A Long Time Coming (Cane Brothers, #3)(66)

“Still, I needed to hear that. So thank you.”

“Anything for you,” I say as I glance down at her lips and then back up at her eyes.

What I wouldn’t do for those lips right now.

Just one kiss. Just one taste.

From the corner of my eye, I catch her chest rising and falling harder as she moves in an inch.

Fuck me.

I loosen my grip on her shirt and, instead, rest my warm palm against her exposed hip. I find the seam of her underwear and gently press my index finger against it as my blood burns for more. You’re so close, just . . . just slip your finger under the seam, see what she does. Gauge her reaction.

My pulse thunders as I glide my finger along the seam, my mind telling me to stop, my heart screaming at me for more.

I want her so fucking bad that it’s painful. When I gaze into her eyes, I don’t see anything other than admiration. It’s a fucking look from her I will always cherish, I will live for, because it shows me just how much she trusts me.

Even as I’m bordering on crossing a line, she trusts me.

So I slip my finger softly under the seam of her underwear, right on her hip.

She smiles.

My cock springs forward as all the blood rushes down my body as she reaches her hand between us and cups my cheek. Her thumb slides across my scruff, and I freeze in place as she moves in closer.

Fuck. She wants this. Right?

She wants this just as much as me.

I remove my hand and slide it to her back, where her shirt has lifted so I can feel her warm skin at the tip of my pinky. I’m so fucking tempted to slide my fingers down her back, under her underwear, and grip her ass.

But I want to see where she goes with this. I want to see what she wants from me. So I brace myself, waiting, not stopping the way she’s closing in on me, but welcoming it because fuck, I want this.

I should care that she’s engaged.

I should care that we’re best friends and this could ruin everything.

But I don’t because I want her lips. I want to taste them. I want to see if the thought of how she tastes and feels in my arms is just as good as I think it is.

Her mouth grows closer and closer.

My veins feel electric.

My muscles tighten.

My breath seizes in my chest.

And then she presses her lips . . . to my cheek before saying, “Good night, Breaker.” Then she turns back around, snuggles into her pillow, and that’s that.

Nothing else.

I squeeze my eyes shut for being such a goddamn fool, for even wanting more.

She’s fucking engaged, you moron. Best you remember that.





Chapter Eleven





LIA





The apartment is quiet. Breaker is still in bed sleeping while I sit on his couch, coffee in hand, staring out the window at the view, the same view I have from my apartment. Yet, I feel more comfortable here.

More at home.

It’s why I wanted to come over last night. I felt so out of control, and I needed that comfort.

And that’s exactly what I got.

Despite our fight this week and things being awkward between us—that whole “I stubbed my toe” thing was really weird—I can still rely on him. He held me last night, told me how much he appreciated me, and didn’t let me feel lonely for even a second.

I take a sip of my coffee and then glance down at my list. With my mind racing, I woke up early, came out here, and started writing down the things I wanted to do before I got married.

I wanted to be thoughtful in my check-off list, not just write things down to write them down. So I’ve narrowed it down to five items.

Do something that makes me feel pretty.

Create a circle of trust.

Spend a day saying yes.

Stand up for myself.

Follow my heart.

I stare down at the list, a large smile on my face as I realize this is exactly what I need to get out of this rut, this dark pit I feel like I’ve been sinking into. And I already have some ideas on how to check these off.

“What do you think, Mom and Dad?” I whisper. “Think this is a way to jumpstart my life again?”

A warm sense of comfort rushes through me. It might all be in my head, but I almost feel like I can sense their approval.

“Good morning,” Breaker says as he steps into the living room, scratching his chest and looking like he needs at least two more hours of sleep. “How long have you been up?”

“About an hour. There’s coffee warming if you want some. The raspberry kind of course.”

“As if you need to say anything, I could smell it from the bedroom.” He stumbles over to the kitchen, his feet scraping against the tile as he makes it to the coffee pot and pulls down the Jack Skellington mug I got him one year for Christmas. It was one of his favorite movies growing up. Since buying presents for a billionaire is incredibly hard, I decided to go the sentimental route. He uses it often. Once he pours his coffee, he turns toward me and nods at my paper and pen. “What are you writing?”

“The next greatest novel. It’s about a dragon who slays . . . on the dance floor and out on the battlefield.”

He sips his coffee and then says, “Does the dragon dress in drag?”

“Obviously.”

“I’d read the hell out of that, especially if it’s as riveting as Lovers, Not Brothers.” He walks over to where I’m sitting on the couch and takes a seat as well. “Does your dragon have a name?”