Craved By My Fiance's Brother

MEEKA'S POV::

"Fuck!" I curse as my head pounds like it's being hit with a hammer.

I lean against the sink, trying to steady myself, but the restroom won't just stop spinning. Or am I the one spinning? I don't even know.

Ugh!

Please remind me never to drink again, because when I get too drunk, I forget everything, sometimes even my gender.

My lipstick is smeared, my hair is falling out of its pins, and I laugh softly at my reflection that stares back at me. Perfect little Meeka Clemson, drunk at two a.m.

My Mom will faint if she sees me right now.

I take a breath, push away from the sink, and wobble toward the door. The faded thump of bass leaks through the hallway and makes my skull rattle. Somewhere out there my friends are still celebrating, but all I want right now is my bed, and maybe a gallon of water.

"Home," I mumble. "God, I need to go home."

I stop paying attention for exactly two seconds, just long enough to collide with something hard.

Wait. Did the walls of this club suddenly grow legs? Because I'm pretty sure there wasn't one here a second ago.

Strong, solid hands catch my arms before I pitch forward to fall, steadying me. My head snaps up, and the world tilts again, except this time, it's not the alcohol.

The man's tall and broad-shouldered, with a jawline that looks like it never learned the word gentle. A scar cuts across the jaw, sharp and unapologetic, drawing the eye to the danger carved into his face. A solitary mole rests on the left side of his jaw like an intentional mark of warning.

His dark eyes settle on me like a predator, quiet, dangerous, and entirely unreadable.

And he smells, God help me. He smells like whiskey and something deep and woodsy - an intoxicating scent that clings to him like sin itself, the kind that drags you closer even when every instinct tells you to run.

My pulse swings up into my throat. Every sensible part of me screams to step back, regain dignity, apologize and flee, but the drunk part apparently won the election tonight.

I inhale him instead, like I've lost my goddamn mind.

"Careful, Little Rebel," he says, his voice low, brushing against my skin like sandpaper.

Craps! That voice and accent.

"I'm not...." I hiccup, shaking my head. I even point a very serious finger at him like a tipsy lawyer presenting evidence in court. "a rebel."

His lips curve in a mocking smirk as he leans closer. "Could've fooled me."

I should leave. I really should. But he doesn't move, and neither do I. My brain is mush and I'm frozen on the spot, heart drumming, and my body betraying me like it's been waiting for this collision.

Believe me, this is alcohol talking. Or moving. Or whatever. Tomorrow, I'm never drinking again.

Okay, fine, I'll make that decision when I'm sober.

The silence stretches as the man's gaze drags over me slowly, like he's memorizing every inch, and my breath catches.

"Are you lost, Baby Girl?" His voice is thick now, daring me to play along.

Hm. Baby Girl.

Why do I like the sound of that?

Damn me. No normal girl would meet a total stranger and melt at the name he gives her. But then, I never told you I was normal.

I tilt my head, fighting a grin. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

His brow arches, but he doesn't move. That makes me bolder. My gaze slides over him shamelessly, drowning my filter in vodka.

"You're-" I wave a hand at him, because words are suddenly an obstacle. "unfairly good-looking, you know. Dangerous-looking, too. Like you belong on a wanted poster, but also a magazine cover. Annoying, really."

His smirk deepens, but he doesn't step back. He studies me with a patience that feels almost predatory, which only eggs me on.

I sway closer, my finger tracing the edge of the black leather jacket he's wearing.

"You've got that whole dangerous thing going on in you. Rough, scarred and broody." My lips curl. "Pretty boy in a very bad-boy package."

His laugh rumbles darkly and low at my words, vibrating down my spine.

He smirks and leans in, close enough for me to breathe him more, and then he whispers, "Is that your way of flirting?"

"What if it is, pretty boy?," I shoot back, smirking too, reckless and daring. "What are you gonna do about it?"

My mother has always told me how daring and stubborn I always am. But it's today I believe her.

