So Not Meant To Be (Cane Brothers, #2)

by Meghan Quinn

Let me guess . . . Kelsey told you we’re so not meant to be, right? *Rolls eyes* Of course she did.

Lol. Love this

“Fuck. That mouth of yours. Yes, suck me deep.”

“Sorry,” he whispers into my ear as we make our way closer to the dance floor. “It’s impossible to walk anywhere in these events without getting stopped.” “Don’t flatter yourself. The need to talk to you is out of obligation. These people don’t actually like you.”

OH MY DAYS SHUT UP

“Why the fuck would you want to be my friend?” he asks. “Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, feeling affronted all of a sudden.

Really girl? That's a question you need to ask?

I twist. He turns. He jumps. I clutch. And then, with a big crash to the floor, he falls on top of me, pillowing my face with what I can only assume is his stomach. “Jesus fuck,” he says. I open my eyes and come face to face with man scrotum. A man’s freaking scrotum! “Ahhh!” I scream and swat at his leg. “Your penis is on my face. Your penis is on my face.” “I know. Fuck,” he yells, attempting to get off me. “Where is your underwear?” “I don’t wear underwear at night.” “Dear God! It’s on my nose! Your genitals are resting on my freaking nose!” “I fucking know!” he yells back. “But I can’t get up because you’re still holding on to me.” “I’ve been tea-bagged,” I cry out in horror, his penis still rubbing along my nostrils. “Let the fuck GO, KELSEY!”

“I’ve been defiled.”

You are strong. You are handsome. You’re not a pathetic loser who jacks off to a simple exhalation. Once I repeated that mantra over and over in my head, I went back to my room, opened my computer, and donated ten thousand dollars to a pigeon rescue, because in all honesty, I doubt many people care about pigeons at all.

The memory of the exhalation—that’s what we’ll call it now—came roaring back to life, and I had to turn away to hide any impending excitement. You are strong. You are handsome. You’re not a pathetic loser who jacks off to a simple exhalation.

With her red-painted nail, she points very closely at my face and leans in. “Listen to me, Jonathan Patrick Cane⁠—” “That’s not my name.” “I don’t care if your name is Junior Pooper, you’re going to listen to me.” Don’t laugh at Junior Pooper, do not laugh.

I roll my eyes. I was the innocent in all of this. I didn’t ask her to strip my pants off and breathe on my scrotum . . . Oh, hell. Her hot breath . . . dancing across my nuts . . . You are strong. You are handsome. You’re not a pathetic loser who jacks off to a simple exhalation.

“Oooo, a date,” Kelsey says in such an annoying tone. “Tell me more. I didn’t think Jack Parker dated.” “Not my name.” “A solid guess.” She smirks.

“Oh, Jean-Pierre . . .” “Not my name.”

“Joo-Joo Poo-Poo, put on the bib.” “Is Joo-Joo Poo-Poo supposed to be a guess of my name?” “Yes . . . is that not correct?” “Not even close.” “Damn, I would’ve absolutely snorted all over this table if it was.”

“Listen, Julian Prince . . .” She pauses with a wince, waiting to see if she’s correct. I just shake my head, and her shoulders droop.

Love the guessing

“Glad I could make it up to you.” “You did . . . Josiah Phoenix.” “Close.” Her eyes widen with excitement. “Really?” I laugh. “No.”

“Can you roll me to my room?” Kelsey asks as she collapses to the floor of the penthouse and takes off her shoes. “I don’t think I can move another inch.” She then lies on the floor, fumbles with the waistband of her jeans, and undoes the button before groaning in relief. “Wow, this is a sight to see.” Blechhhh. She covers her mouth from the very unladylike burp that just erupted out of her. She glances at me, shock registering across her face, before she asks, “Did you happen to hear that?” “Babe, the doorman thirty stories down heard that. It rattled the very floor I’m standing on.” “Don’t be dramatic.” “I think San Francisco will be reporting an earthquake on the Richter scale.” “Stop it.” “I actually feel nauseated from the aftershocks.”

