Page 28 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

She doesn’t seem okay.

And I’m starting to think she hasn’t been for a while.

I sit back in the chair, eyes on the closed laptop in front of me. It would be easy. Just pull up the socials and take a look. But that crosses a line I promised myself I wouldn’t touch.

She’s still Lola.

Still Wes’s little sister.

Still a thousand kinds of off-limits.

But now she lives a hundred feet away and that makes it harder to look away.

I get up and sprawl out on my bed. I will my brain to think about something else—anything else—but I can’t.

I close my eyes and her face appears immediately.

I slide my hand beneath the waistband of my shorts. I'm already hard—have been since I started thinking about her. About how she looked tonight in those shorts that showed off her legs. About how her hair fell across her face when she leaned forward.

"Fuck," I whisper into the darkness.

I should stop. This is wrong on every level. But my hand doesn't listen to my brain, and I'm stroking my cock now, imagining it's her touch instead of mine. Soft. Tentative at first, then bolder.

In my mind, her lips are on mine, tasting like the wine she was drinking. Her tongue sliding against mine as her hand works between us.

My reverie goes back to last summer at Wes's parents' lake house. She came out to the dock in that navy blue bikini, and she looked so fucking good. I had to dive into the lake to hide what she did to me. I don’t think she knew, but I couldn't look at her for the rest of the day.

I'm fully gone now, lost in the fantasy of her. What she would feel like under me. The sounds she would make. How her skin would taste.

My pace quickens, pressure building as I arch slightly off the bed. It takes almost no time before I come, the release so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from making noise.

Reality crashes back as I lie there, panting. The shame follows quickly behind it, and I wait for sleep to take me so I can forget what I just did. Again…

Chapter 8

Lola

Are emotional hangovers a thing? Because I think I have one.

Physically, I’m fine. My body feels rested enough for the first time in a while, but my brain is bruised in too many places to count. There’s no alcohol to blame it on either—just a healthy dose of humiliation, resentment, and the echo of Reid’s voice playing on repeat in my head.

You’re always a mess, aren’t you?

The words slam into me all over again. It doesn’t matter how many times I remind myself that he doesn’t mean half of what he says. It’s just Reid being Reid. He picks at people because that’s easier than being honest with himself.

But that one stuck.

I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, groaning into it. I half hope my bed will just swallow me whole and then I’ll never have to get up and face the next set of obstacles.

When that doesn’t happen, I reach for my phone and start scrolling.

Harper’s already texted.

What happened? Spill…

I’ll have to call her later. This requires more than just a text.

I open my studio messages next—two inquiries from new clients, a cancellation for tomorrow morning, and a request to reschedule a private session.