Semua Bab Craving The Wrong Brother: Bab 31 - Bab 40

*** ~~SLOANE~~ *** As soon as the door shuts behind Knox, I realize how cold the weather actually is. The air nips at my bare skin, prickling goosebumps across my arms and legs, raising every fine hair in protest. Knox had been my heat—his body, his mouth, his hands, his presence. Now that he’s gone, he’s taken all of it with him. Shivering, I get up from the chair and walk stiffly toward the heap of clothes tossed over the other seat. There’s a wetness between my legs that makes my steps stickier than they should be. I reach down and tug my ruined panties from where they’re bunched against my inner thigh. Wrapping the lace and the vibrator in a tissue, I shove them deep into my purse. My fingers brush against my phone, and I pull it out. The screen lights up. Missed calls. So many of them. And texts. Finn. I bite my lip and scroll through the list. ‘Where are you?’ ‘Sloane, please answer.’ ‘Tell me you’re okay.’ ‘I’m calling the police if I don’t hear from you in five

*** ~~KNOX~~ *** I can hear Hunter retching his guts out in the bathroom, each heave a reminder that last night did its job. That’s how you know the bachelor party was a success—when the groom wakes up barely human, hungover, and halfway questioning every decision that led to this moment. We both got back late. Way after the rehearsal dinner ended. The after-party spiraled into something else entirely—shots of things I couldn’t name, groomsmen and strangers dragging us into different corners of the bar, music too loud to remember what it meant to have coherent thoughts. I have a strong stomach. Always have. But even I pushed my limit last night. Now I’m sprawled across Hunter's hotel room’s couch, one leg hanging off the edge, half-covered with a throw blanket I don’t remember grabbing. The air conditioner hums too cold. The light filtering through the curtains is too bright. My head doesn’t hurt, but it’s heavy. The bathroom door creaks open. Hunter emerges, pale and damp

His hand moves quickly to my shorts, unzipping them and pushing his hand inside through my pants until he finds my heat. He draws moisture from there to my clit and begins circling. I'm panting and moaning now, my body moving to the rhythm of his touch. "Our bet?" I manage to gasp out. "Have you forgotten so soon? We made a bet. Wedding doesn't happen, you become mine." I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of lust that's clouding my thoughts. "Those were not the terms. You said you'd chase me." "Same difference.” “I have to go talk to him. To Hunter. He can't stop the wedding." "I think you've done enough talking today, Kitten," he says, his fingers no longer torturing my clit but pushing inside me. I can feel my body responding, my hips pressing back against him, seeking more of his touch. "You came here to call me a terrible person for wanting to destroy my friend's wedding, a wedding with a woman who doesn't deserve him. But you're insisting the wedding must happen,

I climb up after him, swing a leg over his face, and plant my knees on either side of his head. Then I go down a little. “When I say sit, you fucking smother me. Do you understand?” “Yes,” I whisper. I start to lower myself again, hesitating just enough that my center brushes his nose. “You’re not listening,” he growls. Then he grips my hips and pulls me all the way down. The first swipe of his tongue makes my thighs tremble. I grind against him without thinking, moaning as his mouth devours me. He doesn’t lick. He feasts. Tongue flat and firm, then pointed and teasing. My hips start moving on their own, rubbing me deeper into his face. He groans into me, and I nearly collapse. Lifting me up a little, he says, “Put my dick in your mouth, Sloane.” I lean forward, reach between us, and take him back in my mouth. And just like that, I’m riding his tongue while sucking him, pleasure coursing through me in every direction. He starts fucking me with his tongue, deep and slow, the

*** ~~FINN~~ *** Delilah is panting and bouncing on top of me, her manicured hands braced on my chest. She throws her head back like she’s in the middle of some kind of religious experience, but all I feel is the weight of her—skin against skin, motion without meaning. My mind is elsewhere. I’m not even in the room. I’m in Asheville. Still in that damn house. Still stuck in the moment Sloane slammed the car door and refused to look back at me. I try to focus—on Delilah’s hands on my chest, on the way she gasps my name—but every time I close my eyes, I see Sloane. Her expression blank, her silence louder than any goodbye she could’ve given me. She’s not answering my texts. Not my calls. It’s been over forty-eight hours, and all I’ve gotten is radio silence. My father had practically chased me out of his house, red-faced and yelling, threatening to set everything on fire if Delilah didn’t leave immediately. I hadn’t even argued. I packed up in a hurry and caught the first flig