Page 10 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Brother’s Best Friend

I’m done with him and his grumpy mood. I turn from the window. “Do what? Have I hurt your precious ego?”

“That. It’s like picking a scab for you, isn’t it?” He jerks his hand toward me. “You couldn’t accept a peace offering if your life depended on it. You don’t have to handle every damn thing by yourself, Lynn.”

“Because I can handle it myself.” I thought the fire in my blood had fizzled, but Brian always finds a way to bring it back to life. “I’m not a helpless idiot. You show up and just... just take over and start telling me what to do.”

“I don’t think you’re helpless.” He bangs his palm on the wheel.

“Then stop treating me like I am.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not a little kid.”

“I noticed.” His jaw clenches.

“Then why can’t you just leave me alone?” My heart’s racing so fast, I hear the throbbing echo in my head.

The truck veers toward the shoulder again.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” I throw my hand up and grab the handle at the top of the door.

Gravel spits beneath the tires before we come to another abrupt stop. Brian throws the truck into park and twists toward me, every bit as fired up as he was five minutes ago.

“Damn it, Lynn. I can’t leave you alone.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because suddenly, he looks lost, like the wind has been sucked right out of him. His chest rises and falls on a controlled breath. His eyes lock onto mine, and all the anger bubbling beneath my skin shifts into something hotter.

My pulse kicks harder.

There’s a thin line between wanting to strangle him and wanting to grab him by that stupid T-shirt and drag his mouth to mine. Somehow, I’ve lost track of which side I’m on.

On instinct alone, I unbuckle my seat belt and scoot across the cab toward him. I stop inches away, the heat radiating from his body hitting me like a freight train. I unbuckle his belt and drag it across his chest.

“What are you doing?” The sharpness in his voice falters.

“I want to know if it was real when you kissed me before.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What the fuck?”

I grab the front of his T-shirt in both fists and pull his mouth to mine. For a heartbeat, he freezes. Then his hand catches the back of my neck, and he thrusts his tongue between my lips. Whatever line we’ve been dancing around disappears beneath a rush of heat.

His mouth moves over mine with the same intensity he brings to every argument, and I meet that intensity head on, kissing him harder, like everything between us is a competition.

His other hand closes around my waist and pulls me closer. I shift across the seat until my knee presses against his thigh. He reaches between his legs beneath the seat and pulls the lever. The seat jerks backward, and he hauls me onto his lap until I’m straddling him, my knees at his hips and my center resting directly on the growing bulge in his jeans.

I grab the hem of his shirt and slide it up his chest. He grabs it from me and yanks it over his head, breaking our kiss for a split second.

Too long.

His hands and lips are back on me, this time everywhere—nibbling my ear, my collarbone, my jaw. One hand fumbles with my shirt buttons. He pops them one by one, lips pressing against the hollow of my throat as the fabric falls away. I’m exposed, the pale pink lace of my bra catching in the dashboard light.

He groans, and I realize he’s trying not to crush me, trying not to go too fast. There’s a thrill in that. Knowing how hard he’s holding himself back, how much he wants me. Wants this.

I arch my back, my breasts pressing against his chest. Goosebumps stipple my arms as his hands span my ribs, fingers splayed, thumbs brushing the swell of my breasts through the lace. I slip my fingers under the hem of his jeans, feeling the rigid line of muscle and the heat coming off him in waves.

He slides his hand over my back and flicks open my bra clasp, then pushes the flimsy fabric over my breasts. He leans in, tongue and teeth capturing my nipple. The sensation sends a lightning bolt from my chest straight to my stomach. I grind down involuntarily, my clit riding the seam of his jeans, the thick outline of him hard against me.

For a second, I’m mortified by how desperate I am, how slick and hot and obvious, but then he groans against my chest, and I realize it only makes him crazier.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

His hands cup both breasts, thumbs sweeping over my nipples in taunting circles. His mouth leaves a wet trail across my chest, giving me a chill. My fingers claw at his buckle, but he’s already a step ahead of me. His hand between my legs, palming me through the denim, pressing exactly where I need him.