Maybe I have a problem.
I pack my last set of dresses. Then all the toiletries I left out for this morning. I do one last wipe down of the bathroom, so everything is pretty and pristine.
Now, it's just my...
Oh God.
Brendon is in my doorframe, his eyes on my bed. Not just on the Little Mermaid comforter, but on the collection of underwear on top of it.
It wouldn't be so bad if I owned anything remotely sexy. But that's all cotton and comfort bras.
Not what I want him imagining when he...
No.
It doesn't matter.
Brendon doesn't look at me that way.
I think.
He's not saying anything.
I'm not saying anything.
We're just standing in this room with my underwear on display, saying nothing.
His gaze moves to the walls. "I'm sorry I missed seeing it in its glory."
"Huh?"
He nods to the bare walls.
"Oh." He's never been in my room. With the way my heart is pounding and my body is buzzing, it makes perfect sense. He's here. My bed is there. It would be so easy to combine those two things. "I'm going to attempt to recreate the majesty at your place."
"Our place."
"Our place." It feels funny on my tongue, but I will get used to it. The house in Venice Beach isn't Brendon and Emma's place. It's our place. My place.
I live with Brendon.
I live with the guy who refuses to leave my head.
I can handle that. Totally.
He nods to the bedside drawer. "I can make myself scarce if you need to pack anything personal."
"Why would I..." Oh. My blush spreads to my chest. I stammer. "No. I don't. I don't have one of those."
He arches a brow. Teasing. Maybe.
"No. But. Um." I'm going to die of embarrassment. "I don't use those."
"You're missing out."
"What?" I manage to look at him for an entire second. Two even. His expression is light, but there's curiosity in his eyes. He really wants to know. "Why do you care?"
He shrugs. "You should get one."
"Oh." This is... My head is spinning.
I can't place his tone.
Is it you should get one so I can use it on you?
Or is it masturbation is healthy and awesome, you should get a vibrator awkward but necessary mentor/Dad/older brother talk?
I...
Uh...
My body goes straight to the former.
I can't think.
The only thing in my head is the glorious mental image of him peeling off my panties and pressing a vibe to my clit.
Fuck.
We're going to live together. We're going to be roommates. Or even... it's more like he's my legal guardian.
He doesn't see me that way.
We're friends.
We're only ever going to be friends.
I need to act like this is normal. Like we're two adults talking about sex toys like adults do. "I thought guys were bothered by—" I can say the word. "Vibrators."
"In your vast experience?"
"Yeah." Okay, so I've never exactly had a guy over here. I've never had a guy's hands below my waist. Or mine below his. But I listen in class, at work, at the shop. I've heard guys talk about sex toys like they were only for desperate women.
"It's a tool. That's it."
"And that doesn't threaten you?"
"No."
"You're that... confident?"
He gives me a long once over. His eyes settle on mine. "We're not having his conversation."
"You brought it up."
"Even so."
There's something in his eyes.
An awkwardness I don't recognize.
Because he sees me as a sister?
Or because he's desperate to use a vibrator on me?
It takes the entire morning to unpack my stuff. The room—my room—has a desk but it's lacking most of the other furniture I need.
We get lunch at the taco place down the street, make plans to get furniture tomorrow, argue about who is going to stay in the master bedroom until we get my bed. I insist he stays in his room. He insists the couch.
Eventually, I break and agree. And it has nothing to do with how much I want to be in his bed, wrapped up in sheets that smell of him.
It's not like that's the only reason why I relent.
Not at all.
God, this really is amazing.
I fall back onto Brendon's four poster bed.
I sink into the smooth sheets.
They smell like him. Like his earthy soap and like something distinctly Brendon.
God, they smell good.
I let my eyelids flutter closed and let my head fill with dirty thoughts.
Him next to me.
Pulling my t-shirt over my head.
Unhooking my bra.
Sliding it off my shoulders.
Dragging his fingertips up my torso, between my breasts, around my nipples.
Pressing his lips to mine.
He thinks I'm sweet. Innocent.
Everyone does.
And I am.
I'm a virgin, sure. But I'm not naïve.
I know what I want.
It's him.
A knock on the door pulls me back to the moment.
"I'm heading to work. You gonna be okay alone?" Brendon asks from the hallway.
He explained it at lunch—he and Emma have a strict knock, enter only if invited policy.
"Yeah. I have to get started on my summer reading."
"Call me if you need anything."
"I'll be fine."
"Promise."
"Brendon—"
"If you'll be fine, it will be an easy promise to keep."
It's a compelling argument. Even if I have no intentions of calling him. No matter what I need. "Okay. I promise."
"See you tonight."
"You too."
