The animosity isn’t missed.

“Do I ever come in when you take over?” short chick replies.

Brielle grins, and just like that, leads me right where she wants me.

Toward her bedroom.

The house is neat, almost sterile, and a huge fuckin’ contrast to her room, which is a damn mess. There’s shit all over, and the bed’s unmade.

I glare at the mattress sitting on the floor, about ready to walk out and drag her ass with me, but then the girl starts to strip.

So, I plant my ass, and I let her put on a little show.

I may be a guy, one who loves to fuck, gives as good as he gets and all that, but I don’t do desperate, and it seems she’s borderline just that.

I came here for a reason, though, so I lean back on my hands and let her do as she pleases, which happens to be me.

With her breasts hanging bare, tight-ass pants still on, she steps toward me, and drops to her knees. She frees my cock from my jeans and wastes no time pulling me deep into her throat.

It’s not the way I like it, I need a little lead-up, like to build that heavy tension that gets my blood pumpin’, cock twitchin’, and mind racing. Need my girl wet and ready, desperate for the first touch of the night and ready for more, fuckin’ needy. Greedy.

This girl allowed time for none of that, so all I can do is watch her work.

A minute or two ticks by and then she’s moaning around my shaft. Finally, my hard-on grows just shy of a full salute.

I tether my hands in her hair to give her a bit more drive, and it works. She picks up some speed, tightens her lips around me more, and I tip my head back a bit, trying to fall into the moment more, but as my eyes glide by the window, I fucking freeze.

The cousin, as she called her, peeks through the torn blinds, her head dropping when she realizes she’s been caught and suddenly she’s gone.

A heavy crash and quiet yelp follows.

“The fuck?” I snap, freeing myself and jumping to my feet.

I’m soft in an instant, quickly shoving myself into my jeans, and rush out the door. “She better not have been recording.”

Footsteps pound the linoleum floor at my back.

“Please,” Brielle scoffs, hiding her naked chest with her hands as we push out onto the porch.

The girl is hopping from the ground as we step out, limping on her foot a little as she hurries around the house.

“You better chase after her,” Brielle pipes up.

I cut my head over my shoulder, glaring at her. “And why the fuck would I do that?”

She smirks, walking backward into the house. “Because that... is Brielle. I’m her cousin, Ciara.”

My muscles lock, and she laughs, shaking her head as she closes the door in my face.

Motherfucker!

I leap over the railing, running after the little sneak.

“Yo!” I shout.

The real Brielle picks up her pace, bouncing all around as she tries to keep weight off of her left foot, but it doesn’t matter now. I’m already right behind her.

“Why’d you let me think she was you?”

She scoffs. “It’s not my fault you assumed I was the taller, hotter, easier of the two of us.”

I grip her by the arm, halting her movement and she tips her head back, eyes still hidden behind her big-ass shades.

I glare, opening my mouth to tell her, I don’t know the fuck what, when she crosses her arms again, catching me off guard.

“I know who you are.”

I shoot up straight. “Yeah, and who am I?”

“Royce Brayshaw, of the Brayshaw family.” She doesn’t miss a beat.

I run my tongue along the backs of my teeth. “And who are you, so we’re clear?”

She reaches a hand out and I frown from it to her.

“Oh sorry, right. You’re silver-spooned.” She tips her head. “This is called a pleasantry; many people use them.”

“Your name, smart-ass.”

Her hip pops out. “Shake my hand.”

I hold in a growl, slapping my palm against hers, and she gives it a good, solid, squeeze.

“It’s good to finally meet one of you, in the flesh.” She passes her tote over to her other shoulder with a slight shrug. “Anyway, you already know who I am.” She pauses. “Well, now anyway.”

“Your name, from your lips, not that… whoever the fuck that was.”

My jaw tics as I wait for her to speak.

She doesn’t, so I creep closer.

“Don’t play games with me, girl.”

“Right...” She pulls her lips in, nodding. “‘Cause Brayshaw.”

My head tugs back, and even though I can’t see ‘em, I imagine this little shit rolls her damn eyes at me.

She looks to her watch and my annoyances are about at the fuck shit up now, figure the rest of later level.

“Whatever,” she huffs. “I’m Brielle Bishop, and I’m late.”

She turns around and walks away.

Leaves.

Yeah… I don’t fuckin’ think so.

I chase her ass.

Brielle

Oh my shit, one of my brother’s psycho bosses is following me, and not just any of his bosses.

It’s the hot, kind of scary, I’m going to liquefy you with my dark and daring eyes and maybe even by accident, playboy one I’ve heard so much about, but have never actually stood toe to toe with before today, is right freaking behind me, watching as I hobble around like I’m lame, probably picking me apart from his place at my back as he does.

So, okay.

To be fair, I look nothing like someone who met my brother first would expect, and considering he’s been living in the group home on Royce’s family’s property for the last four-ish years, while working for them just as long, it makes sense this guy showed up with what he thought was a clear idea of what he’d find—the exact opposite of yours truly.

My brother, he’s an easy six-foot, pasty looking rebel with ink-black hair and crystal colored eyes. He’s tall and trim and has a natural edge to him, an aura people are drawn to despite his unapproachable, at first glance, appearance. He’s sort of the best of both worlds, and can pull off his assigned persona with zero effort.

I, on the other hand, am legit barely scraping by at five-foot as Royce oh so typically teased, and my sunglasses hide my eye color so he couldn’t look there for resemblance—not that he would find any even if he could see through the giant, reflective lenses. My hair is on the shorter side, and so platinum in color all I have to do is add in a little purple shampoo and bam, solid silver.

I have an actual ass, not one I’m sure he’s used to, either. It’s nothing like Ciara’s high and tight one. Mine’s more plump and peachy, full and round, but I happen to like how it gives shape to my waist, so if he is judging, I don’t even care.

That doesn’t mean I like him trailing me as he sums me up with a glance, though... if that’s what he’s doing.

Why is he still following me?!

A sudden sharp ache zings up my leg, forcing a wince from me, but I keep moving.

“Stop walking,” he commands, as if I’m supposed to listen.

I pick up the pace. “Can’t. Like I said, I’m late.”

“For what, Bible study?”