Brenna makes a small noise, and I know she would do it for me. She’d let me in.

I shift in my seat, adjusting my throbbing dick. “From the waist up, you’d be all smiles and jokes. But down below, I’d be running my finger over your damp panties, rubbing that swollen little clit.”

I’m a dirty fucking bastard because I love the idea of doing that where anyone could catch us.

“Shit,” she whispers, as though she loves the idea too.

I close my eyes, swallowing hard. “I’d get that sweet button all plump and needy. And when you started to squirm…” A grunt breaks free. “That would be bad, Bren. I’d have to give your naughty clit a pinch.”

She whimpers, and I nearly jerk in my seat. I want to reach into my jeans and stroke my cock so bad, I have to clutch my knee to concentrate. “But I’d make it better, honey. I’d slip under those panties where you’re all slick and slippery. I’d stroke you nice and slow.”

“Rye…” It’s a breathy request. I feel it down my spine, in my balls.

“They’d think you weren’t looking my way because you hated me. That you were gritting your teeth because I pissed you off yet again.” Sweat trickles down my spine. “They’d never know I was playing with your sweet pussy.”

Brenna gasps. My abs clench tight.

From outside the room comes a burst of laughter. It pulls me back to the present, where the guys are just a glass wall away. I have to end this before I come in my damn pants.

I exhale in a hard rush. “Fuck, Berry. I’m all worked up here.”

“Your fault,” she croaks with a half-pained laugh.

“You asked for a fantasy. I gave you one.” I smile then, but it hurts. Everything hurts now, a sweet, hot ache that leaves me weak. “I have hundreds of them.”

“I don’t think I can handle more right now,” she says wryly.

My smile grows. “Then tell me one thing you want, and I’ll let you go.”

For now.

She waits a beat, and I’m almost convinced she’ll tell me no. But then she draws in a breath. “Okay. Okay…I tell people what to do all day long. Every day.”

“You’re saying you want to order me around in bed?” I’d be down with that. Frankly, I’m pretty sure I’d be down with anything she suggests.

“No,” she says tightly. “You’re not getting it. I don’t want to be in charge. I want to be taken care of, let someone else take the lead.”

A pulse goes through me, and I have to hold very still as an electric tingle sizzles over my skin. I hadn’t expected this. Not from Brenna. But she’s right; she’s always in charge, bossy, even. I imagined her the same in bed. The idea that she’d let me…

“You want me to take you in hand.”

It isn’t a question. More a statement of awe.

A gurgle sounds, and I picture her blushing raspberry red, the color clashing with her auburn hair. Why did we have this conversation on the phone? I want to be in front of her, watching the emotions playing over her face.

“To be clear,” she says in a near squeak, “I’m not into bondage or role-play.”

“Eh, that gets boring too.”

Another gurgle. But when she speaks, it’s back to her crisp, no-nonsense tone. “I’m not talking about some dominant-submissive thing. I just don’t want to lead. Or give instruction.”

“You want me to take you in hand,” I repeat in a low voice.

Another pause.

“Yes,” she whispers, shy and rattled.

She’s never shy or rattled. An unexpected feeling of protectiveness hits me. Now I’m glad I’m not in front of her, because I’d probably try to hug her, and Brenna would hate that. Instead, I keep my tone gentle but without any hint of tenderness that might make her more uncomfortable.

“I’ll take good care of you, Berry.”

It will be my extreme pleasure.

“Okay.” It’s barely a whisper, yet it licks my skin with searing heat.

Two more days.

I might not make it.

Chapter Nine

Brenna

 

Things to consider before agreeing to have sex with your once frenemy: remember that you offered to host the weekly dinner for him and all your friends—your extremely astute and nosey friends. Friends who will know in a heartbeat that there’s something going on between Rye and me if I show any outward emotion.

How I’m supposed to get through it without losing it, I still don’t know.

Also? I hate cooking. Which is why we’re having takeout.

“And how is Kenny on this fine evening?” Killian asks as he snags a container of pork dumplings.

Kenny mans the phone for my favorite Korean barbecue place. Given that I order from his fine establishment every week, we know each other well.

I grab a few short ribs, licking the sweet-spicy sauce off my fingers. “I’m expecting a proposal of marriage any day now. Spoiler alert: I shall accept.”

Jax laughs and swipes a chicken wing out from under Whip’s fingers. “Marry the chef, Bren. That’s the most direct route to the food.”

“Maybe I will.” I accept the beer Scottie hands me. “I’ve always had a fantasy about marrying a chef. Good food for life. And our family dinners will become legend.”

Scottie takes the bottle from my hand and pours the beer into a glass with a reproachful look, as though drinking from a bottle is a crime. “As much as I love this takeout, I think I speak for all of us when I say I approve of your plan.”

“Or go for a pastry chef,” Sophie puts in, waving a rib around for emphasis. “Oh, that would be nice. Do it, Bren. Marry someone who will bake us cakes.”

“And bring me brioche in bed,” I add with a dreamy sigh.

Rye grunts. He’s got his eye on his food, but his broad shoulders are stiff. “Would never work.”

So far, I’ve been able to avoid looking his way. No one will think anything of us ignoring each other. We usually do. Unless we’re taking a swipe at each other. I didn’t think he’d take a shot at me now.

“Oh? And why is that?”

He shrugs, swallowing a drink from his own beer bottle—he’d swatted away Scottie’s efforts to get him a glass earlier. “Chefs save their cooking for the restaurant. Get them at home and they just want to shove whatever they can in their mouths and then sleep.”

His gaze flicks up and collides with mine. I feel it like a physical punch of heat. “You really think this hypothetical chef husband of yours will want to come off a shift and cook for all of us? I doubt it.”

“Rye isn’t wrong.” Stella’s red-gold curls bounce with a nod as she scoops a mound of kimchi. “The chefs I knew were like that.” She glances up and realizes that Rye and I are glaring at each other. “Of course, there are always exceptions.”

“You’re making it sound like I’d only get married to the guy to use him for his cooking,” I say to Rye.

He blinks, his expression placid. And annoying. “Isn’t that what you just implied?”

My back teeth meet with a click. “Do you honestly think we’re being serious here?”