His footsteps move down the hallway. Then the stairs.
I can just barely hear the front door shut.
Emma is at work—she works at a department store at the promenade.
I'm alone here.
I've never been alone here before.
It's the perfect chance to work out some of this tension.
But not yet.
It sounds stupid, but I can't touch myself in the middle of the afternoon. That's so... intentional.
I only ever masturbate before bed. So it's for insomnia relief as much as anything else.
Still, I should take advantage of being alone in Brendon's room somehow.
Reading isn't quite as exciting or naughty as masturbating to thoughts of my new roommate slash guardian, but hey—
I do have dirty books on here.
I'm capable of fun. Of sexy. Of bad.
Just, I'm going to do it by myself in my pajamas.
I toss my sleep shorts on the bed.
Set my Kindle on the dresser.
Right next to the faded black sketchbook.
Wait.
That's Brendon's sketchbook.
It's right there.
I've never seen it by itself.
In his hands? Yeah.
On his lap? Absolutely.
Nestled under his arm? Of course.
It never leaves his sight.
And he snaps it fast whenever I get close.
This is it.
All the secrets to what's in that beautiful head of his.
His secrets.
None of my business.
I pick it up. Run my fingers over the worn leather cover. Undo the snap holding the pages together.
This is his.
It's private.
Yes, I want to know why his smiles are so rare.
I want to know what it is he's thinking about when he's sitting on the deck alone.
When he's alone, period.
God, I want in his head so badly I'm shaking.
&nbs
p; This is wrong. What if it was your journal?
I force myself to set the book down.
To plant on the bed.
To cross my legs. Fold my hands. Keep my gaze on the floor.
I shouldn't look.
But this is the only chance I'm going to get.
If I don't look, I'll never get inside his head.
I'll never know what he's thinking.
I'll never know if he's thinking about me.
I place the book in my lap and pry it open. The first few pages are familiar tattoo mockups—Brendon always shows off his finished work. Or maybe I check the shop's Facebook religiously. Either way.
Then there are figure drawings. More tattoo mockups. A fierce dragon defending a castle. A giant octopus destroying a sea monster. A topless mermaid sunning on a rock.
A librarian pin up.
Only...
No.
She looks like me. Same champagne blond hair. Same green eyes. Same pretty pink cardigan. Same thick blue glasses. These aren't exactly standard frames.
And she's wearing a Mockingjay pin.
Exactly like the one attached to my backpack.
That's nothing. Lots of people like The Hunger Games. Even Brendon.
There's no way he's looking at me like this.
My heartbeat picks up.
My breath flees my body at an alarming rate.
I shouldn't turn the page, but I can't stop myself.
It's that same pin up, only her cardigan is unbuttoned. Her breasts are exposed.
In the next picture, she's lying on her back, her arms over her head, her cardigan binding her wrists.
The next.
That's me. Splayed out over this bed. Naked. Bound to the railing.
I turn the page.
Fuck.
I suck a deep breath between my teeth.
I press my thighs together.
I'm on my knees, resting on my heels, looking up.
Naked.
Waiting.
Hungry.
He wants me.
Brendon wants me.
Get Tempting Now
Author’s Note
I fell in love with Ryan back in Tempting, when he first glared at Brendon and muttered something about everyone getting to work. At the time, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with his heartbreak. Would he get back together with his ex? Would he be the hero perfect for the moody second chance romance idea I had way back when? Or did he need to let go of the idea of the one who got away?
Writing a series is a funny thing. The side characters shape themselves. It’s some kind of magic. Honestly, I can’t explain it. Book one is impossible. I curse the written word. I find every excuse I can to hide from the blank page. But, by the end, I know who Hero Two is, what he wants, who he needs, exactly how I need to torture him to force him to change. By the time I finished Playing, I knew Ryan needed to end up with Leighton. And I knew he would struggle to get over the idea of himself belonging with his ex.
At its heart, that’s what this book is about: it’s about throwing away your idea of who you are and what you’re supposed to feel so you can look in the mirror and see who that person really is. It was so much fun diving into Ryan’s damaged head (I love the broody ones). But what was really fun was pushing him out of his comfort zone, forcing him to confront the ideas that were no longer serving him.
This book was a treat. It was so much fun poking Ryan’s bruises, watching him fail to see what was right in front of his face, reveling in Dean torturing his brother. I hope you love Ryan as much as I do. As always, I hope to see you for the next Inked Hearts book. Dean’s story is a treat—everything you expect from him and so much more (and so much banter).
Thanks for reading.
Love,
Crystal
Acknowledgements
My first thanks goes to my husband, for his support when I’m lost in bookland and for generally being the sun in my sky. Sweetheart, you’re better than all the broken bad boys in the world.