I can't believe those words actually leave my mouth.

God!

See? This is why I should stick to water only.

His laugh deepens, darker now, curling heat low in my stomach. His lips brush my ear when he whispers again, "Don't play with fire.... unless you want to get burned."

A giggle slips out of me, followed by a hiccup. "What if I say...." I whisper back, "I want to be burned?"

For the first time, something sharp flickers through his eyes-interest, hunger? Maybe. The kind that comes from seeing someone you can't categorize.

He doesn't say anything. The moment stretches long, tense and electric.

Then he lets go of my arms slowly, like he's choosing not to hold on. His thumb brushes my wrist once, barely a touch, and I feel it all the way up my spine.

"Go home, Little Rebel," he says, his voice low and rough around the edges. "Before you get in real trouble."

But I still don't move, and neither does he. The world feels suspended for a second, like if I took one step forward, everything would change.

A laugh slips out before I can stop it, and he just stares at me.

"Funny. I thought you were the danger."

Just stop talking, Meeka!

But it's too late, because the moment the words leave my mouth, something in him shifts. The amusement drains from his eyes, replaced by something sharper and hungry. It's raw, feral, and aimed straight at me.

And then his mouth crashes against my throat before I can blink. The crash is rough and consuming, instantly knocking the breath from my lungs.

My back hits the wall as his body pins me there, and every thought I've ever had about being perfect-Nathaniel, my engagement, the rules drilled into me since birth, shatter.

For the first time in my life, I feel utterly senseless.

~~*~~

Sunlight breaks through the silk curtains in my room the next morning, stabbing my eyes. My head throbs, my mouth tastes like alcohol, and my sheets feel suspiciously twisted, like I spent the night wrestling ghosts.

A groan slips out of me as I hold my head.

And then the memories of last night suddenly hit me hard. The club, the stranger with the scar, his voice. The way he looked at me like he could read every secret I didn't say out loud. The way his mouth latched on my throat, hands gripping my hips. The growl against my neck that still vibrates through me right now.

"Fuck! Yes....oh my God. Faster. Ugh! This feels so good."

I quickly blink the memories out of my head, and flop face-up, staring at the ceiling while heat crawls into my cheeks, and my lips curve before I can stop them. I'm smiling.

Why am I smiling?

I should be panicking. I should be horrified. I'm engaged, for crying out loud. Perfectly betrothed Meeka Clemson, promised to Nathaniel DeWitt, the man who treats affection like a scheduled meeting. Often brief, and usually canceled.

Meanwhile, somewhere in a crowded club, a stranger made me feel noticed. Alive. Like there were colors in the world I hadn't seen before. And God, for once, I felt seen. I really, truly felt seen last night.

Nathaniel was probably out partying with one of his side projects anyway. So why do I feel like I'm the one who broke the rules?

Maybe because I did. And because a part of me liked not being perfect for once.

I just... let go last night.

And the worst part? The terrifying, intoxicating part of it all?

A small, shameful piece of me liked it. No, it actually even wants more.

My chest tightens painfully. Jesus.

Why am I thinking about him? Why does his touch still linger when Nathaniel's doesn't?

Why do I feel awake?

Why is....

BANG!

The sharp crash slices through the silence, jolting every nerve in my body. My head snaps toward the sound, heart leaping into my throat.

"Oh no..."

I scramble off the bed, nearly tripping over the sheets as I stagger toward the noise. The closer I get, the worse my instincts twist.

Please don't let it be what I think it is.

Please....

I swiftly turn the corner and see it on the floor. Shattered.

"No. Not my music box!"

I crouch down quickly, and pick up the cylinder with both hands. The pins catch on my skin, but I don't care. I try, stupidly try to turn it, to make it click, to make it sing.

But nothing.

The silence feels too big it makes my eyes twitch, the air leaving my chest all at once, and the word rips out of me before I can swallow it back.

"NO!"

