Penelope's POV
The morning after everything blows up should feel heavier.
But waking up tangled in Andrew's sheets, his hand wrapped tight around my waist, lips brushing my shoulder like I'm something precious makes the chaos feel… quiet.
At least for now.
I roll over slowly, studying the man who ruined my rules and rebuilt my world in the same breath.
He's already awake. Eyes on me. Voice low.
"Good morning, trouble."
I smirk. "You calling me that like it's not your fault."
"It is," he murmurs. "And I'd do it all again."
His hand slides under the covers, lazy but deliberate, his fingertips grazing the dip of my back, slipping lower.
I bite back a moan. "We really shouldn't…"
"Why not?" His voice dips, sinful. "Nick already hates me."
"Yeah, but I don't need him walking in and murdering you in your own bed."
"Worth it."
Before I can respond, he flips me underneath him, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that's all teeth and heat and possessive fire. His hands are everywhere on my body rough, demanding, unforgiving in the best way.
We don't make it to breakfast, or lunch.
Because every time I try to leave, he pulls me back in his bed with his mouth, his fingers, or his words.
Like he's starving.
Like he's mine.
And God, I let him be.
Later that Evening
He drives me home.
It's windy and dark out. And I'm wearing the oversized flannel he gave me with nothing underneath except the black lace panties I definitely didn't plan on him seeing. Again.
His hand rests on my bare thigh as he drives, his thumb circling slowly, lazily. Teasing me.
"I still owe you for this morning," he murmurs.
"Oh?" I say, pretending to play innocent.
He slides his fingers a little higher. "Don't think I forgot how you begged when I... "
"Andrew."
"What?"
"We're in your truck."
"Exactly."
My stomach flips. "You're not serious."
"Oh, I'm dead serious."
He pulls into a dark back road off the main street–the kind where no one ever drives by unless they're lost or up to no good.
He parks. Turns the engine off. The silence is loud.
Then he turns to me, eyes dark, voice dangerous.
"Climb on me."
My breath catches. "Right now?"
He leans in, lips brushing mine. "You scared?"
"No."
"Then prove it."
I don't even hesitate.
I move over, straddling him in the driver's seat, the gear shift digging into my hip, I grab his face and kiss him like I've got something to prove because maybe I do. Maybe I want him to know I'm just as reckless. Just as in this.
His hands grip my hips hard. Guiding me, grinding me.
The truck fogs up within seconds.
My moans fill the space between us, sweet and messy.
The windows drip with condensation. The seat creaks with our every movement, I cry out his name from my lips like a broken prayer as I lose myself in him, again and again riding him.
Afterward, breathless and flushed, I rest my head on his chest.
His heartbeat's a drum under my cheek. Wild and steady.
He gently strokes my hair.
"I've never had this before," he says softly.
I lift my head. "What? Sex in a truck?"
"No." He smiles a little. "You. Us. The real thing."
And just like that, I melt again in his arms but this time, it's not from his hands.
It's from his honesty.
****
Andrew's POV
She's falling asleep on me, wrapped in flannel, eyes fluttering shut, mouth slightly parted.
And I realize something brutal.
I'm not just in love with Penelope Cole.
I'm addicted to her.
Every kiss. Every argument. Every moment she bites her lip to stop a laugh or stares at me like I'm more than I've ever been.
She's it.
And the anyone who tries to come between us?
Brother or not, I'll burn that bridge myself.