Page 71 of Mexico Can Choke On It
He’s mad… atme?
Why?I didn’t ask to be Echo’s muse.
AndBryceis the cheating asshole who’s engaged. What the hell gives him the right to be angry?
I thought I understood Bryce Sterling—beneath all that wealth and family legacy. I thought he was better than this world of smoke and mirrors. But this man, whom I’ve measured against all others, is nothing but a beautiful lie.
CHAPTER NINE
BRYCE
Iwon’tjerkoffto my best friend’s little sister… again.
Hot water pelts the back of my neck like liquid bullets, steam curling up around the marble shower, heavy with judgment. I brace both hands against the slick tile and stare down at my traitorous cock, fully alert, completely unbothered by the moral implications of its current state.
Droplets bounce off my sensitive tip, sinful, provocative taunts running down my length. My hand hovers—hesitating. Threatening. A tremor of restraint coils through my gut.
This is absurd.
I am a grown man. A man with responsibilities and self-discipline. I will not enter into negotiations with my own rock-hard dick about Petra Brinkman.
Technically, this is the third time I’ve given myself this lecture.
The first instance was last night, after that trainwreck of a dinner. After the… audible foreplay? I stripped out of my tux, still smelling her on my hands—jasmine and sin. The lingering presence of her thigh under my palm. Her fingers—God, her fingers—landing onmy erection. The challenge in her eyes as she whispered,“And what do I get if I do gag?”
I came in record time, biting my fist like a goddamn teenager.
And then at 3:12 a.m., I jolted awake from a dream so vivid, I could almost feel the ghost of her weight on top of me. Hear her throaty voice in my ear. My hand was already gripping my cock, stroking. Urgent. Instinctive.
This isn’t me. I’ve spent twenty-nine years building a life defined by discipline and restraint.
And yet here I am, starting my morning as if I’m some unhinged pervert in a luxury rain shower, contemplating round three like it’s medically necessary to keep me from losing my shit.
This would make it an unholy trinity in under twelve hours. A personal record I’m not proud of.
I don’t indulge. I don’t fixate. I don’tobsess.
Except… it’s Petra.
My brain’s been rewired. Every thought loops back to her. The way she leaned into my touch as I fastened her dress. The way her body trembled when my knuckles skimmed her spine. Ink painted over her curves, begging to be explored.
God, her tattoos.
I can’t stop thinking about the wildflowers etched across her shoulder blade. When my fingers traced their outline, she shivered. And that broken heart behind her ear—so small it was nearly missed—until my thumb brushed it and she went rigid.
There’s history inked on that skin. A warning label—and an invitation.
Who broke Pip’s heart badly enough that she needed to immortalize it? The thought stirs something possessive and primal in me.
I’d love to peel that pink dress off her body, exposing each hidden tattoo one by one. I’d start at her neck, pressing my lips to her pulse point, feeling it race beneath my mouth as I worked my way down. Would she be soft or sharp with me? Would those clever retorts dissolve into sighs if I used my teeth on the sensitive skin below her ear?
My hand wraps around my cock before I even realize it.
“Fuck.”
I stroke once, slow. Then again. My hips twitch forward, my eyes slam shut, and a guttural sound escapes my throat. Shame flickers. Followed immediately by a vivid mental reel of Petra straddling my lap, lips parted, pupils blown wide as she dares me to ruin her.
I’ve never acted this way. Not with any woman. Certainly not Amanda. In five years, I never once felt this consuming, desperate hunger. Sex with her wasroutine. A scheduled appointment. An emotionalceasefire. Always efficient. Always polite.
