The Desperate Brat

SLOANE

The ceramic mug scorched my palms, but the bitter, scalding liquid wasn't doing a damn thing to numb the persistent throb in my skull. I leaned back against the kitchen counter, trying to convince myself that what happened through the crack of my bedroom door last night had been nothing more than an exhausted, fever-pitched hallucination. There was no way Vance had actually been standing in that hallway. He couldn't have watched me.

A heavy frame invaded my personal space before I could even bring the cup back to my lips. Vance vaulted himself up to sit casually on the edge of the granite counter right beside me, taking up too much room, his broad shoulders blocking the morning light.

“Find what you were looking for in there?” he asked, his rough timber cutting through the quiet room as his gaze dropped to the dark roast in my hands.

I held the mug closer to my chest, refusing to give him an inch. “I’m looking for peace and quiet. Clearly, I didn't get it.”

He didn't bother offering an apology. Instead, he leaned downward, closing the distance between us until his scarred hand wrapped directly over mine on the warm ceramic. Without breaking eye contact, he tipped the rim to his mouth and took a long, insolent drink right out of my cup.

“You’re revolting,” I snapped, violently jerking the mug out of his grasp the second he let go. My pulse kicked into a frantic, uneven sprint, heat prickling up my neck. “Do you ever think about where your mouth has been? Because the rest of the city certainly knows.”

Vance didn't look remotely offended. His mouth curved into that insufferably arrogant slant he wore whenever he knew he was under someone's skin. He dragged a thumb over his wet bottom lip, casually shifting his weight. “Worried you’ll pick up something dirty, princess?”

“Catching a lethal infection from your disgusting habits is a very real hazard,” I shot back, gripping the handle hard enough to turn my knuckles bone-white. “I’ve heard the stories. You run through anything with a pulse.”

He let out a dry, low laugh that rattled straight down to my stomach, completely unsettling me. “Don't believe everything you hear through the grapevine, Sloane. Besides, it’s just coffee. I didn't put my tongue down your throat.”

The casual mention of his tongue sent an unwanted, suffocating wave of heat pooling low in my belly. I hated how effortlessly he could unbalance me. I took a half-step to the left, preparing to slip around his bulky frame and bolt toward the hallway, but he moved faster.

Vance dropped off the counter, planting his boots firmly on the tile and stepping directly into my path. He backed me up until my lower back hit the hard granite edge, trapping me between the counter and his massive chest. He leaned in until the rough scruff along his cheek brushed the sensitive curve of my ear, his hot breath washing over my skin.

“You tell all your girlfriends how much you hate me?” he murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, mocking register. “Or do you leave out the part where you were moaning my fucking name last night, princess?”

My blood ran instantly cold.

The kitchen seemed to tilt on its axis. A violent rush of nausea and mortification hit me like a physical blow. It wasn't a fever dream. It hadn't been a trick of the shadows. Vance had been right there, inches from my cracked door, watching my hand slip beneath the band of my shorts while I cried his name out to the empty dark.

“I didn't—” The denial died on my tongue, cracking into a pathetic, breathless rasp.

Vance tilted his head, feigning a look of innocent curiosity that made me want to claw his eyes out. “No? You sure about that? Because from where I was standing, you sounded pretty fucking loud.”

“Shut up,” I whispered, panic clawing at my ribs.

“Should I help jog your memory?” He leaned closer, dark amusement dripping from every word. “Or maybe I should go down the hall and ask Mateo about it. Wonder what your big brother would do if he found out his innocent little sister gets off touching herself to the thought of his best friend?”

Rage erupted through the paralyzing humiliation. I planted both hands flat against his solid, unyielding chest and shoved with everything I had. Vance didn't even sway. He just let out a low chuckle at the pathetic display of force, looking down at me like I was a tiny, harmless animal thrashing in a trap.

“Back the fuck off me, Vance!”

“You really can't help yourself, can you?” he said, his tone turning dismissive as he straightened slightly. “Always throwing tantrums. You’re mouthy, difficult, and a spoiled little brat.”

“Then leave me the hell alone!”

“I intend to,” he said, the mocking humor vanishing from his eyes, replaced by an impenetrable, flat coldness. “Because you’re Mateo’s sister. You’ve always been off-limits. And you always fucking will be.”

The harsh, absolute rejection cut deeper than any insult he had thrown at me. All the years of him looking right through me, treating me like an annoying shadow while he dragged countless nameless girls into his bed, flared into an unbearable, reckless fury.

“I’m not a child anymore,” I said, my voice shaking with spite.

“I don't give a shit what you are.”

“And I’m not some pure, fragile virgin you have to protect,” I lied, staring straight into his eyes with venomous defiance. “You aren't special, Vance. I’ve had guys before.”

A string of filthy curses exploded from his mouth.

Before I could draw another breath, Vance snatched the mug from my hand and slammed it onto the counter, the liquid sloshing violently over the rim. His large hand clamped onto my shoulder, shoving me backward with bruising force until my spine struck the drywall. He closed the distance instantly, pinning me flush against the paint, his massive body crushing any space between us.

“You’ve had what?” he growled, his face inches from mine, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black. The fury coming off him was suffocating, raw and violent. “You running around acting like a fucking whore?”

The brutal word hit me hard, but seeing his composure completely shatter—watching the detached, untouchable Vance Davenport lose his mind with jealousy right in front of me—didn't scare me. It made my entire body throb with a reckless, consuming ache. The tension snapping between us was too thick to survive, and I couldn't keep the lie alive for another second.

“I want to sleep with you,” I breathed, the raw truth tearing out of my chest before I could stop it.

The confession hung in the air, heavy and shameless. Vance didn't flinch. Instead, he pressed harder against me, his hips pinning mine against the wall as the sharp angle of his jaw scraped roughly over my cheekbone.

“You have no fucking idea what you’re asking for,” he rasped against my neck, his deep voice vibrating straight into my bones. “You think this is a game, princess? You think I’d ever be gentle with you?”

“I don't care,” I gasped, trembling against him.

“I could fuck you right here on this floor, Sloane,” he whispered, the sheer vulgarity of the threat sending a violent shiver down my spine. “I could bend you over and make you scream my name so loud your brother would hear it through the walls.”

To drive the point home, his rough hand dropped from my shoulder, sliding past my waist and slipping beneath the hem of my loose cotton shorts. His calloused fingers grazed the bare skin of my hip, gripping the bone with bruising pressure. “You’d take every inch of it,” he growled directly against my lips. “You’d spread your legs and let me fuck that rotten attitude completely out of you.”

My breath hitched violently. My hips hitched upward against his thigh on pure, shameless instinct, my entire body burning for him to drag those rough fingers lower, desperate for him to break me apart right there against the kitchen wall.

Then, he ripped his hand away.

The sudden loss of his heat left me gasping, nearly falling forward onto the floorboards. Vance stepped back, putting several feet of cold space between us. The feverish rage in his face was gone, replaced by a chilling, calculating cruelty that made my stomach drop.

He lifted the hand that had just been inside my clothes and deliberately wiped his palm across the rough denim of his jeans, treating my touch like a smear of filth he couldn't wait to scrape off.

“Too bad,” he said, a lethal, mocking grin pulling at his lips as he looked down at my shaking body. “I don't fuck desperate little brats. I told you before, Sloane—I don't do soft. I don't do stupid. And I sure as fuck don't touch Mateo's sister.”