Page 53 of Don’t Fall For Your Ex-Boyfriend's Brother
Her scent—faintly sweet, with a hint of something floral—wraps around me, grounding me in a way that nothing else can. I close my eyes, letting the sensation of holding her wash over me, and for a few precious seconds, the world outside ceases to exist.
“God, I missed you,” I murmur into her hair, my lips brushing against the top of her head. She leans into me, her arms sliding around my waist, and I feel the tension I’ve been carrying start to melt away. The feel of her heartbeat against my chest, steady and strong, anchors me, reminding me of why I’ve been counting down the minutes to see her again.
We stand there, wrapped up in each other, neither of us in a rush to let go. Her breath is warm against my neck, and I can feel the rise and fall of her chest in time with mine, a silent rhythm that we share without even realizing it. Everything about this moment feels perfect, like it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be—where we’re supposed to be.
“I don’t ever want to let you go,” I confess softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. It’s the truth, and saying it out loud makes it feel even more real, more intense. She looks up at me, her eyes shining with the same emotion I feel burning inside of me.
“You don’t have to,” she replies, her voice soft but sure. And in that moment, with her in my arms, I know that whatever happens, whatever challenges we face, we’ll figure it out together.
Because she’s not just a puzzle piece that fits perfectly—she’s the missing piece I’ve been searching for all along.
After a few minutes, I pull back, my hands still resting on her waist as I smile down at her. “How was your day?” I ask, my voice low and content.
Her face lights up, her eyes sparkling as she grabs my hand, pulling me toward the couch. We settle in, and she wastes no time crawling up into my lap, her small frame fitting perfectly against mine. She rests her head on my chest, and I can’t help but wrap my arms around her, holding her close.
“I started reading a new book today, and it’s amazing,” she says, her voice filled with the kind of excitement I’ve come to adore. “It’s one of those books where I stole every free second I could get to read just a few more pages. I even closed the store for lunch just so I could find out what happened next.”
I chuckle, the sound rumbling in my chest, and I press a kiss to the top of her head. “Sounds like it’s a good one,” I say, but what I really love is listening to her talk about her passion for books. There’s a fire in her eyes when she talks about a story that’s captured her heart, and it never fails to draw me in. It’s one of the things I love most about her—how deeply she feels, how easily she gets lost in the pages of a book.
As she continues to talk, I find myself excited and nervous to tell her that I’ve finished my book. She’s more than just someone who loves books—she’s my muse, the one who inspires me to put words on the page. The excitement she shows when I send her something new, the way she eagerly offers input and ideas—it’s something I can’t quite explain.
As she continues to talk, I prepare myself to tell her. I shouldn’t be nervous, but her reaction is the one I care most about. So when she smiles up at me, I feel my heart pounding in my chest.
“I have to tell you something. I finished my book last night ,” I admit quietly, my fingers tracing small circles on her back.
She tilts her head up to look at me, her expression softening. “Tripp, that’s amazing, congratulations. I can’t wait to read it.”
Her words are reassuring and I feel like I’ve accomplished two huge things. Finishing my book and telling Millie about it.
She twists a bit in my hold, her warm hands resting on my chest as she looks up at me, her eyes full of curiosity and something that feels a lot like hope. “Can I ask you something?” she says, her voice soft but with a hint of excitement.
I grin down at her, unable to resist the urge to place a gentle kiss on her full lips. “You can ask me anything,” I whisper against her mouth before pulling back slightly to meet her gaze.
“Have you considered submitting your work to a publisher?” she asks, her eyes searching mine as if she’s hoping for a particular answer.
The question hits me off guard. I hadn’t really considered submitting my work—not seriously, anyway. If I’m honest, I don’t even know the next steps now that it’s done. The idea of putting my story out there, of having it judged and critiqued, feels like another layer of pressure that I’m not sure I’m ready for.
“I don’t know about that,” I say slowly, my hand moving to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Right now, I’m just happy I finished it.”
“I get that,” she replies, nodding in understanding. But then she presses on, her eyes shining with a conviction that makes my heart swell. “But you really should. Your story could be the reason someone takes an extended lunch just to read as much as they can. You have something special, Tripp.”
Her belief in me and my story is something I’ve always cherished, but now, instead of feeling inspired, I feel the pressure mounting, and it’s almost suffocating. It’s like the weight of expectations—both hers and my own—is settling on my shoulders, making it harder to breathe. I want to live up to her confidence in me, to be the writer she believes I am, but what if I can’t?
And what about the brewery? Callum? My family?
I take a deep breath, trying to push those thoughts away as I focus on the woman in my arms. “I appreciate you saying that,” I tell her, my voice steady but laced with uncertainty. “But right now, I just don’t know.”
She nods again, her expression softening as she leans her head against my chest. “I understand,” she murmurs. “I just want you to know that I believe in you, Tripp. And when you’re ready, I’ll be right here, cheering you on.”
Her words are like a balm to my anxious thoughts, and I tighten my hold on her, pulling her even closer. I don’t know what the future holds for my story, but having her by my side makes the uncertainty a little less daunting. I’ll deal with everything else when the time comes. Maybe.
Wanting to change the subject and the sense of dread I’m starting to feel, I kiss her neck. We’re in our bubble, the one I’ve been craving, and there’s nothing else I want more than her. To feel her soft skin against mine. To listen to her scream my name while I take her release. To be buried deep in her tight pussy and feeling like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
“I’ve been desperate for you,” I whisper against the soft skin of her neck.
She tilts her head slightly giving me better access and I groan taking the advantage.
“Show me, Tripp.”