The second goes to my father, for insisting I go to the best film school in the country, everything else be damned. I wouldn’t love movies, writing, or storytelling half as much if not for all our afternoon trips to the bookstore and weekends at the movies. You’ve always been supportive of my goals, and that means the world to me.
A big shout out to all my beta readers. You helped give me the confidence to put out a book a little more heartbreaking than usual. And also to my ARC readers for helping spread the word to everyone else in the world.
A special thanks to my fellow pop-punk addict, Molle, for fangirling over music with me, for talking me through my business decisions, and for reminding me that loving my work matters as much as all the marketing money in the world.
Athena Wright, you are the best author friend a girl could ask for. Thank you for your feedback, for being my chat buddy, and for always being there to give me the perspective I need. And thank you for mocking me when I deserve it and telling me no when I need to hear it.
Thanks so much to my editor Marla, my designer’s Tash and Gel, and to all my beta readers.
As always, my biggest thanks goes to my readers. Thank you for picking up Pretend You’re Mine. I hope you’ll be back for Loving You, Hating You (Dean’s book), coming this June.
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More books about the men of Inked Hearts are coming soon.
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Hating You, Loving You
Special Teaser
Chapter 1
Chloe
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Please note: This text has not yet been edited.
Why do so people drink?
This stuff tastes awful.
I force myself to swallow another mouthful of orange juice and vodka.
My throat burns.
My head spins.
I reach for something to hold onto. Find the white banister. It's a smooth, ornate, pure money.
This entire house is pure money. Pristine carpet. Glass tables. Three thousand dollar leather upholstery.
Six dollar Trader Joe's vodka.
The cheap booze ruins the aesthetic. It clashes with the sky lights, the sliding glass doors, the glowing aqua pool.
Not that anyone notices. My classmates are used to expensive furniture and two million dollar mansions.
But cheap vodka and an empty upstairs?
That thrills them.
I've heard enough rumors to know the drill. Rich kids. Nice house. Cheap booze. Parents out of town. I heard Dean fucked Judy…
Not that it's always Dean.
It's just those are the only rumors I pay attention to.
A giggle cuts through the big, white room. It bounces off the high ceilings. It bounces right into my ears.
There's Judy, all blonde hair and long limbs, standing at the table, running her red nails over Dean's forearm.
His smile lights up his blue eyes eyes. They're bright. Full of energy and life and lust for torturing me.
He raises a brow. Runs his strong hand through his shaggy dirty blond hair.
Shrugs his broad shoulders. Those are swimmer's shoulders. He has a swimmer's everything. I've seen him in a Speedo enough times to know—the guys practice a few lanes over.
He's more than a hot body too. He's handsome. Charming. Funny.
Evil.
My head knows better. My head despises the cocky playboy. For calling me sunshine. For taking nothing seriously. For throwing people away.
But my heart?
My body?
It's impossible to get over a guy you see shirtless five times a week. That's a scientific fact.
She paws at his chest.
He shrugs maybe, maybe not.
He's indifferent. Effortless. Aloof.
He has so much female attention he could give or take a knockout in fuck me heels.
That doesn't give a nobody in combat boots much of a chance.
I force myself to look away.
Watch Alan—this is his place—pound his red solo cup. He finishes. Crushes the cup. Watches it fall onto the pristine white carpet.
Drops of brown liquor catch on the fibers.
He shrugs like he doesn't care, but the worry in his eyes betrays him. The jocks around him laugh. Pound their drinks. Whisper some secret.
There are a dozen people here. Half in that circle. The rest on the couch or in the airy, stainless steel kitchen.
Everyone here is casual. Comfortable. Used to parties. To money. To cheap booze in plastic cups.
I…
This is way out of my comfort zone.
My gaze shifts back to Dean.
His eyes lock with mine. He raises his glass. Smiles.
My combat boots tap together. My hands go to my tank top. I play with its edge. Try to figure out what the hell that means.
Dean and I have shared two classes a day, every day, for the last three years.
He spends most of his free time teasing me.
Calling me sunshine.
Mocking how seriously I take art, math, and science.
Mocking my all black clothes, my thermos of tea, my tendency to gush about cartoons.
He turns to Alan. Whispers something.
Alan laughs.
Dean nods hell yeah. "Everybody come here." His playful voice bounces around the room.
Everyone turns his way.
Looks at him.
Hangs on his words.
Dean commands attention, friendship, respect. All he does is smile and a dozen girls fall over themselves trying to claim him.
A dozen guys want to be his friend.
The world is his oyster.
"Why should I listen to anything you say, Maddox?" Alan teases back.
Pretend You're Mine Page 38