Craved By My Fiance's Brother

MEEKA'S POV::

“Fuck!” I curse as my head pounds like it's being hit with a hammer.

I lean against the sink, trying to steady myself, but the restroom won't just stop spinning. Or am I the one spinning? I don't even know.

Ugh!

Please remind me never to drink again, because when I get too drunk, I forget everything, sometimes even my gender.

My lipstick is smeared, my hair is falling out of its pins, and I laugh softly at my reflection that stares back at me. Perfect little Meeka Clemson, drunk at two a.m.

My Mom will faint if she sees me right now.

I take a breath, push away from the sink, and wobble toward the door. The faded thump of bass leaks through the hallway and makes my skull rattle. Somewhere out there my friends are still celebrating, but all I want right now is my bed, and maybe a gallon of water.

“Home,” I mumble. “God, I need to go home.”

I stop paying attention for exactly two seconds, just long enough to collide with something hard.

Wait. Did the walls of this club suddenly grow legs? Because I'm pretty sure there wasn't one here a second ago.

Strong, solid hands catch my arms before I pitch forward to fall, steadying me. My head snaps up, and the world tilts again, except this time, it's not the alcohol.

The man's tall and broad-shouldered, with a jawline that looks like it never learned the word gentle. A scar cuts across the jaw, sharp and unapologetic, drawing the eye to the danger carved into his face. A solitary mole rests on the left side of his jaw like an intentional mark of warning.

His dark eyes settle on me like a predator, quiet, dangerous, and entirely unreadable.

And he smells, God help me. He smells like whiskey and something deep and woodsy — an intoxicating scent that clings to him like sin itself, the kind that drags you closer even when every instinct tells you to run.

My pulse swings up into my throat. Every sensible part of me screams to step back, regain dignity, apologize and flee, but the drunk part apparently won the election tonight.

I inhale him instead, like I've lost my goddamn mind.

“Careful, Little Rebel,” he says, his voice low, brushing against my skin like sandpaper.

Craps! That voice and accent.

“I'm not....” I hiccup, shaking my head. I even point a very serious finger at him like a tipsy lawyer presenting evidence in court. “a rebel.”

His lips curve in a mocking smirk as he leans closer. “Could've fooled me.”

I should leave. I really should. But he doesn’t move, and neither do I. My brain is mush and I'm frozen on the spot, heart drumming, and my body betraying me like it's been waiting for this collision.

Believe me, this is alcohol talking. Or moving. Or whatever. Tomorrow, I'm never drinking again.

Okay, fine, I'll make that decision when I'm sober.