Page 28 of Discord
No. He hadn’t been with anyone younger than him.Brandon avoided young women like the plague and was practically traumatized by my age.It was ironic to be sitting next to him, every underaged inch of me naked under his shirt.
There was a shift in the mood following my inquiry, and I wondered if I had gone too far in appeasing my curiosity. No idea why I let my blabbering mouth get the best of me. Given his family history, I should have remembered the sore topic.
Brandon surprised me again with another curveball. “After everything, I ended up being my father’s son.”
My body tensed from his heartbreakingly subdued voice. Brandon didn’t display a range of colorful emotions. Mostly, he was sarcastic with shades of annoyance and anger, at times playfulness followed by more sarcasm. I had never heard him… somber? The arrogant coat Brandon wore was shedding to reveal something ominous.
“This is different,” I whispered. His father’s cross wasn’t his to bear.
Brandon scoffed. “I bet that’s what he used to say to justify his actions.” His head was lowered, focused intently on his food. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew he was struggling.
“You’re not him,” I murmured.
My words didn’t matter. His emotions were already tucked away. The warmth at the table disappeared, replaced by a cold front. An awkward tension befell us as Brandon shut down, and I wondered if I had imagined the traces of tenderness in our earlier exchange.
Mia
Followingmy escapades to Brandon’s apartment, I returned to a different house than the one I left behind. Raven was still visiting Reid in Baltimore, whereas a sulking Milo took a sabbatical from work and moved to his condo in Soho. Meanwhile, JAMBA downgraded to a small office with the sole purpose of housing their tech equipment. Living here was a moot point with the new office readily available, so Jaci and Alexa moved out.
Brandon, on the other hand, chose to stay behind.
Things had turned painfully awkward between us following our last conversation at his condo. Discussions of his father rushed a new bout of guilt. All the same, Brandon was unwilling to retract and was reckless in his efforts. When he drove me home, and I asked him to drop me off at the corner, Brandon stubbornly pulled up in front of my house. We had hours of sex and an intimate meal, then returned to an obscure status quo upon stepping into my home. In any case, I was bound for Yale at the end of summer, and he was due for California. In the interim, living with him under the same roof was a renewed struggle. I had no idea how to behave around him after the latest development.
I ran into Brandon the morning after the trip to his apartment. I was startled to find him idly leaning against the kitchen counter with a coffee mug in hand. His inky, black hair was tousled and damp. He was in a breathable button-down shirt, with sleeves rolled just below the elbows. An outfit befitting of the outside heat.
“Morning,” I mumbled.
Pale, blue orbs found mine. His lips curled with a half-smile. “Morning,” he responded slowly.
He watched—with slight amusement—my failed attempt to steam milk using the abomination of a coffee machine. The intense heat tinged my skin, making it impossible for my shaky hands to operate properly. Meanwhile, Brandon was all gorgeous, unruffled, and unbothered. And he appeared delighted by my fluster.
Eventually, Brandon sighed exasperatedly—like the one you heaved while dealing with errant children—before reaching past me to hit a few buttons to make the machine magically cooperate.
Brandon was quiet while the milk steamed. No smile. No pretense of nicety. After making coffee, he settled the mug on the kitchen table. I had every intention of grabbing the cup and making a run for it. I was tired of being jerked around.
“I’m going to take my coffee upstairs,” I announced.
Brandon didn’t let go of the handle, nonverbally communicating he was holding the coveted coffee hostage. He pulled a chair out, another unspoken signal to join him.
I took the seat across from him, irritated. He turned ice-cold ten minutes after fucking me. What did he want from me now? “Why are you still here?” I blurted out. If his business partners moved out (including my brother), what the hell was he doing here? What was he trying to prove?
Brandon stared at me with a narrowed gaze. Raising his mug, he took a slow sip. Without meaning to, but also unable to stop, my gaze dropped to his lips. Images from yesterday washed over me. He met my lust-filled eyes, and his crooked smile told me he knew of my thoughts.
Why was he prolonging my torture? “Answer the question. Why are you still here?”
Brandon’s eye twitched. “I live here. Or did you forget?”
I balled my hands in my lap. “You lived here to use the home office. You have a new office now, or didyouforget?”
He shrugged. “The home office suits me just fine.”
I closed my eyes against his perfect face. “You have to leave,” I stated firmly. He had to because I could no longer bear living in close quarters with this man. After our renewed tryst and an equally quick return to reality, I was barely hanging on. If I didn’t distance myself, I’d never be able to fortify my walls.
The seductive smile on his face only broadened. He eyed me up and down, leaving very little to the mystery of his innermost thoughts. Placing an elbow on the kitchen table, he purposefully leaned forward. “I was wrong in feeling guilty about us. It’s clear we both want the same thing.” His whispers did nothing to drown out the thundering in my heart.
Brandon reached over and brushed a thumb over my bottom lip. My first instinct was to make a run for it. To hell with the coffee. It wasn’t worth this torture. But a stronger, more defiant instinct had me closing my eyes and half leaning into the thumb tracing down my throat. Fire burned across the line he drew, and when the thumb disappeared, I couldn’t remember the conversation sequence. When I opened my eyes, Brandon was watching me with an arrogant smile, eyes dancing with victory.
What the fuck just happened?
