Page 3 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"That's what I wanted to tell you this morning," he whispers, his gaze moving over my face.

I stare at him.

I want to say it. The words are right there — sitting at the back of my tongue, waiting — and they are true, truer than anything I've said out loud in longer than I can remember. I want to tell him that I love him, that I think about him constantly, that there hasn't been a single day in the past months where he hasn't occupied some cornerof my mind even when I was doing everything in my power to push him out of it.

But saying it now, right now, in the warm aftermath of his declaration — something about it doesn't feel like mine. I want to say it when it's spontaneous. When it belongs to me, not just in response to him. I want those words to take him by surprise the way his just took me.

So I don't say it.

The silence stretches between us, and he doesn't appear troubled by it. He holds me against him, his thumb moving in slow circles against my back, and something about his patience — that familiar, infuriating patience of his — makes my chest fill to the point of pain.

I slip my hand to his jaw and kiss him instead. Hard. Certain.

Then I pull back and reach for the hem of my dress, pulling it over my head and dropping it to the floor, and I watch his eyes move over me — every inch of me — with an expression that makes me feel like the most wanted thing on earth.

His cock is hard again already. I feel it against the back of my thigh as I shift to straddle him, and he raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting. I kiss the side of his jaw. His throat. I move my lips slowly down his chest, his stomach, his abdomen — tracing every ridge of muscle with my mouth — until I reach his hips and fist his cock in my hand.

His breath shifts immediately.

I stroke him slowly, building the pace, watching his jaw tighten and his eyes close as he gives himself over toit. His head tips back against the pillow. I lean down and take him into my mouth, and the groan that escapes him fills the room.

I work him methodically — lips tight around his girth, tongue tracing the underside of his cock, taking him deeper with each pass until I feel him at the back of my throat. He is thick and hot in my mouth, the taste of him sharp and clean, and I feel the answering warmth flare between my own legs as I move.

His hand finds my hair.

I lick a slow line from his tip down to the base and further, drawing one of his balls into my mouth and rolling it softly before licking my way back up the thickly veined length. By the time I reach the tip, a fresh pool of pre-cum has gathered at the slit, and I take my time collecting every drop.

I swallow him down — halfway, then deeper — pulling air through my nose as I adjust, then continuing until he fills my throat completely. My eyes water, as I suck with hollow cheeks and draw back slowly, and when I do it again, his grip in my hair tightens as he fucks my face with rough intensity.

I can feel him getting close. His thighs flex beneath me. His breathing comes in shallow, controlled pulls that are barely controlled at all. I pick up the pace — faster, suction tighter — gagging and bobbing my head until his whole body goes rigid beneath me.

He comes with a low, rough groan, his hand holding my head in place, his hips lifting slightly off the mattress. I feel his warm load slide down my tongue and I swallowhim carefully, licking his tip clean before sitting back and meeting his eyes.

He stares at me for a long moment.

"You'll be the end of me," he says, and his voice is rough and wrecked in a way I have never heard from him before.

Then he flips me onto my back and slides inside me in a single, fluid thrust — and he drives into me until I am shaking and incoherent and completely, irretrievably his.

This is the thing about Dax Blackwell.

He doesn't ask for anything. He simply decides. And then, with that quiet, devastating certainty of his, he waits for you to catch up to what he already knows.

I caught up a long time ago. I just haven't told him yet.

Chapter One

Scarlett

Isit across from Christina, my wedding planner, watching her perfectly manicured finger trace down the seating chart one final time. Her office is small but elegant, tucked into a boutique firm on the third floor of a building in Lincoln Park. Sunlight streams through the windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air between us.

"So the Bradfords at table three, the Blackwells at table one," Christina murmurs, making a tiny notation with her pen.

"Your parents will be at the head table with you and Miles, of course."

I nod, leaning forward to study the chart. Fifty to sixty guests. Small, intimate, exactly what I wanted. Or what I thought I wanted six months ago when we started planning this.

"The florist confirmed delivery by nine AM nextSaturday," Christina continues, flipping to another page in her binder.