Page 16 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

Maybe we’re both one bad decision away from something we can’t undo.

I lean against the counter, arms folded, watching her rise from the couch and saunter to her room.

Her ass bounces beneath the thin fabric of her leggings and a rush of blood has me swelling between my legs.

Fuck.

“This is going to be fun.” I keep my voice just low enough to hum across her skin even from here.

“This is war.”

My grin curves slow, deliberate. “I hope you like it dirty.”

She scoffs, storming off, but not before I catch the flicker in her eyes. Not fear. Not anger.

Interest.

And damn if that doesn’t light a fire in all the wrong places.

I watch her disappear into her room, that sway of her hips doing sinful things to my focus.

Because if this is war... I’m not sure I want to win.

But I’ll be the first one in line to bring on the fire.

5

SOPHIE

I slams my laptop shut with a sharp clap that echoes off the kitchen walls. “How the hell am I supposed to fix this?”

The words slip out before I can stop them, sharp and bitter.

My fingers tap out a frantic rhythm against the marble island, my head thumping like my brain is trying to organize the mess I’ve just inherited.

I don’t get a second to breathe.

Because of course, right on cue, he strolls in. Shirtless, smug, muscles cut from marble, that dangerous V taper vanishing beneath a towel slung sinfully low on his hips.

He looks like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make twice.

His chest is broad and sculpted, a perfect canvas of golden skin stretched over hard muscle. Every ripple of his abs tightens with each lazy step, the kind of definition you only see in magazines of oil-drenched Calvin Klein ads. His biceps flex slightly as he runs a hand through his hair, and my eyes, traitorous, trail lower.

The towel rides low on his hips, clinging like a whisper, barely hiding the promise underneath. And God help me, there’s a visible bulge straining against the fabric, leaving very little to imagination.

Either way, it’s criminal.

Alessio. Fucking. Marchetti.

He’s the human equivalent of gasoline on fire. And I’m the idiot holding the match.

“Don’t mind me,dolcezza, just taking a shower.”

I blink. “What did you just call me?”

He pauses mid-step, towel still slung low.

“Dolcezza.” He keeps his voice slow and deliberate, with a wicked grin. “Italian. Means sweetness. Fitting for all the ‘sweet’ vibes you’re throwing around, don’t you think?”

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