Page 36 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“I can’t treat you like a partner!”
He is in my space before I can blink. He grabs my upper arms, his grip firm but not painful. His face is inches from mine. I can see the gold flecks in his gray eyes. I can smell the coffee and whiskey on his breath.
“Why not?” I whisper, trapped in his hold.
“Because I don’t look at you like a partner,” he rasps. “I look at you, and I lose my mind.”
I freeze. “Ethan…”
“Do you think this is easy?” He shakes me slightly, his voice dropping to a tortured rumble. “Do you think I enjoy being an asshole to you? Every day you walk into this office, Tessa, and it’s torture. I watch you with Owen. I watch you with the team. You shine. You are the brightest thing in this building.”
“Then why are you pushing me away?”
“Because I have to,” he says, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “Because if I don’t push you away, I will pull you in. And if I pull you in, I will ruin everything.”
“Maybe I want you to pull me in,” I breathe.
It’s the wrong thing to say. Or maybe the right thing.
Ethan releases my arms and grips the nape of my neck, forcing my head back. His gaze devours me. It’s not the playful lust I see in Owen or the intense curiosity I see in Asher.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he murmurs. “I’m not Owen. I don’t play games. If I start this… I won't stop.”
“I’m not asking you to stop.”
He groans, a low, animalistic sound in his chest.
He lowers his head. Our noses brush. I can feel the heat of his body radiating through his shirt, burning me. My hands come up to rest on his chest, feeling the frantic thunder of his heart.
“Tessa,” he whispers. “Stop me. Tell me I’m your boss. Tell me I’m?—”
“No,” I interrupt.
His fingers tighten against my skin. He tilts his head, angling for the kiss. I close my eyes, my whole body bracing for the impact.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound is sharp, loud, and utterly shattering.
Ethan freezes. I freeze.
We stay like that for a heartbeat, panting, our foreheads resting together. The reality of where we are, a conference room in the middle of a busy office, crashes back in.
Ethan pulls back. He moves so fast it makes me dizzy. He steps away, turning his back to me, running a hand through his hair.
“Come in,” he calls out. His voice is wrecked, rough as gravel.
The door opens. It’s a young intern holding a tray of sandwiches. She looks terrified.
“Mr. Branson?” she squeaks, clutching the tray against her chest. “Sorry to interrupt. Owen sent me. He said you need to eat before the pitch, so…”
Ethan keeps his back turned, gripping the leather of the chair until it creaks under the force of his hold.
“Leave it,” he orders.
The intern places the tray on the table, glances wide-eyed at me, and scurries out, sensing the suffocating tension in the room.
The door clicks shut.
