Prologue

PROLOGUE

MARY

This is so wrong, but it feels right as he pushes his body against mine. The rain rages and whips against the window like it's trying to close us off from the rest of the world. My brother's best friend. My crush. My sinful desire.

It's warm here, burning, and not because of the heating. It's his hard body pressed against mine, the urgency of his breathing in my ear. Rust never sounds this passionate, this… anything. Rust is dark, broody, and mostly quiet, but now it's like I've woken something in him.

He groans and kisses up my neck, his hard manhood trailing up my inner thigh. It feels so perfect, so right to melt against him and finally feel all the passion I've dreamed of him having. What about Mom—Brad—and all the lessons she taught me?

I grab onto his shoulder, telling myself to push him away. That's the only way I'll ever be able to look in the mirror again. Or at Brad. My brother. My shame. Which is the better motivator? But when the head of his dick brushes against my clit, a jolt of electricity moves through me. Even the thunder strike outside can't distract me.

As usual, Rust says nothing. He just starts stroking himself up and down my folds near my entrance.

"Wait," I say, panicking, knowing I have to say this. I can't let us make this mistake. "Rust… wait."

He leans into me, showing me those dark, intense eyes. He's never looked this unhinged and primal, even in his fights. Even when he's hammering another man with an elbow or a knee or choking him unconscious, his expression is serene, almost absent. Now, he looks obsessed and possessed. His muscles throb as he grips his cock, pushing it against my hole, teasing me, tempting me.

"What if I can't?" he growls. "What then, Mary?"

He keeps stroking, my core getting even wetter as I try to remember all the reasons this is bad. Yet the more he strokes, the better it feels. I've always wanted this: him, Rust, all to myself. My crush. My man.

"You want it as badly as I do," he groans.

"Wait," I whisper, my last-ditch effort. "Rust, I'm a virgin."

He leans away. I can't read his expression. It's always difficult with him. It could be more hunger. Or maybe it's disgust. With me. With himself.

"A virgin," he says, shaking his head. "Goddamn, Mary."