Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
I’ve always tried to keep my crush secret and pretend I don’t feel this deep, burning passion for my brother’s best friend. They say timing is everything, and boy, do I believe it now.
With my brother gone, it’s just Rust and me alone for the night. With a storm raging outside, we lose control. It’s so wrong, but we can’t stop.
After, his tattoo on my skin is all that remains.
I try to forget, but there’s no ignoring this. That night changed everything. Soon, we won’t be able to hide it.
Rust has marked not only my skin but also our lives in a way we could have never expected.
* Inked by My Brother’s Best Friend is an insta-everything, OTT, standalone romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
MARY
This is so wrong, but it feels right as he pushes his body against mine. The rain rages and whips against the window like it’s trying to close us off from the rest of the world. My brother’s best friend. My crush. My sinful desire.
It’s warm here, burning, and not because of the heating. It’s his hard body pressed against mine, the urgency of his breathing in my ear. Rust never sounds this passionate, this… anything. Rust is dark, broody, and mostly quiet, but now it’s like I’ve woken something in him.
He groans and kisses up my neck, his hard manhood trailing up my inner thigh. It feels so perfect, so right to melt against him and finally feel all the passion I’ve dreamed of him having. What about Mom—Brad—and all the lessons she taught me?
I grab onto his shoulder, telling myself to push him away. That’s the only way I’ll ever be able to look in the mirror again. Or at Brad. My brother. My shame. Which is the better motivator? But when the head of his dick brushes against my clit, a jolt of electricity moves through me. Even the thunder strike outside can’t distract me.
As usual, Rust says nothing. He just starts stroking himself up and down my folds near my entrance.
“Wait,” I say, panicking, knowing I have to say this. I can’t let us make this mistake. “Rust… wait.”
He leans into me, showing me those dark, intense eyes. He’s never looked this unhinged and primal, even in his fights. Even when he’s hammering another man with an elbow or a knee or choking him unconscious, his expression is serene, almost absent. Now, he looks obsessed and possessed. His muscles throb as he grips his cock, pushing it against my hole, teasing me, tempting me.
“What if I can’t?” he growls. “What then, Mary?”
He keeps stroking, my core getting even wetter as I try to remember all the reasons this is bad. Yet the more he strokes, the better it feels. I’ve always wanted this: him, Rust, all to myself. My crush. My man.
“You want it as badly as I do,” he groans.
“Wait,” I whisper, my last-ditch effort. “Rust, I’m a virgin.”
He leans away. I can’t read his expression. It’s always difficult with him. It could be more hunger. Or maybe it’s disgust. With me. With himself.
“A virgin,” he says, shaking his head. “Goddamn, Mary.”
CHAPTER
ONE
RUST
My dad chose my name. “I called you Rust because that’s what you did to me and your mom’s sex life,” he’d say as a hairy hand came down past my six-year-old head to grab another beer from the six-pack. “Truer words were never spoken.” Crack, the can opening, the memory seared into my mind. “Ha, that’s it. Rust. Fits you like a fucking glove.”
That’s probably why I’ve never been what people call “happy.” I’ve never really understood it. People might say my childhood broke something in me and, with the proper counseling and blah blah blah, it’ll fix me right up, but that doesn’t make any sense. People have shitty childhoods and still go on to live normal lives and be regular people. I hate that self-indulgent crap, forgiving every bad thing because some bad things happened.
I learned early on I didn’t smile as easily as other kids. I didn’t need to. I was bigger and meaner and, soon, when I learned how to fight, tougher. I only needed one friend—Brad. It’s not like I even feel happy around him. It’s not that simple. It’s more like content and at peace.
The first time we met, I was at the lake at night, just staring at the stars and wondering if anybody else felt as cold and dead as me. He came walking onto the dock, this dorky kid with a big mop of black hair. I vaguely recognized his hair and his gait from school. Since I’d started boxing training, I learned to pay attention to things like that. He didn’t say anything, just sat down, then tossed a stone into the water.
I don’t know why. I didn’t care, but I was curious, I guess. “What’s up?”
He flinched and turned to me quickly. “People say you don’t talk.”
“Not if I don’t need to,” I told him.
He nodded and looked at the lake for a while. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen, you?”
“Almost thirteen.” There was something lost in his eyes as he stared at the water.
“Why are you pouting?”
I wasn’t trying to be cruel. It’s just how I learned to speak from Dad. That’s what he’d say to Mom after one of his rages.
“I’m not,” he snapped.
“Something’s wrong?”
“You don’t care. Nobody cares.”
“You’re right. I don’t care, but maybe I can help.”
He looked closely at me then, as people sometimes did, like I was a specimen, a freak. It’s because I just sat in the back of the class, stayed silent, did my work, and then went to training, nothing else. The gym, home, school, repeat. I didn’t want or need friends. It’s not like I’d be able to invite them over.