Page 83 of The Wrong Brother

When it’s over, we’re both boneless. Emma leans against me, chest heaving, and I can feel the sheen of sweat under my clothes.

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. An embarrassing amount of time before losing myself like that, but it doesn’t matter—she got off. She cried your name out when she came.

A deep, warm satisfaction settles in my chest as I wrap my arms around her waist and let my cock soften inside her. We stay like that for a while, neither of us willing to talk about what just happened.

I thought she was rejecting me when she saidI am not something you own.

But this, what just happened between us, felt like Emma Pierce staking her claim. And no woman has ever claimed me before.

I hate how much I want it.

Chapter 21

Emma

The knockon the suite door comes just after noon, making me jump and press a hand to my chest. Rus isn’t here; he left an hour ago in another annoyingly stunning suit, vaguely mentioning a meeting before disappearing into a dark sedan.

I freeze halfway through pouring coffee, staring toward the entrance. Maybe it’s just hotel staff checking in? Did we not put the “do not disturb” card on the door handle?

The knock comes again.

My stomach tightens as I glance toward my phone sitting on the kitchen counter. Part of me wants to immediately call Ruslan. The other part remembers the terrifying look on his face after seeing the bruises on my wrist, and suddenly the idea of dragging him into another confrontation feels dangerous in an entirely different way. Besides, it really could just be hotel staff.

Andrei flashes through my mind instantly.

I still remember the crushing grip of his fingers digging into my skin outside the coffee shop. The coldness in his eyes inside that SUV. The brothers are different in a thousand ways, butanger strips those differences down fast. Same intensity. Same violence simmering beneath the surface.

Only Rus doesn’t bother pretending he’s civilized. Or try to use that violence onme.

Another knock echoes through the suite, less patient this time. Slowly, I cross the room and stop beside the door, my heartbeat pounding loud enough to hear blood rushing in my ears.

“Who is it?” I call through the heavy wood.

A brief pause follows before a smooth older voice answers, “A friend.”

Absolutely not.

Nerves almost make me laugh as I slide the security chain into place and crack the door open carefully. An older man stands in the hallway wearing a charcoal overcoat that probably costs more than my monthly rent back in Miami. He looks expensive in the same effortless way Rus does, though where Ruslan feels sharp and dangerous, this man feels polished into something warmer.

His green eyes narrow slightly when he sees me. Not threatening; just assessing.

“You must be Emma,” he says calmly.

Every instinct I own sharpens. “How do you know my name?”

One corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Because Ruslan talks about you more than he realizes.”

That answer catches me off guard. The man notices my reaction and sighs softly. “Relax. If I intended harm, I would not haveknocked. And I’m old, as much as I hate to admit it,” he says bitterly. “Too old to be going around fighting young women.”

“Comforting,” I mutter.

A quiet laugh escapes him. Definitely older than Rus, maybe late sixties or early seventies, with the kind of confidence that comes from years of just existing. He studies me for another second before speaking again.

“You’re deciding whether or not to slam the door in my face.”

“I’m deciding whether you’re secretly here to murder me.”

“Ah.” He nods thoughtfully. “Then Colorado has become more stressful than anticipated. And you, you must have Ruslan figured out.”