Page 48 of Claimed By The Other Brother

No Scarlett.

I close the door and lean against it, coffee cup in hand.

She's gone. Really gone.

I walk to the terrace doors and step outside. The October morning is crisp, the air sharp in my lungs. I scan the terrace landing where I found her last night—sitting on that bench, drinking champagne straight from the bottle, mascara streaking her face.

Empty.

I stand there for a long moment, looking out at the city. Traffic moves below. People going about their lives, completely unaware that mine just got infinitely more complicated. I finish my coffee and head back inside. I need a shower. Need to clear my head.

The water is scalding, just the way I like it. Steam fills the bathroom as I step under the spray, letting the heat work into my muscles. I grab the shampoo, lathering my hair, trying to focus on the mundane task. But my mind won't cooperate.

I can’t get her out of my head. The way she looked standing in front of me in that wedding dress before I unzipped it. The way her breath caught when I called her breathtaking. The sounds she made when I was inside her. The way she tasted. The way she felt.

My cock hardens, throbbing insistently. I brace one hand against the tile wall, water streaming over my head and shoulders. I shouldn't be thinking about this—but Iam. I wrap my other hand around my cock, stroking slowly. Just a few touches. Just enough to take the edge off.

I close my eyes and let myself remember. The heat of her body. The tight grip of her pussy around me. The way she cried out when she came. The way she looked at me with those devastated blue eyes and begged me to make her forget.

My strokes quicken. My breathing grows ragged. The sensation builds low in my belly, coiling tighter.

I remember being inside her. The way she felt. The way she sounded. The way her walls clenched around me when she came. The orgasm hits fast and hard. I groan, my hand working my cock as I come, spurting against the tile wall, the water washing it away down the drain.

I stand there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the cool tile, breathing hard. The release I needed. Nothing more. I reach for the body soap and finish my shower quickly, turning off the water and stepping out. I dry off, wrap the towel around my waist, and return to the bedroom.

An hour later, I'm dressed and packing. Suits folded into my garment bag. Toiletries back in their case. Laptop secured. Everything exactly as it was when I arrived three days ago. Except nothing is the same.

My phone buzzes. A text from my mother.

Barbara: Have you heard from Miles?

I stare at the message. I haven't thought about Miles since I found Scarlett on that terrace last night.

I type back:

Dax: No. Nothing.

Her response comes immediately:

Barbara: I'm staying another day. Maybe he'll call. I need to talk to him.

Dax: When's your flight back?

Barbara: Tomorrow afternoon. I can't just leave without knowing he's okay.

Of course she can't. She's his mother. She's worried about him, even though he's the one who destroyed someone's life yesterday.

Dax: I'll come say goodbye before I leave.

Barbara: Thank you, sweetheart. Safe travels.

I pocket my phone and finish packing. My flight leaves in two hours. The car service will be here any minute. I take one last look around the suite. The bed where Scarlett slept in my arms. The terrace where we first talked. The living room where her wedding dress fell to the floor. I close the door behind me and head to the elevator.

The lobby is busy with checkout traffic. Business travelers. Families. People going about their normal lives. I stop by my mother's room on the fifth floor. She opens the door looking exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed.

"Dax." She pulls me into a hug.

"How are you holding up?" I ask.