Page 64 of The Betrothal

His mouth slanted over Ben’s who made a shy, desperate noise, his tongue slipped out to run over Seb’s lips and into his mouth, the movement the most sexual thing I’d ever seen. Clenching my thighs together against the new wave of arousal I stared, unabashed. Finally, Ben withdrew, and Seb delivered the filthiest chuckle I’d ever heard before he took both our hands and pulled us up the stairs.

It had been two days since the little sofa session that had resulted in me giving myself a serious talking to then tucking myself into bed nursing a dull throb that had taken up residence between my legs, the ache a constant reminder that my inhibitions were dead and buried.

“RIP,” I muttered as I flicked closed the novel I was reading. I truly had no idea what was happening between the covers of this book, my attention solely attuned to the ever-present arousal I’d harboured since.

This morning I had taken another extremely cold shower and snuck back to my room while the house was still quiet. Seb and Ben had made no real moves since the other night. Perhaps Alex’s warning had sunk in, but if the smiles from one man and soft glancing touches from the other were anything to go by, they were just being respectful.

Still, I was trying to spend a little more time in my own company. The fact that I was a point of contention between the brothers and their, well, other brother. That didn’t sit well with me.

Intent aside, my mind wandered to where they could be, completely distracted by any indication of movement in the property. The footsteps passing by my room then retreating to the staircase. The door opening and closing downstairs. The sound of activity outside.

“He’s too polite to say it, but are you going to drag out the tease much longer?” Seb swaggered into my room. Soft oversized joggers met a long vest slashed down the sides to reveal the hint of obliques as he moved.

Mashing my lips together to fight against the curling smile, I shook my head.

“Now, now. Don’t play coy, Killer. You promised Ben fresh, warm, treats.”

My jaw dropped open and he laughed.

“Pastries, Killer. Pastries.” He grinned devilishly, pleased to have scandalised me.

“Right.” I allowed the book to drop onto the bedding. “Now?”

His nod was solemn.

“Is Mr Sunshine downstairs?” I worried the inside of my cheek with my teeth.

Since his outburst, I was always on eggshells around him. I’d stopped counting the days since I arrived and there would be far too many of them left before I had the hope of escaping his company entirely.

My stomach clenched at the thought of the other company I’d lose at the same time. These men were proving to be addictive.

“Oh no, not the pout. Is Alex bothering you that much?” Seb crossed the space in an instant, he picked up the end of my loose braid, toying with it.

“No.” I straightened, I wasn’t a child. I was not pouting. “I won’t make pastries while he’s shooting daggers at me.”

“Understandably so. He’s busy, so you’re safe. I can be your apprentice in the kitchen.” He gathered me up from the bed and set me standing, hesitating before he gave me more space, stepping back almost reluctantly.

His fingers wound through mine and he tugged me through the house and down the stairs, snatching something from the counter he pressed it into my hands. I unfolded it, a gingham pinafore.

Seb held another in contrasting colours.

“Any favourites?” I thought to the times I’d baked before. It wasn’t remotely necessary for someone with a family as wealthy as mine, still, I’d given it a few attempts over the years at university, with mixed success. “Turnovers are the easiest, and maybe my best.”

“I have a confession,” he murmured as I placed the pinafore over my head.

Seb reached in to wrap the ties around my waist while I silently waited for him to continue.

“I can’t bake,” he whispered.

“Oh my.” My voice was equally quiet. “Something Seb can’t do?”

His body shuddered in a silent laugh. “Hate to tarnish your god-like perception of me, beautiful, but there are a good few things I can’t manage. For example, I’m terrible at cricket.”

“No!” I clapped my hand over my heart in mock outrage.

“I’m appalling at decorating. Paint rollers are a point of serious contention, and don’t get me started on wallpaper.”

“And then there’s baking?” My palm landed over his heart now. “However do you cope?”