Page 38 of Baby Surprise for my Brother's Best Friend

His voice in my ear, husky and rough.

His hands gripping my hips like he owns me.

I bite my lip, stifling a moan as I pick up the pace. My fingers rubbing tight little circles on my clit.

The pleasure builds between my legs, my panties soaking with arousal.

As soon as I'm wet enough, I plunge my two fingers deep within my pussy, not waiting to ease it in.

I stroke harder, faster, legs tensing, head thrown back into the pillow as heat builds low in my belly.

Pressure, sharp and sweet, spiraling with every glide of my fingers.

I imagine his tongue, his hips driving into mine, the scent of his cologne on my sheets.

I cry out, my breath hitching as the climax slams into me, sudden, electric, and overwhelming.

It's blinding and toe-curling at the same time, and maybe I'm a bit too loud. But as the waves of pleasure wash over me, it's hot and humiliatingly satisfying, and instantly laced with guilt.

I ride it out, breathless and trembling.

My chest heaves, my skin flushed, and heart still pounding.

I lie there in the afterglow, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers I don’t want to face.

What the hell is wrong with me?

This can’t happen again. I know better.

But apparently, my body didn’t get the memo.

It was a mistake then. And it’s a mistake now.

Alessio Marchetti is dangerous.

But right now, he’s all I can think about.

10

ALESSIO

I watch from the bottom of the stairs, jaw slack, breath locked somewhere in my chest as Sophie descends like a goddamn fantasy, one I’ve had more times than I’ll ever admit.

Fuck.

Her gown is silk and sin, hugging her body with a lethal kind of elegance. The fabric drapes over her hips like a promise, clinging to the curves of her waist and molds to her breasts with a reverence that makes it hard to breathe.

It’s the kind of dress that makes men stupid, and me, absolutely feral.

The high slit flashes a toned thigh with every step, her long legs moving with a grace that makes my blood heat. The neckline dips low, showcasing the swell of her breasts, full and tempting, framed perfectly by the soft shimmer of the fabric. Her hair is swept up, exposing her neck, smooth, elegant, kissable.

“Damn,” I whisper, because it’s all I can manage.

She hasn’t even left the apartment yet, and she’s already the most beautiful woman in any room. In every room. And she’s walking toward me like she doesn’t know she owns me.

She’s not mine.

Not officially.

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