Mine: A Stepbrother Romance: (With bonus novel Bossy!) (26 page)

She stops well out of his reach and crosses her arms right under a magnificent pair of tits, her deep brown eyes shooting daggers. “Did you seriously think they’d let you in?  Let alone like this? Shout all you want, but nobody here is going to listen. Calm down, turn around and slither back to whoever’s hole you just crawled out of.”

He shakes his head slowly. “You know what? You can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m fucking dumping you, Claire.” His words are slurred and hard to make out, but the gist comes across. He gestures clumsily, without coordination. “Yeah, I’m fucking dumping you. Bitch.”

Claire arches an elegant eyebrow, unimpressed. I want to trace the line of it with my lips as I drive into her from above. Fuck, I can’t remember the last time someone grabbed my attention like this. Right by the cock. I haven’t even touched her yet, and I’m hard as a fucking rock.

She continues, focused on her ex and totally unaware of the effect she’s got on me. “It’s too late, Michael. I already dumped
you
. I threw you out, remember?” She waves him off with a dismissive gesture. “Go home to... wherever it is you’re staying and sleep it off. Maybe you’ll remember why in the morning.” One last look, and she turns.

I love that. Soft and sexy, but not afraid to stand her ground. I wouldn’t mind that attitude aimed at me, not if it meant being able to fuck the sass out of her afterwards. Or during. I’m not picky.

“Don’t you fucking turn your back on me. Claire? Claire!”

What a sad fuck. Any chance he had left—which didn’t look fucking likely anyway—went out the window as soon as I got in the game.

They just don’t know it yet.

She stops, her brows knitting angrily. Her perfect tits rise and fall in time with her angry breathing and for a moment she gathers herself. Then she turns, her mouth already opening, probably to give that creep a piece of her mind. I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. I can’t fucking wait.

That’s when he gathers himself and shoves past the wobbly frat guys at the door. You had one fucking job, wobbly frat guys. One fucking job.

He grabs her arm with more coordination than I’d give him credit for and growls at her, “C’mon. We’re gonna talk. I’m not letting you humiliate me like this.” He pulls hard, yanking her off balance.

She strains against him. “Let go of me! What the hell are you doing?”

Even wasted, he’s got too strong of a grip for her to pull away. His face twists in an ugly grimace and he sneers. What a fucking waste of oxygen. The guys playing at being bouncers back up, keeping their distance. Apparently door duty ends at the door.

“I’m taking you back to our place, and we’re going to fix this.”

I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to do, but I’ve heard lines like that before. They’re always trouble.

Claire looks like she feels the same, a little sliver of fear crossing her face for the first time. Her voice shakes even though her words are strong, “Michael, there is no our place. Not anymore. Not ever again.”

“Claire. Come on, baby. Of course there’s our place. Let’s get out of here.” He yanks her forward a step.

Time to make a move.

I step up behind him, bringing all of my bulk to bear. “I’d let go if I were you.”

W
ho the hell is this musclehead?

I’m sure I don’t know him, because there’s no way I could forget anyone who looks like that. His black t-shirt is painted onto his huge, muscular torso, covering his chest but not hiding even one tiny ripple of muscle. Yum. I’m not quite sure how he got the shirt on in the first place, but I bet women would pay money to watch the process.

Colorful tattoos wind their way down both of his arms, a mish-mash of spiky abstract designs melding with demons, predatory animals and busty women. They disappear into his short sleeves, and I want to categorize and identify each one like I’m doing a special for National Geographic on North America and the great endangered male badass.

Broad-shouldered and easily a head taller than my worthless ex, he’s snarling like a biker god of vengeance, and he’s just stepped in to save me.

Michael totally forgotten, I let my gaze explore up towards his face until I find myself looking right into the deepest, darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re staring right back at me with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter. I could lose myself in them and they would just swallow me up.

It’s probably only a moment, but a whole eternity seems to pass before he looks away and I can breathe again. His full lips are drawn into a straight, angry line, his jaw tense and his dark eyebrows knit below a nearly black shock of unruly hair. A shiver shoots down my spine, and something much hotter pools between my legs.

He looks freaking amazing.

“Get the fuck out of my way, man.” Somehow Michael has remained unimpressed. Even sloppy drunk, he
has
to realize he’s woefully outgunned. Right? This guy can crush him.