MEEKA'S POV::

My voice comes out raw, loud, and pointless, like I'm shouting at the universe for allowing something so small and precious to be destroyed while bigger, uglier things continue to thrive.

My eyes sting, but I blink hard until the room comes into focus.

I carefully gather the pieces in my palms one by one. The lid, the cylinder, the shattered mirror panel, the carved base-everything. I hold them tightly against my chest.

I know it sounds ridiculous for me to be so dramatic. It's just a box, an object after all.

But it has always felt more than just an object to me. It was the sound that filled the quiet moments of my life and reminded me of so much. It grounds me, puts in a better mood when I'm doing the one thing that actually makes sense in my life.

It's one of the best gifts I've ever received.

I sigh and pull myself off the floor with the broken pieces, placing them gently on the table.

"What could have made it fall like that? I really hope I can get it fixed."

Shaking my head, I put my hand on my forehead and stumble into the bathroom, grabbing my toothbrush as if it were a weapon. My head is still pounding loudly; I can almost hear its drum solo.

There are three things I hate most in this world.

Okay. "Hate" is too strong a word. Let's say "something I struggle to tolerate."

Number one: waking up with a hangover.

Number two: losing my favorite things.

And number three... oh God, my brother Jeremy Clemson.

I shuffle down the hallway, rubbing my eyes because honestly, it feels like I fought in a war last night instead of getting any sleep. And judging by the noise coming from the kitchen, pots clattering and something sizzling aggressively, it seems that battle followed me home.

Oh no. Please don't tell me Jeremy is cooking again. I've had enough drama this morning already.

I pause at the doorway and peek inside, only to find Jeremy at the stove.

Let me emphasize that slowly in case you didn't catch it: Jeremy. Is. Cooking.

Good heavens! What on earth is he making this time?

I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. "Should I call the fire department preemptively or are you actually trying to cook something edible today?"

Jeremy glances over his shoulder with that cocky grin I've loathed since childhood.

"Good morning to you too, Blink-Blink."

Ugh! Not that name again.

Someone needs to tell this guy to stop calling me Blink-Blink.

Is it any wonder he's on my list of pet peeves? He knows I can't stand that name, yet he'll stick with it until the end.

"I'll have you know, I'm making pancakes," he says.

"Pancakes?" I raise an eyebrow. "You mean those charcoal circles of doom, right? Because the last time you cooked, I had to renovate my kitchen. Remember?"

Jeremy flips the spatula with flair. "That was just one time. And technically, the toaster caught fire, not me."

I chuckle as I slide into a chair at the counter. "The toaster caught fire because you were trying to toast the cord instead of the bread."

"Details, details," he mutters, though he's smiling. He looks genuinely proud of himself, as if he's auditioning for Top Chef: Arson Edition.

Just as I'm about to continue teasing him, my phone buzzes on the counter. I look at the screen and see it's Nathaniel.

Of course.

My heart does that little teenage skip it's been doing since I was sixteen and hopelessly in love with him. It's been years, but every time I see his name pop up on my phone, I feel like that girl again. Desperate, breathless, and willing to do anything just for his affection.

Honestly, when my family announced that I was marrying Nathaniel DeWitt, the very man I've loved in secret for as long as I can remember, I was overjoyed.

In all those novels I've devoured (yes, I'm a complete addict), heroines typically throw a tantrum when told they're marrying some wealthy heir. They kick and scream, vowing they'll never go through with it.

But my story? It's different. For me, this feels like a dream come true, even though deep down I know Nathaniel doesn't truly... well, love me. Maybe "love" is too strong a word to use here.

Still, I can't help but hope. Hope that one day he'll really see me.

And you know what they say: sometimes love develops after marriage.

So yeah. I've got this gut feeling that once I'm his wife, Nathaniel will finally love me back.

I swipe open the message and read through it.

* Nathaniel: I'll pick you up in an hour. We're going to see my parents.*

My stomach tightens at the mention of his parents.

I haven't seen them in years, and even then, it wasn't exactly warm. I don't know his mother very well; I can only remember a little about her. As for his father, he's the kind of man who makes silence feel like judgment.

