Wild Thing (The Wild Westbrooks #5; The Brighton Family #1)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

She suddenly seems to sense me leering at her in all her naked glory. She turns her scowling face toward me. “You’re not even listening!” she alleges with a growl. “Of course I’m listening,” I shoot back, a lazy smile sprawled across my face. She huffs in annoyance. “And you’re judging me. Stop judging me. You needed ‘that’ as much as I did.” “Who said I’m judging you?” “Your face,” she hisses accusingly. “That sneaky, little, judgy pretty boy smirk you’re wearing.” A river of silky black hair tumbles over her stabby blue-eyed glare. Suppressing a sound of amusement, I flop onto my back and drag a slow palm down my sweaty chest. “What smirk?” I feel said smirk deepen.

She brushes grit off her kneecaps and shoots me a scowl. From the fire in that scowl, I’m guessing that a ‘round four’ is not on the menu for us this morning. Bummer. My head is still light and foggy from rounds one, two and three. Meanwhile, she’s rushing around like she’s urgently got somewhere to be. At five in the morning. In fact, with each second that ticks by, it’s becoming increasingly clear that this woman regrets ever coming back to this motel room with me in the first place. Well, that sucks. I know for a fact that my ‘performance’ earlier definitely wasn’t the problem. Mere minutes ago, I had Ms. Tough Girl gripping the headboard and howling up at the cobwebby light fixture like a wolf under the full moon.

She opens her mouth to utter her parting words. But I cut her off, pinning her to the side of her car. I press my body against hers and kiss her silly. I feel the way her body sags. The way her knees weaken. My ego is a fragile thing today. So her visceral reaction makes me feel ridiculously good about myself. When I break the kiss, her eyes are starry and dazed. With a palm to my chest, she pushes me backward, but there’s no real force to it. “Eww. Morning breath…” she whispers, the tiniest teasing grin playing on her lips. “Eww. Rotten attitude.” I smirk right in her face. Snickering, she grabs me by the front of my shirt, yanks me down to her level and kisses me again, losing her fingers in my hair, clawing at my scalp. So much aggression in this wild girl. Secretly, I like it.

Desperate to wash off all this sweat—and other bodily fluids that shall not be named—I head straight to the bathroom for a shower. I kick off my undies, wrinkling my nose as I do. These pink and white tiger-patterned things are absolutely ruined because of that sexy, arrogant bastard who made me come three times in the same night. Damn him and his dimpled smile and his chiseled jaw and those piercing brown eyes that twisted my tummy into a knot. Damn. Him. I’m actively trying not to think about him.

Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I’m struggling to get a grip on my current reality. That ridiculously hot stranger who spent the wee hours of the morning pounding me into oblivion? He’s my older brother’s best friend. Way to go, Karli.

Tearing my bedroom door open, I come face-to-face with Mason. My chest jumps in surprise. Pretty Boy—well, Doctor Pretty Boy—is wandering around the hallway. All six-feet-something of him, in nothing but a bath towel, looking all wet and delicious and infuriatingly sexy. He rakes his long fingers through his wet, brownish-blondish hair. “I think I’m lost,” he mutters sheepishly, his gorgeous mocha eyes darting around at all the closed bedroom doors in the long hallway.

My helpless gaze is lured to his athletic physique. My god, his tattooed forearms are thick and sturdy like logs. Those shoulders look like they could demolish a wall or a doorframe if he accidentally bumped into it. His abs look like they were hand-sculpted by the Almighty Himself. I try to formulate a sentence but—holy dick imprint!—my heart is now lodged in my throat, blocking my windpipe.

‘Holy dick imprint’… 🤣🤣🤣

“This doesn’t have to be complicated,” Felix is saying. “The house is big enough for Mason and Karli to stay here without getting in each other’s way.” Ronan holds both hands outward, dramatically cutting in. “Whoa, wait. The lock on the main bathroom doesn’t work.” Felix waves it off. “They’ll hang a sock on the door.” “And isn’t the downstairs shower broken?” Ronan continues. Felix dismisses that, too. “But the toilet is totally fine.” I bite my tongue, annoyed. Even though there are two toilets in this house, Mason and I will be forced to share the same shower. I instantly get a flashback of him dripping wet, in that flimsy little towel from earlier. I’m really not sure about this.

Feeling dejected, I glare at each of my brothers in turn, hoping they feel the fiery depths of my wrath. I hate them. All of them. It’s decided. I’m stuck spending the summer with Sexy Stranger from the Motel. No. Not ‘Sexy Stranger from the Motel’. I’m not allowed to think of him like that anymore. I have to keep reminding myself that Mason is Felix’s best friend. Not ‘Sexy Stranger from the Motel’. Felix’s best friend. Felix’s best friend. Felix’s best friend. Oh god. I have a feeling this is going to be a long summer.

