Dumped on His Wharf, I Married His Brother and Set Their Price novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: Done

"You sat at that table for two years," I said, and shoved him in the chest, and he did not move an inch.

I was still in my navy scrubs from the night shift, with my badge swinging on its lanyard.

It was seven-forty on Tuesday morning, and he had been waiting in the kitchen with coffee as he'd promised.

"Every Sunday," I said. "Every single Sunday your mother passed me the rolls and called me the girl, and you ate your pie."

"Sue."

"You looked at your plate, Torsten."

I shoved him again.

"Do you know what it's like to be talked about in the third person at a table I was sitting at?"

"I know exactly what it's like," he said. "I've been talked about that way since I was twelve."

I stopped with both hands on his shirt.

"I sat there," Torsten said, low. "You're right. I said nothing."

His jaw worked.

"I told myself it wasn't my place. You were Wyatt's, and I was the one with grease under his nails."

"That's a coward's reason," he said. "I know it. I'm done with it."

"Done."

"Done." His voice cracked on the word. "Ask me to prove it."

I looked at the big, stubborn, sorry face above me.

I had spent twelve hours on a cardiac floor, listening to alarms and holding other people's hands, and I wanted something that was mine.

"Separate rooms," I said. "That's what I asked for."

"Your rule," Torsten said. "You want to enforce it?"

"No."

"Then say what you want."

"You," I said. "Right now. In this kitchen."

He moved so fast that I gasped.

One hand went behind my head and the other took my hip.

My back hit the white refrigerator with a thump that rattled the magnets.

His mouth came down on mine.

It was nothing like the kiss in the truck.

It was hard and deep and furious, with his tongue in my mouth and his beard burning my chin.

I tore at his shirt buttons until two of them popped across the linoleum.

He got his hands under my thighs and lifted me against the fridge in one move.

My legs went around his waist.

I felt him through his jeans, rock hard, grinding up between my legs.

"Scrubs," he growled. "Off."

"Put me down."

"No."

He held me against the fridge with one forearm braced under my ass and his body pinning me.

With his free hand he got the drawstring on my pants and yanked.

I laughed, breathless, and kicked one leg free, and the scrub pants hung off my ankle.

He shoved my underwear to the side.

"Wet already," he said, his fingers sliding through me. "You were thinking about this the whole drive home."

"The whole shift," I said.

"Dirty girl."

"Say it again."

"Dirty, filthy girl," Torsten said.

He pushed two fingers into me, and I cried out so loudly that a cup rattled in the drying rack.

He fucked me with them, slowly, while he held my whole weight with one arm.

I put my hands in his hair and hung on.

"Torsten, I can't-"

"You can," he said.

"My legs-"

"I've got your legs."

He did.

He lifted me higher and hooked my left thigh over his shoulder, and then the right, and then I understood what he was doing.

I was sitting on his shoulders with my back against the cold refrigerator door, and my pussy was level with his face.

"Hold on to the top," he said.

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