Des chemins séparés pour lesquels je me suis battue

Rhea

“Those ass thick as fuck.”

 

I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs, to find Jackson and Brandon looming in my doorway. Jackson leaned his weight against the door frame with a predator’s grace, while Brandon held the door wide open, one hand shoved deep into his denim pocket. Their eyes were raking fire over every inch of my bare skin.

 

“And your snatch is so full. Damn. I want a taste,” Brandon added, a small, dangerous smile curving the corners of his mouth.

 

I wondered how long they’ve been standing there and how much of my naked form they’ve seen.

 

Heat flared under my skin, and it wasn't just embarrassment. I was completely naked, caught in the middle of a frantic search through my wardrobe for a family dinner dress that I didn’t want to be in.

 

“Have you both lost your damn minds?” I snapped. I lunged for the towel on my bed, whipping it around my chest and tucking it tight. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? I’ve told you a thousand times, knock before coming into my room!”

 

Jackson chuckled, a dark, low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the air between us. He pushed off the door frame and stalked toward me. “Your door was wide open, Cat. Seems to me like you wanted us to see.”

 

I let out a bitter, jagged laugh. “In your dreams. What do you want?”

 

Jackson didn't stop until he’d swallowed the space between us. He towered over me, a breathtaking giant making me feel like a cornered mouse. It was infuriating how gorgeous he was, the sharp jawline, the scent of expensive sandalwood and trouble. It was enough to make my brain cells short-circuit and my hatred for this house, and the two of them, momentarily dissolve into a haze of treacherous longing.

He looked down at me with an arrogant smirk, his green eyes locking onto mine with hypnotic intensity. “Your mother wants you downstairs. We wouldn't be here if you’d bothered to pick up your phone,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a private silk thread.

The Jackson and Brandon I knew would never come to my room if my mother sent them. They hated her. In their eyes, she was the gold-digger who’d married their father for his millions, a threat to their inheritance. As for me, I was just the collateral damage. They never liked me either; I was part of the problem just by existing in their father's house.

“You and I both know that’s not why you’re here,” I said, my breath hitching as he leaned closer.

“Then why don’t you tell me why I’m here, Cat?”

I hated that name. I fucking hated it. Every time they said it, my chest tightened. It made me feel small. Exposed. Like they’d already decided I was a pet, someone they could corner, toy with, and break if the whim struck them.

Jackson’s lips hovered so close to mine that I could almost taste the mint on his breath. His gaze dropped to my mouth for a split second, and he swallowed hard, his throat working as if he were fighting every instinct to claim me right there against the wardrobe.

“Your room's a mess,” Brandon's voice cut in, shattering the trance. I hadn't even noticed how near he was until then. He was behind me now, his presence a cold shadow. “Didn’t peg you for the disorganized type. Or are you just that desperate to find something that makes you look like a saint?”

“Quit talking nonsense,” I snapped, stepping back from Jackson’s suffocating heat, only to collide with Brandon's solid chest.

Now they had me trapped between them, their bodies caging me in like iron bars. Heat radiated from their skin, igniting my nerves until they screamed. My core throbbed insistently, a treacherous rush of wetness slicking my folds and trickling down my inner thighs.