“I’m not the one in the way. You are.” My guardian angel flexes, his muscles rippling under his shirt and his tattoos dancing across his skin. “Obviously she doesn’t want to go with you, and I’m making sure the lady gets what she wants. Let go of her and fuck off.”

Michael’s normally a pretty sharp guy, but tonight, alcohol’s not doing him any favors. Instead of doing the sensible thing when a thug twice his weight and all muscle tells him to let go, Michael puts his hand on the guy’s chest and pushes. He might as well try to move a tree, or a building. “Move,” he says, like he’s Harry Potter and knows the right spell.

He’s not, and he doesn’t.

“You don’t seem to understand me.” Tattoo Guy’s hand drops onto Michael’s shoulder, thick fingers gripping him firmly. “I’m going to use small words, just to be sure your tiny pickled brain gets it. Let. Her. Go. I
will
hurt you.”

Somewhere deep inside Michael’s alcohol-muddled mind, a connection is finally made. He looks up and blanches, taking in the pure bulk of the man looming over him. His grip slackens around my arm, and I tear away with a sharp tug, freeing myself. His hand hangs in the air for a moment as if he hasn’t even noticed me gone. Maybe he hasn’t.

“Good boy.”

Tightening the grip on Michael’s shoulder until he whines in pain, Tattoo Guy leads him roughly towards the door. Michael’s feet only barely keep up, uncoordinated and unsteady. One of the frat brothers helpfully opens the door, and I shiver at the fresh blast of winter air. With a powerful shove, Tattoo Guy launches Michael through the door, where he blunders straight into a snow drift, white flurries exploding into a fine powdery cloud around him as he lands.

“And stay the fuck out.” My hero slams the door without waiting to see what happens.

For a short moment I can’t help feeling sorry for my ex, but then I remember why I threw him out in the first place. Any pity I have evaporates immediately. The jerk deserved it, and more. But unless he has a death wish, he’s no longer an issue. For now anyway.

My savior’s still facing away, giving me a moment to admire his back. It’s just as nice as the front. Clearly defined shoulder blades, and his torso tapers down to narrow hips and a really great ass. If there’s an ounce of fat on him, I don’t see it. I almost reach out to touch him, but while I’m far from sober, I’m not quite
that
drunk.

What’s with me tonight? I’m not usually impressed by the gym-rat types. I can’t remember the last time someone had me weak in the knees, especially from looks alone. He’s got to be a total ass to make up for that physique. Because no one’s that perfect, right?

I’m still gawking like an idiot when he turns. Perfect.

“Hi.” His perfect lips curl up at the corners.

I look up at those deep blue eyes and fall right into them.

I might be in trouble.

A
n hour later, and there’s no might about it. I’m definitely in trouble.

I mean, not like naked-hanging-from-the-ceiling trouble, but I’ve reached the chatty stage of drunk and even though he’s being nice about it, I’m waiting for this guy to wise up and ditch me for someone with less baggage.

Because, whoa nelly, do I have baggage right now and he’s getting to hear all about it.

“Right there, in our freaking bed. She was bouncing up and down on Michael’s dick, and I swear to God he sounded like a constipated caveman.” I bury my face in my hands. “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. Did you know we were going to get married? I almost got married to a guy whose O-noise sounds like a cave man who doesn’t eat enough fiber!”

The alcohol rushes through my bloodstream, and the world feels just a little bit too small, a little too dark at the edges. I never drink. Looking at my half-empty beer cup, I guess I have to amend that. Almost never. I don’t even like it, but do you know what you get if you ask for Sprite at a frat party? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not all Sprite. Beer is safer.

I tell myself it’s just for tonight, and then I’m back to classes, hard work and making sure I earn my spot in law school.

“You were getting married, and he fucked around on you? In your goddamn bed?” Tattoo Guy still doesn’t have a name, but it hasn’t really come up. Or maybe he told me and I don’t remember. By now I’m too embarrassed to ask, anyway.

“Yeah, can you believe it? I guess I’m glad I found out before, rather than after.”

“What a fucking loser.”

I agree with him wholeheartedly, nodding at his words.

It feels good to unload on someone. With a little luck he’s drunk enough that he won’t remember a thing in the morning anyway.

