My Playboy Crush: A Brother's Best Friend Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Bruin

  Jillian

  My Playboy Crush

  A Brother’s Best Friend Romance

  Katerina Cole

  Head Over Heels Press

  Copyright © 2017 by Katerina Cole

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Bruin

  2. Jillian

  3. Bruin

  4. Jillian

  5. Bruin

  6. Jillian

  7. Bruin

  8. Jillian

  9. Bruin

  10. Jillian

  11. Bruin

  12. Jillian

  13. Bruin

  14. Jillian

  15. Bruin

  16. Jillian

  17. Bruin

  18. Jillian

  19. Bruin

  20. Jillian

  21. Bruin

  22. Jillian

  23. Bruin

  24. Jillian

  25. Bruin

  26. Jillian

  27. Bruin

  28. Jillian

  29. Bruin

  Epilogue

  One

  Bruin

  The taste of salt in the South Floridian air mixed with the taste of top-shelf whisky on my tongue as I leaned back against the bar, surveying the scene. No matter how often I visited or how long I stayed, the smell of the sea and the sound of the waters lapping up against the wooden boardwalk under my feet never got old, whether the sun was glaring down and browning my skin or the moon was lighting up a shining path across the waters, like it was tonight.

  It was a dockside bar, one I’d been to more than a few times on my business trips to Ft. Lauderdale. If I were local, I’d be a regular, and the bartender knew me as well as she could know anyone without knowing their name. I preferred it that way. It was important to have places like this bar—places where a man could slip out of the high-stakes world of business and lose himself in a world of rum, whisky, music, and women. Most men either let the stress of this life eat them alive, or they got lost in all the pleasures it brought them.

  Not me. I was stronger.

  “Another, sir?” I heard to my right from behind the bar.

  The bartender had appeared the moment I set my empty glass down, and I saw she already had another Old Fashioned ready for me, the cherry and orange looking like they’d fallen straight out of the grove. She’d been waiting on me hand and foot since I walked in, because she knew that I treated my servers right.

  She’d also had her eyes on me for another reason, but I didn’t like to mix that kind of pleasure with business.

  I gave her the slightest nod and a crack of a smile, and she returned one twice as wide as she walked away, her hips swaying just enough to make me think about her a little longer.

  To her credit, she was subtle. More subtle than most of the women here. She waited until she thought I wasn’t looking to let her eyes drift to my thick calves that my tight-fitting shorts exposed. When I had my back to her, I could feel her eyes on my ass, traveling up to the rippling muscles of my back that were just barely hidden by my white button-down. It was unbuttoned to the bottom of my pecs, and its sleeves were rolled up to my elbows.

  Every part of me that I showed off was measured.

  I didn’t need to tell anyone how much time I spent in the gym, working my body to perfection. When I did something as simple as picking up the new drink and giving her a subtle nod, I did so with total control over my body, every move of my thick muscles measured. It had an effect on people.

  I wasn’t so vain that I’d ask, but I thought that it had something to do with my gaze. Nobody had to tell me that I had a natural, commanding air about me. I knew it by everyone’s demeanor.

  And in a bar like this, people showed it in ways that were as subtle as a fireworks display.

  A table at the far end of the bar had about five young women at it, and the moment my gaze went to them, all but one of them looked away, hiding smiles and chatting to each other as if they hadn’t been sizing me up a moment ago. They wore designer swimwear, a couple of them wearing bikinis from brands that I knew to be more valuable than some of the top-shelf liquor here. Perfect hair, perfect makeup, designer shoes, and a couple of them in short shorts that hugged impeccably toned asses.

  But they were young—probably freshmen college students at Nova out on their first night, still riding that first high of having their way with their daddies’ credit cards away from their hometowns. I was impressed that one of them was still looking at me, making eye contact. She had dark skin and short hair, and her dark eyes told me she knew exactly what she wanted out of life.

  Part of my job was to recognize potential, and she was brimming with it. I could tell.

  But she was too young for me. I was thirty, and I always thought that men my age going after women that age were playing in a shallow pond they were too big for.

  Our eye contact lasted about half a second before I smiled and looked elsewhere, shutting her down subtly. I could tell she was going places in life, but my bedroom wasn’t going to be one of them. There were plenty of local young men who could oblige her.

  My eyes moved across the room and held attention as though my gaze was my physical presence. I passed over a group of medical students that I could recognize by the tight-bound hair and the stress that radiated off them. I enjoyed relieving that stress, sometimes, but not tonight. Maybe it was the whisky putting me in just the right headspace, but I wanted something I’d remember.

  That didn’t happen often, though.

  The sound of awkward laughter I could barely hear through the music drew my attention to the bar to my left. I knew that kind of laugh.

  There was a woman leaning against the bar that my eyes drank in immediately. She had olive skin and legs so long she could probably lean over the bar and show off that ass she had, rounder than any I’d seen tonight. Curly black hair spilled down past her shoulders, dancing just below the straps of a black bikini top. Her face in profile showed full lips and smoldering eyes.