I have a shit ton of missed calls and messages from my family waiting for me. That’s what I get for letting my phone die overnight. But what can I say? I was a little preoccupied when I left the bar last night. Flashbacks dance through my mind. The sassy stranger with her dark hair fanned across the motel room pillow. My hands exploring her soft curves. Her tattooed ankle draped over my shoulder. Her raspy moans bouncing off the walls. Shit. Tough Girl is Felix’s sister. And apparently, my roommate while I’m here. What kind of fucked-up plot twist is this? More importantly, how am I supposed to survive a summer sharing the same roof with her?

As I brush my hair and knot my tie in front of the mirror, I look myself in the eyes and repeat the rules. Again and again. Rule one: Make sure Felix never learns of my sins. Rule two: No repeating of my sins—at least not with Ms. Tough Girl. Simple. Simple and easy. I put on a brave face and head back downstairs. Everyone’s still there. Felix re-introduces me to each of his four brothers, Darius, Archer, Ronan, and Nolan. I vaguely remember them. My mind tracks back to when I briefly met them back at med school graduation. Karli hadn’t been there, though. I would have remembered Karli.

Felix turns up his nose as he passes by his sister, his eyes narrowing on her throat. “What is that nasty rash you’ve got on your neck? Eww. You should come down to the clinic and have Mason check it out.” When he says that, my balls cocoon themselves between my kidneys.

Grabbing my briefcase, I’m the last one to leave. I’m busy repeating my two new life rules in my head as I go. Rule One: Felix can never know. Felix can never know. Rule Two: No doing it with Karli. No doing it with Karli. Right as I’m about to step out the front door, I turn and look over my shoulder. Rookie mistake. My eyes connect with my new roommate’s hostile glare. Those pale blue eyes make my knees weak in a way no man should ever admit. Fuck. In theory, the second rule sounds so simple—No doing it with Karli. But with the way my body reacts to this woman, I can already tell that keeping rule number two all summer is going to be hard as hell.

“And now, me and Dr. Pretty Boy are roommates,” I say to wrap up my dreadful story. Layla’s shock is evident on her face. “Jeez, girl. Why didn’t you call me?” A wry laugh escapes me. “When I was crying my way back to Starlight Falls with my tail between my legs? Or when I was getting stuffed by a stranger on a seedy motel bed?” “Okay. Fair enough.” She laughs. Then her expression turns skeptical. “But I don't know about this guy. This whole thing sounds shady.” “I know,” I grumble. “But he looks mostly normal to me.” Mostly normal? Ha! Fine. I lied. ‘Normal’ is a gross mischaracterization. The man looks like he stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine. But that’s neither here nor there.

His hands come up like a shield as the pen flies through the air, his eyes twinkling wickedly. “Just kidding, bro. I know the rules. Sisters are off-limits. Geez.” I try not to chafe visibly. Yeah. Sisters are off-limits

I’m sniffing and slobbering all over the counter when I hear the front door slam down the hall. Shit! Can I catch a break? In a frantic hurry, I straighten up and face the cabinets. Using my sleeve, I quickly wipe at my eyes and my gross, runny nose. When I’m satisfied that my face is no longer leaking, I turn around just in time to see my new roommate stroll in with grocery bags dangling from his bulging arms, frowning at his phone. And I may be puffy-eyed and covered in snot and brimming with overwhelming emotions, but damn, Dr. Pretty Boy is rocking that messy look. He’s rocking it so good. Disheveled hair. Crooked tie. Rumpled button down. A tiny scuff on his shiny leather shoe. Hell—even his fading black eye is kind of hot. As I mentally eat him up, my mind blanks out. Wait—what is it I was crying about again?

“All right. Truce, roomie.” I reach out to Karli, offering her my hand. She glances down at my hand doubtfully. Like she’s scared to touch me. My head tilts to the side. “Karli—it’s not a treaty if we don’t seal it with a handshake.” Her suspicious eyes bounce up to mine and I can see the smile she’s suppressing. It’s forcing the corners of her lips upward even as she fights it. “Fine.” She tucks her warm, small palm inside of mine. A fiery charge of electricity eats up my nerve endings as I’m reminded of the way it felt to have her skin on mine in the most intimate way just a few nights ago. Karli is the first one to pull away, that protective, untrusting expression coming over her face again. Her pretty, pretty face. Shit. Everything she does right now is chipping away at my self-restraint. I need to get out of here.

