Page 37 of CurVy Forever

The strength in his shoulders loosen, and he drops his forehead to mine. I try not to gasp in shock. Never in a million years would I ever imagine Dexter Vaughn to be vulnerable with me.

Closing his eyes, he rolls his forehead against me. “You’re so fucking adorable,” he whispers. “I wish you were mine tonight. I wouldn’t even be rough. I’d do you slowly, catching every little flutter. Not missing a single whimper.”

Fuck.

What am I doing?

I cup the back of his neck and let him lean on me, just breathing deeply. He places his hands flat on the counter either side of my hips. His air clashes with mine. His heat and sadness swirling around us, a little less lonely for a moment.

“The fuck?” Tyler’s dark utterance causes Dexter’s head to rise from mine and his hands to slip from beside me.

I don’t know what to say.

Tyler is standing at the far side of the kitchen, with his hand twitching beside a block of knives, the handles a few inches from his grasp.

Fuck.

I slide from the counter.

Stepping slowly backwards as if to not spook him, Dexter displays his palms in surrender. “Easy, Ty. I’d never touch her without your permission.” He shakes his head, all that sadness sitting in his crushed blue eyes. “I just needed a moment with someone who doesn’t fucking hate me or think I’m a shitty person.”

“Pick. Someone. Else,” Tyler states in a deep, even tone that stirs cautious through me.

“Ty,” I say his name through a gentle plea. A plea for him to be reasonable. Calm. But he is rarely calm, and in this moment, the depth of his possessiveness turns his eyes to slits.

Physically, the brothers are nearly equals. Height above six-three. Lean but for bunches of muscles in virile places, biceps, thighs, and abdominals.

God, they are both powerful and striking. I don’t know who would win in a fight, though I imagine Tyler could withstand a level of pain his brothers might not.

Dexter looks at his brother, dropping his hands to his sides in utter defeat as though the weight of it is now lead in his veins. “I’m sorry, Tyler.”

He isn’t talking about me.

Tyler stiffens further, his lashed fingers trembling by the block of knives. “Stop it.”

“I am.” Dexter takes a step towards his little brother, and Tyler draws the knife from the block in an unhurried, eerie way that causes my insides to contract.

I cover my gasp. “Ty, no.”

Dexter takes another cautious step. “Tyler.” He shakes his head, slow and meaningful, not acknowledging the knife but diving into the pained eyes of his little brother. “Please. Forgive me. I’ve changed.”

I ache for them.

Tyler scoffs on a sob, and my heart leaps to hold him. The humming from his lips is melodic and sweet and battles with the torment in his wild gaze. “Where were you, Dex? When I was in hospital? When I needed you? I’m clear now. I know you weren’t there.”

“Drunk,” he admits strongly, honestly. “I was drunk. Spending money. Dying inside. I’m so sorry. Let me be here for you now. I want to be.”

Tyler’s fist tightens around the handle, the kitchen light sliding down the silver surface of the blade. “I cut everything out. Even you. I cut you out. I don’t need you.”

“You didn’t.” Dexter gets within striking distance, the tip of the knife a few inches away from piercing his chest. “You can’t. I won’t go. I won’t leave. I won’t move.”

Tyler braces the blade.

Too still, dangerously so.

Dexter takes another step.

Tyler’s gaze tracks him.

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