  She was talking to a man that was a few years younger than her, probably more in league with the freshmen girls, and she clearly wasn’t interested. The guy was broad-shouldered and had the look of an athlete about him—strong, but untested.

  I got the bartender’s attention with a glance, and she made her way over to me. I nodded to the brunette. “Vodka cranberry for her. Let her know it’s from me.”

  The bartender gave me a tight, knowing smile, but she obeyed. She always did. I’d have to thank her for her service one of these days, or at least set her up with a colleague of mine she’d appreciate.

  I watched the drink go to the mystery girl, who looked surprised, but not as surprised as the guy. The girl looked back to me, and those eyes of hers lit up with a spark of interest. She paused for a moment, but I watched a smile play across her face before she turned to the guy to say something. I could read her lips well enough to know she was saying something to the effect of “. . . my friend over there,” pointing to me, and she gave the unsuccessful man a slight wave before making her way over to me.

  The guy glared at me for a moment, sizing me up, but the look I gave him put him in his place. It was close to closing time, but at least he wasn’t drunk enough to think he could start trouble over what I’d done.

  “Thanks for that,”
the girl said as she took her place at my side, leaning against the bar and taking a sip of the drink. She let her eyes do a little drinking of their own. “How did you know I like vodka?” she asked.

  “Lucky guess,” I admitted with a smile. I arched an eyebrow at her. “That accent of yours. Greek, isn’t it?”

  She brightened a little, genuinely surprised. “Wow, I’m impressed. You’re the first one to guess it right. I’ve been listening to guys ask if I’m Russian all night.”

  “That one wasn’t a guess,” I said, still not turning my body to face her. I was still sizing this one up, after all. “I’ve had business there a few times. But wait, Russian? Really?”

  “I know, right?” she said with a laugh, rolling her eyes.

  “So, what brings you all the way to Florida?” I asked. “Law school?”

  She blushed, giggling. “Flattering, but I’m out celebrating a job with a couple of my friends. We just got hired as servers at one of the five-star resorts around here.” She pointed across the open-air bar to the rows upon rows of glittering high-rises that loomed over the beach. “That one’s me,” she said with a smile, knowing there was no way to make out individual hotels here.

  I laughed, leaning into her and pretending to look where she was pointing. “Ahh, yes, that’s a nice one.” She giggled and bumped her hips into me, and I held up my drink to her. “But I think congratulations are in order.”

  “I think so too,” she said with a little pride I admired, clinking glasses with me as we drank.

  “Where are your friends?” I asked, looking around the bar. She rolled her eyes and pointed to a couple of men in short-shorts who had their hands in each other’s back pockets, clearly flirting with each other.

  “They’re here, just a little distracted,” she said, leaning into me and smiling. “I’m feeling...what do you call it, ‘third wheel syndrome’?”

  I laughed, sliding my hand around her waist and feeling the soft give of her hips, drawing them into me. She put up no resistance, her eyes lidded as she looked up at me. “Close enough,” I said in a low tone, “but spending the night as a third wheel is no way to celebrate a new job.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, her eyes sparkling hopefully up at me. “What do you suggest?”

  My smile grew more meaningful, and I reached down to brush a little curly hair away from her ear to whisper into it in a husky tone. “I think we should fix that,” my voice rumbled softly, and I felt her shiver, her smile growing. “And give you a taste of something you deserve.”

  She didn’t need much more encouragement. They never did. She quickly finished off her drink and set it on the bar, and I took out a wad of cash that I placed next to it, nodding to the bartender.

  The Greek girl’s eyes widened at the hundreds I just put down. Before I could let her ask questions, I tugged her along with me, my hand still on her waist.

  “The extra is taxi fare for her friends,” I told the bartender, nodding to the two men who were too wrapped up in each other to notice me and the girl. She nodded, and the girl smiled up at me as I led her away.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” she said.

  “No, but you’re all celebrating,” I said as we made our way out of the bar and started walking down the docks. “Besides,” I added, “you might be late for work tomorrow.”

  She giggled, and there was a pause as though she was trying to come up with something clever to say back, but that just turned into more laughter as her hand ran up the back of my shirt, feeling my rippling muscles. She’d had more than enough to drink, and by the way I was swaying on my way out, I could tell that I had too. That didn’t matter. My mind was swimming with the thoughts of this woman’s legs around my hips, my thick cock thrusting up into her against the wall of my suite before I put her on her knees on my bed and had her crying out for more until we were both slick with her honey and panting on the bed.

  “My place is on the docks, though,” I said in a husky whisper, “so we can take all the time we need.”

  “You’re very kind, Mister…” she trailed off, waiting for my name.

  “Tonight,” I said, “you can just call me ‘sir’.”

  Two

  Jillian

  God, it was so damn hot.

