Breaking Up With Barrett, The English Brothers #1

Chapter 3 (2/2)

At first, Barrett had been furious with her for pulling a stunt like this. He swore he wouldn't pay her a dime for tonight's debacle, as he tried to redirect the conversation back to business. He'd been making progress with J.J., his light threats doing their work on his quarry's head. But then her lips had touched his hand, shooting a direct line of heat to his groin, and he was—for the first time he could remember—so distracted by something other than business, he'd almost been speechless.

She'd caught him totally off-guard with her antics, and as much as propriety ranked high on Barrett's list of musts, it had taken him several serious minutes to talk himself out of hauling her out of her chair, thrusting his hand into her silky blonde hair and forcing his tongue into her mouth. By the time he'd gotten himself under control, there was no turning back. The Harrisons wanted a story.

But, two could play her game, and it wasn't lost on him when she started stuttering, her bravado faltering as he rubbed slow circles in the soft skin of her hand. He'd smirked at her then, relieved that if they were going to play, the field was at least level.

Just now, her bright blue eyes had lost the artifice of their shenanigans for a moment when he mentioned blueberry pancakes. They were her favorite, and he had no idea how he knew that, but he did. Likely, he'd watched surreptitiously some time or another when she chose them at the Boxing Day buffet, or overheard Susannah remind Felix to get the ingredients for her birthday breakfast. He'd catalogued it in the corner of his mind reserved for Emily.

He shrugged. "They're your favorite."

"Yes, they are."

He pushed his leg meaningfully into hers, fully aware that she'd uncrossed her legs and her thighs were lightly spread, confined only by the narrow lines of her blue tweed skirt. He sipped his scotch then dropped his unoccupied hand to his lap, wondering what she would do if he slid it over, slipping it onto the warm skin of her thigh.

"And after pancakes?" prompted Hélène.

"Barrett doesn't dress like this on the weekends," said Emily, turning up her nose a little. Hmm. She doesn't like the way I dress for business? Something else to catalogue in the "Emily Corner." "He just wears jeans and a shirt. He walks around his apartment barefooted."

"Like a Polo model," said Hélène, fawning a little.

Barrett felt a flush of heat in his cheeks. He knew he was good-looking. He certainly used it to his advantage now and then, but he hated when it upstaged business dealings. Surprisingly, Emily chose that very moment to squeeze his hand lightly, as if she knew it bothered him.

"Naw. He's just Barrett. Barefoot in the kitchen making blueberry pancakes for his lazy fiancée."

He had a sudden image of her lazy in his bed, her blonde hair spread out on the white pillowcase, her eyes closed, her breasts peaked under a thin white sheet. He'd lower his head and capture one in his mouth, wetting the sheet around it to transparency as he sucked it into a tight point, before attending its twin. She'd wake up to his mouth, hot and wet, caressing her, and wind her fingers through his hair. Then he'd shove down the sheet down so there was no barrier between his tongue and her sensitive nipples—

"What then?" asked Hélène eagerly.

"Emily, tell them the rest," he rasped, unable to escape from the fantasy playing in his head. He was utterly captivated by the story they were weaving of a happy young couple waking up to hot sex, pancakes, jeans, bare feet... it was like walking into a dream you'd been longing for, hoping for, wishing for your entire life. Although Barrett was working like hell to conceal it, he was as rapt as Hélène and J.J., wondering what happened next.