Telling Mason about my failure to get into med school the other day was so utterly embarrassing. I still keep reliving it in my head. The look of pity on his face was painful to watch. I should have kept my damn mouth shut when he asked about my academic journals. After all, he’s a stranger—I’m under no obligation to share my secrets with him. But a part of me wanted to bare my soul to him. I didn’t want to hide or lie or skirt around the truth. What’s up with that? What’s this effect Dr. Pretty Boy has on me? I don’t know. There was just something in his eyes when he asked the question—something curious but kind. Something genuine. Plus, there’s the fact that he’s already touched my boobs. I mean, a person isn’t really a stranger once you’ve let them touch your boobs, are they?

Just as she’s pulling another chair over to our table, she looks out the window and exclaims, “Oh my good god! Who the heck is that hottie?” I press my eyes closed and pull in a breath. Because deep down, I just know. I know who she’s talking about before I even spot him. Still, my head swivels toward the window in search of whoever has suddenly made my friend breathless. Truth be told, my own breath is sucked right out of my lungs when I spot Dr. Pretty Boy.

He looks sexy as fuck. He’s browsing the chalk menu at the pancake food truck that’s parked across the street. I watch Mason pull off his neck tie and stuff the fabric into his pocket. He rolls back his shirt sleeves with the finesse of an Old Hollywood movie star. Beside me, I hear Daphne emit a wheezy sound. Her plastic spoon falls from her fingers. “Is it just me or is the world moving in slow motion out of nowhere?” she asks, her eyes transfixed to the window. Layla is fanning her ruddy cheeks. “And why do I hear sexy Kenny G. saxophone music playing in my head all of a sudden?” “Pick your jaws up off the table,” I snap at my friends. “You’re practically drooling.”

My eyes pass over the street and I quickly realize that my girlfriends aren’t the only ones affected by the sight of the new doctor in town. Some woman walks right into a utility pole, too busy staring in Mason’s direction to pay attention to where she’s going. Another lady spills her grocery bag, limes and lemons rolling down the sidewalk. A car horn honks. Tires squeal. Mason Westbro...

“That ice cream cone has already been licked, so to speak.” Layla looks at me, her eyebrows waggling. “Our girl Karli here already did the honors.” Daphne’s head snaps toward me. “Details. Now.” She demands, giving me that bossy, unyielding stare until I cave.

I watch as a woman sashays up to Mason with a wide, friendly grin on her perfect face. Internally, I sob. It’s Inez. I can’t lie—a sudden burst of jealousy scorches the pit of my stomach like a flash fire.

Inez is the way too pretty bartender who works at Nolan’s bar. The woman is a real-life bombshell. The kind of woman who makes every man in town do a double-take when she walks into the room. The kind of woman who has star-power. And to make matters worse? She is genuinely the nicest person. When Mason flashes Inez that annoying, dimpled smile of his, my stupid ovaries swoon. In a heartbeat, they’re laughing it up like the best of friends. Two hot people. Just flirting up a storm. Like they want to rip each other’s clothes off and have 'hot people’ sex right here in the middle of town square. To remind us, less hot people of the citizenry, just how less hot we are.

“Oh my gosh. I think he’s coming over here,” Layla squeaks out. “Shit…” I inhale so hard I almost choke on my sundae. Daphne busies herself, fixing her hair and adjusting her cute little vintage apron. “Yep. He’s definitely coming over here.” The bell chimes above the door, announcing Mason’s arrival. I can’t look. I won’t look at him. I drop my eyes to my phone screen and hide my face behind a curtain of black hair. Daphne hops up and chirps a bright ‘hello’. I don’t look up, but the gravelly lilt in Mason’s deep voice provokes an instant jolt between my thighs. My heart is beating a thousand miles per minute. I don’t even know why. I breathe in and out slowly, trying to convince myself that I can only feel my heart racing because I’m thinking about it. Yeah, that’s got to be it.

Mason takes a slow lick of his ice cream cone, lapping up the side where it’s started to melt. “So, that little peace treaty of ours—which clause deals with that awkward moment when we see each other in public?” My head snaps up, and I glare at his stupid, pretty face. He’s wearing a smirk so subtle that I’m wondering if I’m the only one to notice. I fold my arms across my chest. “I didn’t see you.” He eyeballs me incredulously. “Liar…”

That impish grin gets to me, and I can’t help but smile back. “You’re an ass,” I mutter, starting to remember why I punched him in the first place. “I’m more than just my ass.” He fakes a pout. “Don’t objectify me, Karli. It’s not polite,” he chides. I make an audible sound of frustration in my throat. This man annoys me about as much as he turns me on. Looking smug and very satisfied with himself, Mason rises from the table. “See you at home, roomie.”

