Page 107 of Mexico Can Choke On It
One look at my face makes him wince. “Well, shit.”
His thumb swipes across my swollen lips, cleaning away the carnage my lipstick has become. “Don’t worry, beautiful. Next time I’m kissing every bit of it off.”
The promise ofnext timemakes my knees wobble.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” I rasp out.
He smirks. That damn smirk.
“Where the hell are you guys?” Gavin shouts.
Bryce transforms back into a composed gentleman so fast it gives me whiplash.
“We’re over here!” he calls out, his hands moving to zip up my jumpsuit while maintaining eye contact. “Be right there! Your sister had to pee and was afraid of getting bitten by something!”
I whisper-hiss at him, “Really? You’re throwing me under the bus?”
“I’ll take the blame… if you admit I’m what you need.”
“Admit my ATV orgasm was making you jealous.”
He just grins wider then reaches up to straighten my hair, plucking out a rogue leaf. The casual intimacy of it makes my heart swell.
Get it together, Petra. You’re not some billionaire’s plaything. You’re supposed to be calling the shots.
I straighten up with renewed determination. “Here’s the thing, B. Yesterday, you showed your cards. Guys don’t eat pussy like that unless they’re desperate to get inside of it. Which tells me you want to fuck me… bad.”
His eyes twinkle with pure evil. “Interesting theory. But I think you’ll be the one knocking on my door tonight begging for more.”
I shove past him. “Ha! Dream on, Moneybags. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m driving this time so you don’t cockblock my fun mid-climax.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BRYCE
Ilostcontrol.Again.
I should feel guilty about how quickly I broke—embarrassed, even. But shame doesn’t register when I’m still reveling in thefeelof her pussy’s angelic chokehold on my fingers.
My guest suite feels like a prison cell, even with the ocean stretching wide beyond the giant windows. I’m too wound up to appreciate the view. I sit on the edge of the bed in nothing but silk boxers, hair still dripping from the blistering shower I took to erase the jungle heat. And her touch. And her taste.
It didn’t work.
I’m supposed to be settling into my evening routine—analyzing market trends and reviewing IPO documents. Instead, I’m rock hard over the phantom sensation of her wicked grip around my cock.
I scrub my palms down my face, rough stubble biting back. She obliterated my willpower in seconds.What the hell is wrong with me?
Who does that? Who fingers his best friend’s sister against a tree while she jerks him off like it’s some team-building exercise for deviants?
Me, apparently.
Sterling men don’t lose their composure. We don’t make guttural sounds when we come. We don’t bite women’s necks like predators.
But that’s exactly what I did.
The memory sends a wicked pulse of heat down my spine—and lower.
I reach for the scotch, my fingers trembling slightly as I bring the glass to my lips. The amber liquid burns as it goes down. And Christ, tucked away in my suitcase is that damn shirt, stained with her lipstick. I should have thrown it away, but there it is, folded carefully like some kind of twisted souvenir.