And did I mention that today is my engagement party? Because apparently, my hangover isn't punishment enough for one morning.

"Is your fiancé texting you?" Jeremy asks in a sing-song voice, leaning against the counter. "What's he saying, Mrs. DeWitt?"

I groan. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? It's true." He smirks. "You'd better start practicing your signature now: M. DeWitt. Or maybe just Meeka DeWitt. Sounds pretty impressive, right?"

I toss a napkin at him. "Stop making me dislike you more."

"I love you even more," he replies with a chuckle.

I shake my head, smiling despite feeling a bit annoyed. But deep down, there's a flutter in my chest, the same one that's been there my whole life, whispering that this is what I'm meant to be: Nathaniel's.

Jeremy flips another pancake, and the smoke alarm remains quiet, definitely a sign from above. But my mind is racing with countless thoughts, especially the nagging voice reminding me that no matter how perfect everything seems, something's missing.

Before I can spiral too far into those thoughts, the doorbell rings and shatters the silence.

Jeremy raises an eyebrow. "Are you expecting someone?"

"No." I push away from the counter and make my way to the living room, half-expecting a package.

But it's not.

As soon as I open the door, Nora, my wild and insufferable best friend, storms in with her glossy ponytail swinging and eyes already critiquing me.

Her arms are piled high with shopping bags that leave me wide-eyed and slightly agape in shock.

What's with all the bags?

"Meeks!" she exclaims, immediately narrowing her gaze at my messy hair and bare face. "Good Lord, Meeka! You're not ready? Do you want me to have a heart attack before noon?"

I blink at her, still hungover and barefoot. "Uh, good morning to you too?"

She ignores me completely and strides straight into the living room.

"We don't have time! You're trying on dresses right now."

Ah! She acts just like my mom.

"Nora..."

"No excuses! Just be quiet." She grabs my hand and drags me toward my room as if I'm a stubborn child refusing to listen to their mom's instructions.

The moment we step into my room, she starts pulling gowns from the bags as if she's a magician unveiling doves.

"Option one is stunning and classic, very much 'future Mrs. DeWitt.' Option two is flirty and romantic, it just screams 'America's sweetheart.' You're welcome."

Ever since Nora found out I'm marrying Nathaniel, I haven't had a moment to myself. She has practically appointed herself as my maid of honor. Not that I have anyone else for that role anyway.

"Nora-"

"Shut up, Meeks!" Nora interrupts me again, and I'm tempted to stick her mouth with a glue to shut her the hell up. "Some of us are trying to save you from being a fashion disaster on the biggest night of your life."

It's not even my wedding night!

I groan and drag a hand down my face. "You know, I was kind of hoping for a peaceful mental breakdown before all this, but sure, let's play dress-up."

"Exactly." Nora claps her hands dramatically, embracing her inner drama queen. "Now march to your bathroom. Shower first, then we'll do your hair and makeup."

I scoff, roll my eyes, and head into the bathroom as she instructed.

But I barely make it inside when her question stops me dead in my tracks, as if my feet are glued to the tiles.

"By the way," Nora calls out casually, as if she's not about to complete the ruining of my entire morning. "Why did you disappear on us last night after going to the restroom? Where did you go afterward?"

Oh, crap!

Not last night again.

MEEKA'S POV:

Nathaniel's hand grazes mine as we step out of his car, and I can already feel my heart racing in anticipation as we arrive at the venue for our engagement party.

How I managed to dodge Nora's questions remains one of the remarkable feats I've accomplished this year.

Honestly, what the hell was I supposed to say about last night?

"Oh, nothing. I just casually let one dangerously sexy devil fuck me senseless."

Yeah, right.

But I'm not celebrating just yet because I haven't truly gotten away. Not unless I manage to find a new best friend in the next few hours.

I straighten myself up, trying to maintain my composure.