He strolls out of the ice cream shop, turning every head as he steps onto the sidewalk. Daphne imitates his deep voice. “See you at home, roomie.” Then she sex-moans dramatically, throwing her head back. “Girl, it’s a crime how bad I want to switch places with you right now.” I’m forced to admit to an annoying fact as I watch Mason go—the bastard is charming. And as proved by the uncomfortable wet spot now ruining my panties, I’m not immune to his charms. Crap! This is very inconvenient.

Looks like the Brighton brothers are actually warming up to me. Unlike their icy cold little sister. Karli…Can’t stop thinking about the girl. I’ve been denying it this whole time, but despite my dedication to following my two—very important—rules, it’s true. In fact, every time someone with long, dark hair walks into the bar tonight, for a split second, I actually find myself hoping it’s her. And then I have to tamp down my disappointment when I realize that it’s not.

Archer grunts. “You’ve got a good point. If any man even dared to take advantage of Karli when she’s vulnerable like that, I’d make sure to rip his balls off.” “And use them as hacky sacks,” Ronan adds, not a note of humor in his voice for once. The rest of the Brighton brothers nod in agreement. The hairs on my neck stand on end. My balls duck for cover somewhere between my intestines. These guys are beasts when it comes to protecting their little sister. Good thing I’ve already established a handy-dandy set of rules for making sure I don’t cross the line with Karli.

Back at the house, I cut my engine in the garage and hustle up the dark porch. I unlock the front door and step into the shadowy living room. And she’s right there. The woman I’ve been thinking about all night is right fucking there. I find Karli dancing around. Large wine glass in one hand. Medical journal in the other hand. Popcorn kernels scattered across the coffee table. She’s shaking her hips and yammering the lyrics to whatever song is playing in her earbuds. While the rest of the women in town are all dolled up and hitting the bars and looking for attention tonight, Karli’s at home, having a dance party for one. I feel a wide smile pull at my lips.

Fuck. This whole ‘staying away from my roomie’ thing sucks. But it’s the right thing to do. For the sake of my job. And for the sake of my balls. Since I don’t particularly want the Brighton brothers to rip them off my body and use them as hacky sacks.

I’ve been moping around, having a pity party and acting like the victim for over a week now. But it’s time to be real with myself. Yes, my circumstances aren’t ideal. In fact, the life I’m living is far from the life I’ve always dreamed of living. But being a grumpy asshole all day, every day is a choice. And it’s getting old. Frankly I’m tired of being mad at the world. And I’m over it.

Mason has really been holding a mirror up to my face. From the way he called out my anti-social behavior at the ice cream shop to the way he held my pieces together last night when I felt like I was falling apart. The guy has been nothing but nice to me, despite my constant sour milk attitude. He makes me want to turn over a new leaf and be a better version of me.

So, as of today, I’m embarking on my ‘feminine journey’. Or whatever it is this podcaster just called it. If that entails taking regular bubble baths and making sure to shave my legs every few days, I can totally do that. Just to be clear—this attitude makeover is not at all the result of some kind of out of control crush I’m fostering. No, no, no. I’m just trying to better myself. That’s a good thing. I’m definitely not doing this because I have a crush on my roommate.

Okay. Fine. I have a crush on him. But who can blame me? The man is smart and considerate and kind and hot as hell. And try as I might, I still can’t forget that, not too long ago, he gave me several out-of-body orgasms on that dirty motel room bed.

I creep toward the kitchen, trying to be as discreet as possible. I peek inside. The only person in the kitchen is Mason. He’s leaned over the dishwasher with a small towel in hand and a great big frown on his face as he listens to the girls chatter back and forth over the phone. My heart squeezes and I’m distracted from how mad I am. He’s talking to his younger sisters, isn’t he? I try not to leer at his perfectly muscular body but he’s wearing a pair of low-slung gym shorts hugging his delicious glutes and one of those white sleeveless undershirt thingies showing off his big, corded arms. Damn, he looks good.

Karli is wearing yoga pants and a baggy tank top over a neon green bra thing. Her dark hair is matted to her forehead but her eyes are bright and alert. I’m glad to see that she’s not hungover after last night. But she is sweaty and flushed, and I’m pretty sure she has no idea how smokin’ hot she looks right now.

We work in silence, both lost in our heads, occasionally taking a sip of wine. I enjoy being next to her, even though we’re not exchanging a word. I just like knowing that she’s here next to me. I like her companionship.

