God of Fury (Legacy of Gods #5) by Rina Kent

His blunt nails dig into my shoulders and I can feel them through the jacket. He’s definitely not doing this to hold on to me.

“One more reason not to do it.” He sounds strained, battling against the anger rolling off him in waves.

Did I mention that I love pushing his buttons?

“What if I tell you no one but you has been on my bike?”

“You just said Simon wrapped his arms around you.”

“I was messing with you.”

“Fuck you.”

I hit the brakes for a bit and he slams further into my back. This time, he wraps his arms around my waist, fingers interlacing at my abs.

I could get used to this.

Just when I’m considering delaying the trip home, the floodgates open and rain pours down, and we’re drenched in seconds.

“Fucking UK weather, am I right?” I shout.

I can feel the rumble of his chest against my back, but he speaks evenly. “It is what it is.”

“Take it or leave it, huh?” I ask, and I’m not sure if it’s about the weather anymore.

“I guess,” he says quietly.

I get us to the building and park my bike in the underground parking lot, then hop off and remove my helmet.

Thankfully, I didn’t get my hair wet. The rest of me is another story, though.

My movements come to a halt when I’m slammed by the most erotic view.

Bran’s white T-shirt has turned transparent, sticking to his muscles and flashing his nipples in a striptease show. My dick twitches and I have to look up so I don’t get an unwanted and entirely embarrassing erection.

I’m trying to prove a point, damn it.

Be cold.

Stay cool.

Don’t fucking give in.

“This is a bit inconvenient,” Bran mutters as he tries to unhook the strap at his chin.

I push his hand away and do it for him, then remove the helmet.

“I could’ve done it myself,” he grumbles

“Or you could say thank you.”

“Thanks.”

Fuck me.

I’m not used to this docile part of him. Yes, he’s polite and shit, but he’s being extra careful today.

Almost as if he’s walking on eggshells.

He glances at me and his eyes widen as they focus on my neck, probably on the Band-Aid there.

My gaze follows his hand as he reaches toward it, but then he fists it and jams it in his pocket. “Is that really okay?”

“Don’t pretend that you care.”

A frown appears between his brows. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why would you?”

“Think what you will of me, but I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“If that were true, you would’ve visited me at the hospital.”

“I did—” He cuts himself off and looks away. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. Look at me.”

He slowly does, and an uncharacteristic sheen of pain covers his face.

“You visited? How come I never saw you?”

“You were sleeping.” He rubs the back of his head. “I managed to sneak past Jeremy and Gareth when they were speaking to the doctor. But I had to leave soon after since Lan came looking for me and was about to start more drama.”

So he was there.

I wasn’t imagining him sitting beside me and stroking my hair.

Is that tidbit supposed to make me feel this fucking giddy?

Cold. You have to be cold or this won’t work.

I head to the elevator, not waiting to see if he follows. He does, trudging behind me. The trip is spent in suffocating silence aside from the sound of water dripping from our clothes onto the floor.

Or my struggle to stop myself from ogling his transparent shirt.

A part of me wants to corner him and feast on his lips, take my fill for the weeks he’s been out of my life.

That’s a lie.

Since I first saw him, he’s never been out of my life. Not really.

I have to hold myself back and not touch him, not fall first this time, because if I do, I’ll just slip back into the pattern I ended things for.

This time, it’ll be different.

The elevator dings and I stroll inside the penthouse. Behind me, I can sense Bran watching the space as if relearning it or searching for something he left.

I go into the bedroom and come back with towels and a change of clothes.

He nods and clears his throat as if chasing away something stuck there. “Thanks.”

I say nothing as I walk back into the bedroom, strip down, dry myself, and then put on shorts.

Forget about the shirt. I don’t like them and I won’t pretend to now.

When I return to the living room, I find Bran has also changed into the gray shorts and white T-shirt I gave him. They’re loose and unflattering, but he’d look annoyingly hot in a potato sack.

Also, I really, really love seeing him in my clothes. I have to look away because I’m starting to get hard at the view.

He’s putting his things in the washing machine and calls out, “Nikolai, bring your wet clothes when you’re finished.”

Even though I’m already here, I go back and get everything I left on the bathroom floor.

There’s no other way to describe the look he gives me other than snobbish disregard.

“You couldn’t put them in something? They’re dripping all over the place.”