  I fanned myself with the manila folder in my hands, sighing heavily as I looked out the tinted window of the black Mercedes Benz, silently wishing the chauffeur would turn the air conditioning on just a notch higher.

  I glanced through the partition and noted that it could, in fact, go up one more level if I asked. I bit my lip. Sure, I was used to getting what I wanted. I had money, means, and moxy. I wasn’t afraid to stand up and stand out, and when something needed to be done, I was always the first one rushing to do it. But sometimes I still hated feeling like I was asking too much of people. Especially since my driver, who was a Florida local, didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the incredible heat. He was happily humming to himself, a tune I vaguely recognized. Probably a Jimmy Buffett song.

  The folks around here were all about that chilled-out, Hawaiian-shirt aesthetic. For someone from around here, the temperature today probably did feel pretty pleasant. Eighty degrees is downright chilly if you’re used to one-hundred-and-ten in the summer months.

  So I decided to keep my annoyance to myself, but I did make a mental note to wear something a little less fallish tomorrow. This wasn’t New York or Martha’s Vineyard. This was not the Hamptons. This was Fort Lauderdale and yes, even in November, it was still hotter than any place had a right to be.

  Of course, it was sometimes difficult to keep tabs on what the weather and climate would be like on any given day. I traveled so frequently—well, more like constantly—that as soon as I started to feel comfortable and at home in one time zone, I was on back on the tarmac, jetting off to the next ritzy locale.

  Last week, I had spent a few days off the coast of Washington state, chatting up some wealthy Seattleites who were retiring and planning to head down the California coast. Their plan was to pass their booming, wildly successful tech company to their children and retire in San Francisco, take up yachting as their new hobby and lifestyle. Because that’s what it was: a lifestyle. At least, that was what I told all my clients.

  Buying a yacht is a uniquely life-changing event, I would tell them, because a yacht isn’t just some toy you can toss in a garage and let collect dust. A yacht is not a Ferrari. A yacht is not a tennis court. The loaded retiree I spoke to in Washington had scoffed at first, responding that he had been on a friend’s yacht before and while it was enjoyable, it certainly wasn’t the life-altering experience I was trying to sell him on.

  I loved when a client tried to challenge me on my sales pitch. It made my heart race, made the adrenaline start pumping. It was the thrill of the chase, the dramatic but subtle to-and-fro, back-and-forth of the sale. It was my job to paint a beautiful, irresistible portrait for my clients, promise them heaven and actually deliver. So I explained to him in elaborate, eloquent detail, how it was a different experience when it was your yacht. When you were the one at the helm, deciding how far to sail and how long to drift. When you chose which champagnes to stock, what manner of bartender to hire, what music to play. Buying a yacht was a game of infinite choices and customizability. For a bored, spoiled retiree who was very accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted when he wanted and where, it was a gold mine. A honey trap. All I had to do was prove to him how many expensive, detailed choices he would get to make over the course of the purchasing process, and he was hooked.

  I had to admit, I was pretty damn good at my job.

  “Oh, right up here is fine, thank you,” I told the driver, leaning forward slightly.

  “To the curb, ma’am?” he asked.

  I nodded and smiled at his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yes, perfect.”

  “Very good, ma’am. And when would you prefer to be picked up?”

  I thought about it a moment.
How long would this sale take? I had been sent here on a very important and unusually personal mission: to stake out and purchase a yacht for a client I knew better than anyone else in the world. My older brother, Jeff. It was strange, being on location not to sell a yacht, but to buy one. It wasn’t unheard of for me to play customer, of course. As a broker, it was my job to inspect and buy products and designs for our growing portfolio. But this time, I needed to find the perfect ship. Family was everything to me, and my brother was no exception.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I confessed to the driver. “I will be in touch when I have a better idea of how the day will go.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  The black Benz rolled to a stop at the curb outside a ritzy-looking coffee shop on the boardwalk and the chauffeur hopped up to come around and open the door for me. I took his hand as he helped me out and I nearly gasped at the oppressive heat bearing down on me. I had to fight the urge to swear at the sun. Too hot. Way too hot.

  “Have a wonderful day, ma’am,” said the chauffeur. I gave him a hasty smile and nodded.

  “You, too,” I said.

  He got back behind the wheel and drove off, leaving me melting on the sidewalk with my manila folder and my designer work bag. I pulled my aviators out of my bag and slid them on, looking around at my options. I needed a quiet, cool place to sit and look over my notes. And some iced coffee wouldn’t hurt, either.

  I was a shameless caffeine addict. I’d already had a mug and a half of terrible hotel room coffee before the driver even arrived to pick me up this morning. But with my job, my chemical dependency could hardly be held against me. With the way I hopped back and forth between wildly varying time zones, it made perfect sense that I didn’t sleep much. I was in a constant state of adjustment, either jetlagged or wired or both at any given time. And it was vital to my success that my clients would see me as confident and competent. That meant I needed to be on my A-game all the time, no matter how exhausted or loopy I really felt.