Page 39 of The Wrong Brother

Unfortunately, he’s right.

I’m angry at myself for ending up here in the first place. Angry that despite every horrifying thing about this situation, my body still reacts to him instantly.

I should back up.

I don’t.

“You keep looking at me like you want to fight me,” he murmurs, his lips close enough to tempt me to turn my head. When I do, he pulls back just enough for me to see that smirk.

“Maybe I do.”

“Mm.” His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. “That will likely end badly for both of us.”

Heat flashes hard through me.

“I still haven’t forgiven you for stalking me through a farmer’s market.”

“You looked cute in my clothes.”

“I hate you.”

“No,” he says again, voice low enough to feel dangerous, “you do not.”

Before I can think better of it, I shove him hard in the chest. It’s a mistake.

Ruslan catches my wrist instantly. The air changes, and his fingers tighten just enough to make my pulse jump while his eyes darken in a way I recognize now.

Adrenaline crashes through me so hard it feels almost dizzying.

“You should stop touching me like that,” I whisper.

“Then stop provoking me.”

“You started this.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, pulling me closer abruptly, “you came into my bedroom.”

That shuts me up. Because technically?—

His free hand slides against my waist, and suddenly every ounce of tension from the last two days detonates at once. Fear, anger, attraction, frustration—all of it crashes together until I can barely think straight.

“This is such a bad idea,” I breathe, hands going to the nape of his neck to thread into the short blonde hair there.

“Yes.”

Then he kisses me. Hard.

There’s no seduction in this kiss; we’re past that. This feels reckless from the start, all sharp mouths and pent-up tension that mutates into heat before I can stop it. I kiss him back immediately, pressing my tongue to his lips and enjoying the groan that escapes.

His hands fist into the t-shirt I’m wearing while mine dig deeper into his hair, pulling, tugging where the blonde shifts to a gleaming silver. God, I can’t believe I’m wet just from the thought of this wholesilver foxthing. An older man who clearly knows what to do, where to touch, as the knuckles of one hand graze the underside of my breasts.

Somewhere in the middle of us stumbling backward into the edge of the bed, I realize we’re both still furious. Is that worse? Or better? Hotter? Definitely hotter.

“I’m not signing that contract,” I snap when I pull back enough to get the words out. Ruslan’s hands squeeze my waist, apparently enjoying the thick flesh there, massaging it and shifting my shirt further up.

“We’ll talk about it. After.”

Something in me, something I thought I lost a while ago, pushes back, and I do too. Literally. It shouldn’t be so easy to push Ruslan back onto the bed, but he gives up with an eager expression like he’s been waiting for this.