I’m really not at my best.

Crap, I should be cramming for my Comparative Politics test tomorrow, not getting drunk at some skeevy frat party. Like having dropped to a 3.9 GPA wasn’t bad enough, I’m only going to make it worse if I don’t get over Michael and get back to normal.

A bunch of people have left their empty beer cups on the table in front of me, and I absentmindedly sort and stack them by color. He raises an eyebrow at me, but I decide I don’t mind. If he isn’t going to remember me tomorrow, adding one more thing to his list of why I’m crazy won’t hurt.

The love seat we’re sharing shifts as Tattoo Guy does, and I use the term
sharing
loosely. His broad shoulders and powerful frame have me crowded up against one side, and I’m half draped over one of his very solid thighs. I’m not sure if he minds, but I sure as hell don’t.

Not for the first time tonight, I look him up and down, appreciating the definition of his chiseled abs and how his jeans are pulled tight over his muscular legs. I feel a little bad that I’ve wasted a night with such a hot guy on blubbering about a man who is totally not worth it.

Dragging my gaze up past his powerful neck to his rugged features, my face flushes when our eyes lock. He sees right into me, those gorgeous eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement. He knows I’m checking him out, and his crooked smirk shows it.

In the back of my mind I’m amazed that it doesn’t bother me, because I always care. Just not tonight. I’m all out of fucks to give for the moment. Instead, I study his face, trying not to make it too obvious that I’m rubbing against his bulky quad.

His features are almost perfectly symmetrical, but his nose looks like it’s been broken at some point. I don’t have the impulse control to stop myself from stroking it softly with my fingertip. He doesn’t stop me, but I notice his hand grips his cup hard enough to make the cheap plastic crackle.

Usually asymmetry bugs me, but he gets a pass for the nose. He’s only human. A day or two’s worth of dark stubble covers his hard jaw, broken only by a faint scar along the left side. I trace that too.

And those lips, full and kissable.

He grabs my hand before I can touch them. “If you keep that up we’re going to have to take this someplace else, and I think privacy is a relative term here tonight.”

I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned. “Sorry.”

“Not that I’m not glad you came, but what the fuck is a girl like you doing at a party like this?” He takes a drink, but his eyes watch me closely. So blue.

Was that a compliment? I’m not quite sure. I was already figuring I’m not his type, but am I really that out of place? Maybe I am. The frat house is crawling with hot girls who look ready to go. Some of whom I’m pretty sure have already gone a time or two.

I sigh. “It’s stupid. A couple of friends said I should come. They promised Michael wouldn’t be here. It was a terrible idea.” I trace the worn fabric on the couch arm with a finger. “Not to mention that I think one of them told Michael I was here. I guess when push comes to shove they’re more his friends than mine. Bros before hos and all that.”

That stung more than I wanted it to.

“They brothers?”

I nod. “Well, Michael’s not. He pledged but didn’t go through with it.”

“Jackasses. They must be letting anyone in these days.” He rolls his eyes.

“Are you a brother?”

“I used to be, but I graduated five years ago.” He glares around the room with disgust. “The place has gone to shit since then. I’m pretty sure I was the last one who knew how to run the dishwasher.”

“So you were never like them?” I tease.

The smoldering gaze I get as a reply makes me squirm in my seat. He smirks, noticing my hips wriggling. “Never. I was upstanding, conscientious and quiet.”

I glance at his tattoos, the wild hair and his broken nose. “Of course you were.”

He shrugs. “So you’re done with that fuckup now? Kicked him to the fucking curb?” He drains his cup, but his eyes never leave mine.

Heat floods me in a way I haven’t felt in, well, forever. I’m confused about how attracted to this guy I am. I just got rid of Michael, and I am
not
ready for another relationship. Not even close. Then again, when I look at Tattoo Guy’s hungry eyes, I don’t think it’s a relationship he’s after.

Self-consciously, I straighten my top. It’s lower cut than I usually wear, and I had to dig pretty deep in my closet to find it. After Michael’s betrayal, I wanted to prove I was still attractive. That his infidelity wasn’t about me, even if I’m not hard bodied and model-thin. It worked too. At least until this guy pounded his chest and all the other males ran off.