This is where my hands belong.
I grab his face, bring my mouth inches from those lips I want to devour, and solve the rest of the French puzzle. “I already told you, Banks. You can do anything you want to me.”
He smiles, slow and pleased. “Have me, Banks,” he whispers.
In a flurry, I push him down on a lounge chair, rip off my glasses and shirt, and slam my body to his.
I’m not thinking about spreadsheets or lists or items.
I’m not thinking at all.
I’m doing.
Him.
I kiss him ravenously, grinding my crotch against his, our hard-ons thumping together through our shorts. His hands grab my ass, and he jerks me closer to him. I need to get this lust out of my system so we can slow down and spend all night naked.
I break the kiss, panting. His eyes are fevered, his hands gripping me tight. He’s as wound up as I am. I try to catch my breath, and as I do, words just spill out. “You’re so fucking sexy, Asher St. James. It’s insane how much I want you.”
His hand slides up my back. “Same here, so just fucking get naked and rub your dick against mine.”
I dive back in for one more hot, filthy kiss that knocks all my senses out of whack. I can’t wait to strip off the rest of our clothes.
I rise up to my knees, unzip my shorts, when the sound of the door opening hits my ears.
“Mark? Are you here somewhere?”
My sister’s voice has the same effect on me as the time someone from work convinced me to do the ice bucket challenge. Instant deep freeze. In five seconds, I’ve got my shorts zipped again, shirt on, and I’ve sprung into a standing position. And I set another land-speed record today?this one for time to deflate. Less than thirty seconds.
“Oh, hell,” Asher mutters. “This can’t be happening. Flannah is a day early.”
Flannah?
I don’t even have time to react to that ridiculous nickname as my sister steps outside, her smile as wide as the bay. “My God, this place is amazing! Everything is so great!”
“Yup, terrific,” Asher agrees, and you’d have to have had your tongue in his mouth a moment ago to hear the irony in his voice.
Hannah flings herself at me, and I hug her as a reflex.
But what if she’d shown up about five minutes later? Or even three? Christ, that was close. “H-hey Banana,” I stammer. “You’re, uh, about fifteen hours early.”
“Isn’t it amazing? My dress was ready right after we spoke! So Flip called the charter company and asked them if the jet could be ready by four-thirty. And here we are! I texted you before we went wheels up.”
Must have been one of the many texts I ignored when I was playing crack the code on Asher’s dirty French talk. “Here you are,” I repeat, patting her back. “It’s great to see you.”
The sound Asher makes might or might not be a snicker. I can’t even look at him right now. If I did, my embarrassment would etch itself across my face.
God, if we’d been alone a few minutes longer, we’d have been buck naked on that chair, rubbing off and trying to fuse our tongues together.
We would have never lived it down.
“So . . .” Asher clears his throat. “What are we going to do with this extra time together?”
“I have so many ideas,” Hannah says.
I’ll bet zero of them match mine.
22
HARD-ON CHUTZPAH
ASHER
The lady wasn’t kidding.
About five minutes after we help carry their luggage up to the largest suite, Hannah opens up a crate to reveal fifty miniature glass and brass lanterns, plus a bevy of crafting supplies. She sets up shop in the huge, white living room, with the three of us as her minions. “Mark, please cut each ribbon to exactly sixteen inches.”
“Sixteen. Got it,” he says, because she definitely asked the right man to do the right job.
“Asher, tie them into a bow, please. And Flip, you can add one of these tea lights that I’m unpacking. After this job is done, we’ll move on to the Jordan almonds and the goodie bags.”
Great. I have to get through almond bagging before I get my hands on Mark again. That also means I can’t give Mark the lingering glance I crave. My face would give me away to Hannah. I might as well rent a billboard with six-foot letters reading: I WANT YOUR BROTHER TO BANG ME RIGHT FUCKING NOW.
After fifteen minutes of hard labor and zero eye contact, I put some jazz on the stereo speakers and raid the beer fridge, then grab a soda for Hannah.
“The room looks like the wedding aisle at Michaels exploded,” I point out, as I seat myself on an armchair across from the happy couple.
“Wait. How do you know what the wedding aisle at Michaels looks like?” Hannah asks, a smile lighting her sweet face.