep tasting. I need to have her.

“So fucking beautiful,” I say, pulling out completely and thrusting into her, watching the bounce of her chest and the flutter of her eyelids. “JesusfuckingChrist, Serena, I want to fuck you for the rest of my life.”

I drop one of her legs and lean in, slanting her hips for a better angle, chasing the high of her sounds—sighs and moans, and finally, my name.

“Ry-an,” she sings, reaching up and grabbing at the sheets, trying to anchor herself so she can meet my hips with her own. “Ryan.”

I can’t stop myself from placing a hand flat on her belly, maybe narcissistically pleased with the feel of myself inside her. Her eyes fly open and meet mine, and she cries out, squeezing in tight around me, her body writhing. Where before she was trying to get closer, now she runs from the pleasure.

Grabbing her around the knee, pinning her at the belly, I keep her still, hold her in the moment. “Don’t run from me, Serena.”

“Oh my god,” she rasps, three beats after I finish inside the condom, inside her. “Oh, my god, Ryan.”

I scoop her up into my arms, her body loose and limber for me. “Are you good?”

She laughs, lets her head loll against my chest. “Am Igood?”

Moving toward the bathroom, I nod against her, unable to stop smiling. “Yeah. I want to make sure you’regood, Serena.”

She laughs again. “Yes, Ryan, but I don’t thinkgoodis the right word for it.”

I step into the shower with her, keeping a hold of her as I turn on all three showerheads. “Good.”

We stand under the water together, bodies getting slick and warm. Quietly, we soap each other, and I watch her enjoy the various streams of water from the sides, and the rain shower from above.

And, even though I just had her, I can’t stop myself from letting my hand drift down, to the spot between her legs. Can’t stop myself from watching in awe as the expression on her face shifts, water dripping from her eyelashes and over her cheeks.

“Ryan,” she says, eventually taking my wrist in her hand. “Can we get back in bed?”

“Yes.” My answer is rough, the water is off, I wrap both of us in a towel, and I’m carrying her back. “Alwaysyes.”

I knew it the first time I saw her, but now it’s confirmed—when it comes to Serena, I’m not going to be able to resist.

When the morning sun slants through the blinds, I don’t even try to stay asleep.

Because this particular morning, Serena MacKenzie is sleeping on my chest.

She’s warm, and loose, and breathing slowly, and I trail my finger gently, only barely touching, up her spine. Normally, if I woke up with a woman in my bed, and especially if she wascuddledinto me, it would be a moment to panic. I’m always clear about what I want—nothing serious—but waking up together can still send the wrong message.

It’s different now.

Maybe my frontal lobe has finally developed. Or maybe I finally met the right woman. My mother would sayif you feel like that, it’s meant to be.

That should scare the shit out of me. Usually, the thought of settling downdoesscare the shit out of me.

I’ve never thought about a woman like this. As something for the future, rather than a moment of fun in the present.

Slowly, carefully, I slip out of the bed, doing my best not to jostle her so she keeps sleeping. When I’m standing at the side of the bed, a free man, I want nothing more than to crawl back in with her, to curl my body around hers.

But I don’t.

Instead, I go to the kitchen, text my housekeeper not to come, and get to work on the dishes myself. When the space is reset, I pull out what I need to make her breakfast and espresso. I want the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh, hot coffee to wake her. I want to be standing here, cooking, when she comes stumbling out. Ideally, she’ll grab my t-shirt from the floor and pull it on before she does.