Craving The Wrong Brother (Sloane and Knox) novel Chapter 44

CHAPTER 044: Military Bugs

***

~~SLOANE~~

***

I run out of the bathroom with a towel clinging to my skin, heart hammering as I check the time on my phone. Shit. I’ve been away from the office way too long.

Way, way too long.

Sooner or later, Harper–the supervisor who pretends she’s chill but tracks every second of your workday like a bloodhound -will start pinging me about the CypherGuard project.

And I don’t have the energy for Harper right now. Or for that endless spreadsheet mapping out endpoint vulnerabilities we‘ re supposed to isolate before end–of–quarter audits. We’re only halfway through code–flagging, and I’ve already missed two checkpoints. If I’m not careful, they’ll reassign it. And I’ve worked too damn hard to get trusted with something this sensitive.

I fumble into my room, drying off as I go, heart still racing from more than just time stress.

I know my problem. It’s that tattooed man currently inside my house.

Everything reminds me of him these past few days, reminds me of the feeling of having him inside me.

I’d look at the restroom sinks in my office and remember being bent over one in Asheville.

The hard press of a chair back against my spine brings back the way he pinned me to a wall.

Even the gentle thrum of the office printer makes me think of the low, satisfied sounds he makes when I moan into his mouth.

I hate how easy it is to get lost in it–how I crave the ache he leaves inside me. How it follows me everywhere. From my bedroom, I spot him in the living room.

He’s moving. Not in a relaxed, casual way like before. He’s scanning. Checking corners. Lifting pillows.

“Is something wrong?” I call out, already pulling out fresh undies from my drawer.

“Not exactly,” he answers, eyes fixed on my bookshelf now.

I yank on underwear and a bra. And then I pull the rest of my clothes back on. My hands are fast, practiced.

“At least tell me you’re not checking for bugs,” I say, half–joking as I zip my pants.

He turns, and for a split second, his face does something strange–like I just caught him in a lie. But soon enough, his brows lift, realization dawning.

“Oh. Bugs, as in bedbugs?”

“What else would I be talking about? Military bugs?” I laugh, expecting him to join me.

He doesn’t. I eye his serious face suspiciously before moving over to the mirror to fix my face.

“You should change your locks,” he says.

I freeze, mascara wand hovering mid–air.

“Why would I want to change my locks?”

He steps into the doorway, folding his arms. His reflection is all muscle and shadows in the glass.

“They’re easy to pick.”

I raise a brow. “And you know that how? Have you picked locks before?”

His lips twitch. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

I turn around, narrowing my eyes. “I am very interested in this story.”

“Well, you’re not getting it.”

“Come on. You never tell me anything about yourself. Were you a little thief?”

He chuckles softly, something dark and warm ur Successfully unlocked!bout it soon. I promise.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the mirror, fixing my hat something that doesn’t scream I just got thoroughly railed in the middle of the workday.

I watch him behind me, slipping his shirt on, smoothing the black fabric over the hard lines of his body. He looks dangerous like this and yet domesticated in my space somehow.

1/3

CHAPTER 044 Military Buge

Who would’ve thought I’d lure a man into my apartment in the middle of the day for sex? But the truth is–that’s not entirely why I brought him here.

His mouth is filthy, he could talk my panties into being wet and dropping down my legs in a heartbeat, but when it comes to himself, he’s weirdly tight–lipped. And some part of me–maybe the stupid part–hoped that by bringing him into my space, he’d bring me into his. That he’d sit on my couch, stare at my ceiling, and maybe say something about his past and present life. What keeps him awake at night.

That’s what Google said, anyway. ‘Invite him into your space so he learns to trust you? Ugh. We’re just a few days into this relationship, and I’m one article away from becoming a psychotic girlfriend.

I smooth the last piece of hair back into place and glance at him in the mirror again.

He’s completely dressed now.

With the way he’s looking around my bedroom right now, searching for God knows what, maybe he is already feeling at home and would start spilling his secrets soon. One can only hope.

Don’t push, I tell myself.

“Let’s go,” I say, turning around and trying to walk past him.

He catches my wrist.

Pulls me in.

And kisses me–deep, intense, slow enough to steal time from the world. When he finally lets me go, my knees are wobbly.

“Don’t start anything,” I murmur, eyes still closed.

“I just wanted to leave my scent on you,” he says. “You washed it off.”

That makes my eyes open.

“You’re weird.”

He grins.

I shake myself out of his grip and head for the door. He slaps my ass as he follows behind me.

“Seriously?”

His only answer is a smirk.

Outside, we head for his car–a Porsche 911 that growls so loud it draws stares from the old couple on the second–floor balcony. I glance up at them, then quickly down again.

I’ve never liked attention.

Knox, it seems, thrives on it. I mean, both cars I’ve seen him drive practically scream Look at me.

He pulls away from the curb with one hand draped over the wheel, and we glide through the city. The windows are down just enough to let the air slip in. I lean back against the seat, watching the buildings blur past. Then, just as we’re about a block away from my office, I spot a familiar strip mall up ahead with a very visible pharmacy.

I tap the window. “Can you stop here?”

“Why?” he asks.

“I need to get something from the drugstore.”

“Are you unwell?”

“If not wanting crotch goblins classifies as an illness, then yes.”

He parks with a chuckle. “They’d be cute, though.”

“Don’t even go there.”

I reach for the door, but he catches my wrist.

“Let me get it,” he says. “Don’t want you spending your little fortune on morning–after pills.”

I scowl, but he just grins wider–completely unfazed–and taps the tip of my nose with his index finger. Then, without a word, he steps out of the car.

And then I’m alone.

In his car–the only personal space of his I’ve ever been in without him there.

One voice in my head tells me not to do it.

Don’t.

But the other voice–the nosy, curious one–wins.

I lean over the console, fingers hovering above the glove box.

212

CHAPTER 044: Military Bugs