“Just give it to me,” he mutters, watching with me, eyes dark and unfocused. “I need to see it. Need to know what you look like when you come.”
My spine arches in an unexpected wave of pleasure at his words. No session with my own hand has ever been this good. Nothing has ever been this good. I can’t hold back.
Brendan.
The shout that escapes my throat is raw and ragged as jets of come land on his knuckles, his flat stomach and chest. I can’t stop fucking his hand, desperate to hold onto this feeling, the friction causing sparks to shoot up my spine and out from my fingertips.
Can’t stop. Don’t ever stop.
He pulls me down on top of him and now I’m the one burying my face in his neck, unable to believe I’m not dreaming. I have to be dreaming, right? I would never make this kind of mistake in real life.
He would never want me in real life.
He still doesn’t. He’s so drunk he’s barely coherent.
I stiffen and his arms tighten around me. “Wait a second. Don’t freak out.”
But I am.
“You’re not gay,” I whisper. “You don’t want this.”
I took advantage of the situation. I’m that guy.
“That’s not true anymore,” he says, his words slurring together now. “Don’t send me away again, Millie. Please.”
The plea makes my heart hurt. I know today must have destroyed him. Being suspended from the only thing he loves, and then kicked out of his place when he was down.
This is my friend and he’s hurting.
This is your friend who sleeps with women when he isn’t blind drunk and jerking you off.
I take a deep breath, fortifying myself and trying to ignore the aftershocks of arousal pulsing through me as I raise my head to look him in the eye.
His are already closed, his features too slack and relaxed for him to be pulling my leg. His soft snores instantly sync with the sounds his ridiculous dog is making and I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.
“Why am I not surprised?”
I whack him lightly on the chest, then reach up to give his jaw a shake. Nothing.
The bastard fell asleep on me. Well, under me. And if I want to get technical he didn’t fall so much as crash. He’s out cold.
I slide off him until I’m on my knees beside the couch with my sweats around my thighs and my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest.
What did I just do?
“That’s not true anymore.”
And what the hell did that mean?
Chapter Three
A Brunch of Regrets
Brendan
That moment, right before consciousness hits, when you realize you’re going to regret waking up?
Shit, I think I’m there.
At least the conversation—the one I wouldn’t be overhearing if I were in my own bed where I belong—is taking care of the monster hard-on I woke up with.
“Is it, you’ve got another think coming or another thing coming?”
“People usually say thing, but think is the original colloquialism.”
“Fred, stop showing off. You know how much Diane hates crosswords.”
“I really do. And words like colloquialism. But I never welch on a bet.”
“We know, sweet cheeks. Now let’s all keep it down so we don’t wake up Miller’s sexy flyboy, hmm? They obviously had a busy night, if you know what I mean.”
“Cut it out, Heather, or I’ll eat that biscuit you’ve got your eye on. You all know Brendan is just a friend.”
Just a friend.
It’s that voice, deep and smooth and currently laced with barely concealed discomfort that fully drags me from oblivion.
Not that I haven’t missed him like hell, but what’s Miller doing here with the estrogen posse?
Use your head, flyboy. Do you know where you are right now? If you think Miller would be cooking for his neighbors at the condo he calls Casa de Horndog, you’ve got another think coming.
I wish permanent memory loss came with this whopper of a migraine I drank myself into. Unfortunately, things are already starting to come back to me.
Fuck my life.
Too late. Looks like I already took care of that myself.
After a few forceful blinks to unglue my eyelids and face the music, I’m confronted by a pair of cartoonishly large brown eyes. “Huh. That’s new.”
There’s a small, furry growth on my chest that wasn’t there yesterday. And it’s staring at me with an expression that strongly resembles disappointment.
What the hell, dog? I don’t even know you.
I swear silently, managing to get myself into an upright position while carefully settling the judgmental ankle biter down on the cushion beside me. He’s solid in my grip so it’s safe to assume he’s not a hallucination. “I’ll get to you later.”
He wags his stub of a tail agreeably.
I need a minute to take stock of my situation, because so far it’s not looking so good. Embarrassment aside, my stomach is roiling, my eyeballs are hot and dry, and my aching neck and knees are telling me that blacking out on a couch is a younger man’s game.