Real Men Will (Donovan Brothers Brewery 3)

Unfortunately, she knew from experience that he might still get it.

TALKING TO HER HADN’T helped.

Oh, maybe his conscience was very slightly appeased, but now Beth was in his head, stuck there like a spirit exacting its revenge.

Returning to the brewery didn’t help, either. Tessa gave him a thumbs-up and a big smile, which made him feel like a wayward kid. And Jamie ignored him completely, which made Eric want to shove him and start a fight, just so they’d be interacting.

Eric had always been the mature one. Hell, when their parents were killed, he was only twenty-four, but he’d taken on the responsibility of his teenage siblings and the brewery, and he’d done it well. There’d been no partying, no vacations and very little dating in the thirteen years since then.

He’d worked. And he’d parented. And he’d set a good example. He’d done what he needed to do, despite the fact that he’d felt inadequate and scared to death the whole damn time.

But something had gone wrong in the past couple of years. Very wrong. His skin felt as if it had started shrinking, squeezing everything too tight inside his body. And his skull felt too small as well; he wore that tension like a helmet, making it hard to think. He felt…panicked. Which made no sense.

Despite the deal with the Kendall Group falling through, not to mention the trouble that had come after, things were going great. Profits had risen six percent for each of the past four years. A nice, steady growth. Jamie had finally grown up and was taking on new responsibilities. Tessa was happier than ever. And they were all finally getting along. Everything was good. And Eric felt…lost.

He’d lost his hold, somehow. He’d lost control. The plans to expand the brewery into a restaurant were not part of Eric’s plans, but he couldn’t say no. They were partners, after all, he and Jamie and Tessa. Equal. And yet Eric wasn’t equal. Not in his mind. And maybe not in theirs, either. Because he wasn’t a Donovan. Not really. It felt like the worst sort of injustice that their dad had left him an equal part of the Donovan business, a cruel joke that Eric was the one to lead the brewery for so long.

Because, despite all the wonderful things he’d done for Eric, despite the role he’d filled, Michael Donovan hadn’t been Eric’s real father.

Eric could still remember his real dad, though only in broken bits and pieces. He’d come around on the weekends for the first few years after Eric was born. Then only on holidays. Then not at all.

Eric had his father’s hair and his eyes. He had his genes. And not a drop of Donovan blood to justify his ownership of this place or the unconditional love that Michael Donovan had shown him.

Thinking about it made Eric’s skull feel even tighter, so he rolled his neck and closed his eyes. Even his office felt too small. But he didn’t want to spend time near Jamie, so Eric decided to catch up on the bottling schedule. It’d be a bitch working the line by himself, but it would be worth it if it wore him out. At least he’d get some sleep.

Eight hours later, when Eric headed home, he was definitely exhausted, but his mind was still working as frantically as ever.

“Dinner tomorrow!” Tessa yelled just as he escaped, and Eric winced. Sunday dinner with the family was not in his comfort zone this week. But if he didn’t show, he’d look ashamed or cowed. Shit.

When he got to his condo—a simple two-bedroom that was nearly ascetic, even to his own eye—Eric made a sandwich, grabbed a beer and turned on a boxing match. Boxing was the perfect sport, in his opinion. There were rules and structure, but it was the most basic of all competitions. The most primal. Beat the other guy, literally. All other sports seemed to want to dance around that issue. “Yeah, you can physically destroy your opponent, but you have to be holding a ball while you do it.” That smacked of dishonesty to Eric, but maybe he was only feeling sensitive to the issue.

Once it became clear that both boxers in this match were hitting for points instead of a knockout, Eric turned off the TV, grabbed another beer and headed for the shower.

Ten minutes later, he was in bed and clicking on the TV in the bedroom, his body still as tense as ever.

This was his life. Work. His family. And this white-walled condo. Yet his family had grown up. Both Tessa and Jamie had significant others now. They both had homes they’d taken the time to make their own. And they’d grown into the brewery, too. Eric’s role in their lives was shrinking, and how the hell was he supposed to make up the loss?

He’d need to find a hobby. An interest. Or maybe he could take over one hundred percent of the trade show duties and spend more time on the road.

The thought wasn’t satisfying, but it felt logical. He’d run it by Jamie at dinner tomorrow. Jamie would probably be happy to avoid time away from his new girlfriend, at any rate. Up until now, the man had never made a commitment to anyone, but he seemed damned enthusiastic about his relationship with Olivia.

Maybe that was what Eric needed. A woman.

Unfortunately, Beth was the only woman who popped into his head, and she was unavailable in so many ways, starting with the fact that she hated his guts. But, God, she’d been beautiful today. More beautiful than she had been when Eric had first met her, or maybe it was just that he knew the exact shape of her breasts and shade of her nipples. Maybe it was that his fingers could still remember the way her curves had yielded to his touch.

She was gorgeous i

n that way ’40s pinup girls were. Soft and curved and luscious. The embodiment of sex, even though her smile always kept its distance.

Not that there’d been any smiling today. But the anger in her eyes had mimicked the fierceness of her need in that hotel room. She’d wanted it as much as he had. They’d both been desperate. She’d knelt before him and curved her hands over the top of the headboard, her knuckles white as he’d started to ease into her tight body.

Eric closed his eyes against the flickering light of the television and shoved down the sheets. He closed a hand over his thickening cock and imagined it was Beth’s hand wrapping around him. Instead of being pissed when he showed up at her store today, she was happy to see him, eager to pick up where they’d left off.

He stroked, feeling his shaft swell against his own hand, and imagined reaching for her jeans and tugging them down. Then he’d bend her over that countertop and strip down her panties. Would she let him have her like that? In the daylight, in her own store, with only a locked door between them and the rest of the world?

Her belly would be pressed to the cold glass of the counter, her ass naked and plump under his hands. And her sex would be just as wet and tight as he remembered. He’d slide in slow and careful, and she’d sigh with pleasure. Her arms would stretch out, flexing against the invasion. And then she’d beg him to fuck her harder. She’d call him by his real name and it would be perfect.

Eric stroked himself faster, his fingers growing slick with pre-come. In his fantasy, Beth cried out, her back arching. “Fuck me, Eric,” she moaned, and he felt that surge of power that came with knowing he could make a woman like her come. She’d shaken in his arms and sobbed, and it had felt like a damned miracle to make a woman like her shatter.