Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,11

another glare. Secretly, though, it’s shit like that that makes you get up at five-thirty every day, jump on the elliptical or into the pool, and fight through the pain. Take the abuse and beg for more. It makes you eat the most disgusting food, drink the most disgusting shakes, and pass on temptation after temptation because there is no universe where I will look Camille in the eye and tell her I gave up. That I’m less than she believes, because they all deserve a brother and a son who believes as well. I deserve that, and so does Genevieve Fox.

She drops her arms and steps back, shaking slightly. Is she cold? The thought makes me tense.

“Tell me about your favorite sibling,” she says. The pretense is gone, replaced with a longing that squeezes my heart.

“I don’t have a favorite,” I say, propping my elbows behind me on the pool deck as I lean against the edge. Her gaze travels over me slowly, covetously. She licks her lips and a spark of awareness fires straight to my groin.

“Come on. Yes you do.” Her grin grows at my smile. “I knew it. Tell me about that one.”

“Fine. You’re going to get me in trouble one day, I can tell.”

“Your secret is safe with me. Pinky swear.” She wades forward, holding out her hand.

“Pinky swear?”

She leans in, looping her little finger around mine. The contact sends a rush of heat through my blood. Her eyes darken with awareness as they lift to my face.

“You’ve never done a pinky swear?”

“Is that what this is?” I ask, gently shaking our connected fingers.

“Yes. It’s a sacred oath.” She tugs our hands until they’re hovering between us. A symbol. An invitation. The simmer becomes a blistering surge. Instinctively, my other four fingers entwine with hers. This time when I pull my arm back to its resting place on the edge of the pool, Genevieve comes with it. The heat of her registers first. Then the softness. Then… my lungs suck in a heavy breath. Her other hand brushes over my stomach, climbing slowly. Exploring. Her gaze locks on the path of her palm, hungry and fascinated.

“Her name is Camille,” I force out. My voice is strained now, and her fingers sink into my chest.

“That’s beautiful.” Her tone is pained as well, and I search her face. Is the longing for me or for family? Both, I think. She’s an intoxicating blend of fire and sadness right now. “Tell me about her,” she says. Her hand moves again, torching my skin wherever it touches. Up my shoulder, over my neck—streaks of flames. Her fingers snake into my hair and lock in a gentle grip.

I hiss in a breath when she tugs and forces us closer. Her body, magnetized and imploring, strokes mine in all the right places. Her chest lifts in shallow pants, her eyes wide and beseeching. There was a question in all of this. I vaguely remember a conversation that started innocently enough. She releases my hand to slide her fingers along my jaw, her gaze locked on my lips. Her other hand clenches harder in my hair. I’m granite now, rigid with anticipation and need. My focus drops to the swell of her breasts pillowed against my stomach, nearly exposed. Suddenly, she surges from the water, locking her legs around my waist and clinging to me. Her hips hook into mine and slide against my erection. Her sigh—completely paralyzing. I can’t move, can’t look away, can’t breathe, as she opens up in a direct invitation. She shifts further into alignment, digging her hips deeper against me. I breathe in her scent, overwhelming as I tighten my grip on her thighs to hold her in place. She’s light. Delicate, but firm at the same time. She must work on her body as much as I do.

“I have to be what they want.”

Her confession gnaws at me. Drives an angry wedge between everything I instinctively feel about her and my conscience. How can I ever know what’s real? How can I show her I want more than the show she puts on for everyone else? That I’m more.

I force one of my hands away from her incredible body. Letting her go is like yanking free from an industrial suction. My hands clearly don’t agree with my brain on this, but every second I stare into her gorgeous face, I know—I know—if this were Camille or Lea or Zoe, if they were hurting and desperate, I’d