The hotel stands before us like a palace. Cascading chandeliers are visible through the glass doors, and a red carpet lined with cameras flashes like gunfire.

My breath catches, and I place a hand on my chest.

I can't even explain why I'm feeling so nervous right now.

We walk inside, where the air is rich with the scent of roses and luxury.

The transformation creates a fairy tale in the entire lobby. White silk drapes, golden candelabras, an orchestra tucked away in the corner playing something soft and elegant. Guests sparkle in gowns and tuxedos.

My mouth drops open in disbelief as I turn to Nathaniel.

"God, Nathaniel." I tug at his sleeve, my voice low but firm. "We agreed to keep this simple. Small and elegant. This is... this is a royal wedding reception!"

Nathaniel's lips curl into that familiar careful smile of his, calm as ever. "That wasn't my doing." His gaze sweeps over the crowd before returning to me. "This was all my parents' idea. They wanted... grandeur."

"Grandeur?" I hiss, leaning closer. "This looks like Versailles, Nathaniel. I'm half-expecting Marie Antoinette to pop out of the cake."

That earns me a small chuckle from him, but it doesn't ease the tension knotting in my stomach.

We move through the crowd... well, Nathaniel glides effortlessly while I try not to stumble in my heels as we walk further inside. A waiter passes by with a tray of drinks; Nathaniel takes two glasses for us and hands one to me.

I accept it and take an immediate sip; surprisingly, the bubbles help calm my nerves a little.

Finally, we enter a room where his parents stand like royalty receiving their subjects. Guests gather around them, laughing and bowing their heads and offering congratulations.

"Oh, here comes the lovely couple," Nathaniel's Mother announces, her voice smooth as honey and her smile radiant.

Before I can prepare myself, she pulls me in her arms.

Okay.... I definitely wasn't expecting that.

"It's so wonderful to see you again," she says warmly, her eyes glinting. "You've become even more beautiful since the last time we met."

I manage a smile. "It's great to see you too, Mrs. DeWitt.

"Oh, please." She waves it off lightly. "No need for formality; just call me Vanessa."

I nod, still a bit taken aback as we separate.

The congratulations keep coming as Nathaniel and I take out seats. Guests continue to arrive, laughing and showering us with good wishes. The party is now in full swing. Gradually, my nerves start to settle.

Until they suddenly don't.

Just as I lift my glass again, my breath hangs, and my hand freezes in mid-air.

Across the room, I spot him.

Yes. You probably already know who I'm referring to. But just in case you don't, it's the handsome devil from last night I'm talking.

What on earth is he doing here?

My pulse quickens as he strides closer. Not just any closer but directly toward our table, as if he owns the place.

I blink repeatedly, hoping I'm just imagining this. But no, he's really here.

He is the one.

The rim of my glass shakes against my fingers. Nathaniel notices and raises an eyebrow at me. "Are you okay?"

I nod quickly, but my gaze remains fixed on him.

Nathaniel follows my line of sight and then casually smiles.

"Oh, here he comes. Meeka," he says, placing his hand over mine. "meet my brother....Slade."

As soon as those words leave Nathaniel's mouth, it feels like ice water has been dumped over me.

What?!

My champagne goes down the wrong way, and I cough violently as bubbles sting my nose.

"Meeka!" Nathaniel leans toward me, alarm etched across his face. He grabs a napkin and presses it into my hand while I cough into my fist, feeling heat rise in my cheeks.

"Easy now," Vanessa says as she hurries to my side and gently pats my back.

Every eye in the room is on me now, including his.

The sexy devil whose name I've just learned is Slade.

The name sounds as dangerous as he looks.

His gaze locks on mine, piercing and knowing. Like he remembers every single detail of last night, same as I do.

I manage to swallow, forcing down both champagne and panic.

"I.... I'm fine," I croak, waving Nathaniel and his mother off with a shaky smile. "The champagne just went down the wrong pipe.

Liar.

My eyes flick back to Slade, and my heart harmers when I catch the faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Did he just smirk?