She curls her legs under her, angling her body to face me. “So it must be hard for you, being away from them…” “It is,” I tell her and then I grin. “Good thing my roomie is so nice, though. Makes it a whole lot easier being away from home.” Karli blushes. “You know me. Nice, nice, nice.” Chuckling, I follow the trail of that adorable pink blush from her cheeks down her neck all the way to her chest. And fuck—she’s not wearing a bra again, is she? Her nipples are just sitting there under her thin T-shirt, tight pointed peaks, begging for attention. My mouth begins to water.

I rub my hand over my stomach where the pillow landed. I hold her eyes and my lips curve up into a half-smile of my own. “I’m sure you’d make a good girlfriend, too, Tough Girl. Violent, but good.” A wicked smile breaks free across her lips. “Some guys like it violent.” Fuck. I might be one of them. I think. Maybe. Probably. Yah—definitely. Jesus. The way this woman is looking at me right now, it sets my blood on fire. Dinner was delicious but if Karli gave me the chance, I’d eat her the fuck up.

I’ve had a lingering semi-chub all evening as we’ve drank wine and shit-talked with a prime view of the setting sun. But we’re sitting so close now, our faces merely inches apart under the muted glow of the deck lights. This aching need at my groin is growing more intense. I fall into the crystalline vortex of Karli’s eyes. I feel the magnetic force pulling me closer. Her labored breath fans across my lips. My hand grips the arm of my chair as I try to control myself. But the reality is, I’m one second away from losing my shit and kissing her.

Forbidden visuals take form in my head. The temptation to corner her against the wall, slip my hands under her T-shirt, fill my palms with the gorgeous breasts that have been torturing me all night. Or I could stretch her out on these hardwood floors, drape her legs over my shoulders and completely devour her pussy. Or force her to her knees in front of the starlit window and make her open her pretty mouth for me. My cock aches at the possibilities.

In my room, I collapse on my bed, imagining my beautiful roommate in the shower, touching her body with soap suds sluicing over her curves. I do my best to keep my cock from growing hard but I’m fighting a losing battle.

When she’s done an eternity later, I get off my ass and head into the steamy bathroom. The flowery scent of her shampoo attacks me as I step under the spray. I can’t help it—my fingers curl around my steely erection like a vise. I fuck my fist like a fool, pretending that it’s Karli. The water is running icy cold by the time I’m exploding against the bathroom tile. Goddammit. We came this close to crossing the line out there on the deck tonight. The good news is, we snapped back to our senses just in time. But the bad news? I’m running out of self-restraint. Not sure I have enough moral fortitude to last me all summer long.

But after hanging out with him on the back deck last night, getting the man out of my head was impossible. I’m ashamed to admit that while he was downstairs getting ready for work, I pulled my covers up to my chin, slid my hand into my panties and had a toe-twisting orgasm with the thought of him on my mind. This has got to stop. I’ve got to get a hold of myself before we take things too far. What’s the hardest part of trying to convince myself to see Mason in a purely non-sexual way? Well, I’ve already had sex with him. Duh.

I already know exactly what his lips taste like. I remember how they felt on my skin that night together in the motel. I remember how it felt when he touched me, when he pinned me down and fucked me like he’d never see me again. Except now, I have to see him every day and convince myself that I’m not thinking about him naked. That’s the part that’s killing me.

I’m wandering past an open doorway when I spot a drop-dead gorgeous male specimen dozing off, hunched over a microwaveable pizza roll. Oh, geez. A freaking pizza roll for lunch? And a store-bought one, at that?! Doesn’t he know what that’s going to do to his arteries? I shake my head, taking the rare moment to observe him. The way his broad shoulders rise and fall rhythmically…The way his too long eyelashes flutter in a futile attempt to fight off sleep…Mason Westbrook is adorable. My belly tingles.

Mason pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Wait. So does that mean we’re…friends?” “Okay, let’s not push it.” I snort. Now, he looks offended. “What? You don’t wanna be my friend? Why not?” Then he smirks knowingly. “It’s because you’ve secretly got the hots for me, isn’t it?” My laugh is loud. And fake fake fake. “Keep dreaming.” He leans across the table, a wicked smile spreading across his face. “Oh, come one. I can admit that you’re cute. Why can’t you do the same?”

My heart flutters when he says that. He thinks I’m cute! He thinks I’m cute! The little cheerleader inside my chest does a pep squad routine. Wait—where’s that part of me that’s always pissed off at getting objectified by guys? Trying to play it cool, I hold up a finger to stop him. “Wait, wait, wait. Saying that I have the hots for you and saying that I think you look…good…are two entirely different things.” He rubs his big hands together. “Ooh! So now you admit that I look good? We’re getting somewhere.”