“Okay, then . . . good night.” “Good night . . . Jordan Preston.” I grip the doorway and look over my shoulder. “It’s Jonah Peter.” A slow, sexy smile passes over her lips before she says, “Good night . . . Jonah.” “Good night, Kelse.”

UGHH I WISH SHE WOULD'VE GUESSED RIGHT HIHI

JP has said I’m hot twice, but that was clearly just to get in my pants.

Ughhh we all know that is not true, you're just hardheaded

He lifts his cock and taps the head right on my clit. “Fuck,” I whisper as I drape my arm over my eyes and breathe heavily. “You like that, don’t you?” My teeth roll over my bottom lip. “Tell me you like it and I’ll do it again.”

Bing. Another text. Like a moth to a flame, my eyes zero in on the text message.

Honestly me with all notifications on any sort of device

my thousands of text messages to Breaker about how we need to do more for the polar bears, which resulted in me donating to the World Wildlife Fund, earmarked to Save the Polar Bear, which of course made me feel guilty that I was cheating on the pigeons. So, I ended up donating another ten thousand to the pigeons.

I’m going to start a goddamn campaign, and the logo will be a pigeon in flight. And the money will go to saving all the pigeons because no one cares about them. No one thinks they’re worth their time. Just because a pigeon might have a fucked-up childhood and can’t fly like the rest of the birds, that doesn’t mean that the pigeon should be isolated.” “Uh . . . JP, are you . . . are you a pigeon?”

“Fuck, do you know what I should do?” “Seek a counselor?”

Heard

“Going back to my room. Watching a documentary about dying polar bears. Don’t worry, I donated to help them . . . and the pigeons.” I swallow.

I just . . . man, those polar bears, they’re really thin. You can see their ribs. And I’m going to write a letter to the pigeon place, and tell them they shouldn’t name a pigeon Kazoo. He looks more like a Kevin. Just my honest opinion. So, yeah, okay. Well, I’ll, uh, see you later.”

Poor guy is really losing it

I cry about the polar bears, watching them all over again. I send an email to the pigeon place, inquiring about Kazoo. And I text Breaker that I’m a loser who masturbates to exhalations.

“Well, I’m here now, and I’m yours.” “All mine?” I ask. “You realize what that means, right?” “What?” she asks. “That I was right, men and women can’t work together⁠—” She claps her hand over my mouth, halting me. “I suggest you don’t finish that sentence.”

“So good, baby. Fuck, you feel so good. Are you close?” “Yes,” she whispers while pulling off me for a second to take a deep breath. “Can I come?” And fuck . . . me, those three words have my cock surging for release. “Good girl for asking. You can,”

JP: Also, I just found out Kazoo, the pigeon, was adopted and I didn’t know how to tell you. I feel like maybe I played a small part in him finding a good home. I hope they treat him well. JP: I asked for his new home address and the shelter told me that information was private. Understandable, but I really just wanted to send him a few things, you know? I’m going to miss looking at his picture on the website.

“Have you made any donations lately? I know that’s your MO when you’re sad.” I slowly swallow and say, “The pigeon shelter I’ve been supporting is now renaming its building the JP Cane Pigeon Rescue. The JPCPR. Has a fucking great ring to it. There’s some press going out next week about it. They asked if I’d show up for the dedication of the new name, and do you know how pathetic I am?” “Tell me.” Breaker takes a seat on the coffee table in front of me. “I told them I’d be honored, but only on one condition.” I sit up. “I asked that Kazoo be invited so I could meet him.” “Dude—” “That’s not the worst of it.” I look my brother dead in the eyes and say, “I commissioned some lady on Etsy to make a matching shirt and bow tie set, one that would fit me and one that would fit a pigeon . . . out of Kazoo fabric.” “Oh fuck . . . JP.”

We walk in, and it takes my eyes a second to adjust, but once they do, they spot a little fella on a perch, wearing a bow tie that matches the fabric of my shirt. “Oh fuck,” I whisper to Kelsey. “I might cry.”