When Slade finally speaks, I'm begging the ground to open and swallow me.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Little Rebel...." he pauses deliberately, his smirk widening. "I mean, sister-in-law."

My spine goes completely rigid.

He did not just call me that in front of everyone!

Is he crazy?

As if that isn't bad enough already, he reaches for my hand before I can react, his fingers brushing mine, rough and warm. Then, like this is some damn Victorian ball, he lifts my hand and presses a lazy kiss to the back of it, eyes never leaving mine.

The room goes quiet for a beat too long, and I'm sweating. I'm literally sweating despite the cold air-conditioning in the room.

I snatch my hand back, heat flooding my face.

"Uh.... I think I need to use the restroom," I stammer, still coughing lightly.

Before anyone can stop me, I slip from my seat and hurry across the room, the sound of my heels following behind me as they pound fast on the tiled floor.

The second I get inside the restroom, I slam the door shut behind me and press my back against it.

"Jesus," I whisper, dragging in a ragged breath.

What is going on?

Slade isn't just here, he's Nathaniel's brother?

Wait. Slade DeWitt. The DeWitt's other son.

I've heard about him, the black sheep, the reckless one, whom people talk about, but he never comes to family events. But I'd never actually met him. Not until last night....unknowingly.

And God help me, the memories come rushing back before I can stop them.

His hand fisting the back of my hair, tilting my head back as he growled against my ear. 'Don't play with fire, unless you want to be burned.'

The way his tongue licked my throat sinfully, stealing the air straight from my lungs.

The heat of his body pressing me against the wall, the reckless rhythm of his laugh when I whispered back, 'What if I say I want to be burned?'

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images won't stop. The scrape of his stubble against my skin. How he looked at me, like he wanted to devour me whole. The way I.... let him.

My stomach flips. My heart pounds like it's trying to break free of my chest.

I'm in trouble.

**

SLADE'S POV:

I can't believe what just happened right in front of me as I walk into my brother's oh-so-perfect engagement party.

I thought this night was going to be torture with endless champagne and fake smiles, Nathaniel flaunting his spotless reputation.

I didn't even want to come to this party. Hell, I almost didn't. But something kept nudging me, an itch in my chest I couldn't shake. And now I know why.

Fate.

Because seating beside him dressed like every man's fantasy, is her.

The girl from last night.

The sharp-tongued, reckless little firecracker who drove me to the edge with her shots, who laughed when I told her not to play with fire, and then she leaned in close to whisper, "I want to be burned."

Yeah. That girl. The Little Rebel who wrecked my wall last night.

Meeka.

The name really suits her. Sharp and daring.

From the moment I set my eyes on her last night, I knew she was trouble. There was just something about her that drew me in.

I usually find it irritating, hell, I sometimes throw up when women touch or try to flirt with me, but it was totally different with Meeka. Her sharp tongue, her daring character, everything about her just pulled me in. And I'm not ready to let her go. Not when I've tasted her. Especially not now that I just found out she's my brother's little fiancée.

She choked on her champagne when she learned I'm her fiance's brother, and it was glorious.

Her eyes widened, her hand trembled, and for one wild second, I swear she forgot how to breathe.

Good. Let her squirm. That proves last night wasn't a blur to her either.

God, she's radiant. That same mouth that cursed me out now painted red, that same body that twisted under my hands now wraps in silk like a gift begging to be unwrapped.

And now? She's my brother's fiancée.

Nathaniel's perfect little prize.

I almost laugh. What are the odds? The universe must really like me. Because I don't see a problem here. No. All I see is a challenge.

She thinks last night was a mistake. I can see it in the way she avoids my gaze now, her lips pressing tight, as if she can erase me with sheer willpower.

But I don't make mistakes.

And damn, the way her lips part, how her throat works as she swallows, the way color blooms across her cheeks... she's just as dangerous now as she was last night.

The only difference?

Now she's a forbidden fruit.

And I've never wanted anything more.