Craving My Brother’s Friend

Amira I should have stayed home tonight. Should have buried myself in tort law textbooks instead of letting Zayne drag me to this ridiculously extravagant charity gala. But here I am, wearing a black silk dress that costs more than most people's rent, trying to pretend I belong among Manhattan's elite. The Romano estate glitters like something out of a fairy tale. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across marble floors, and the city's most powerful people sip champagne worth more than my tuition. I hate these events, all fake smiles and hollow conversations about tax write-offs disguised as generosity. "Amira, you look stunning tonight," Mrs. Whitman gushes, air-kissing my cheeks. Her Botox makes it impossible to tell if she's actually smiling. "Law school must be treating you well." "Thank you," I reply politely, though I'd rather be anywhere else. These people see me as Zayne's little sister, the Romano princess playing dress-up in the adult world. They have no idea what I'm really capable of. I'm scanning the room for an escape route when the energy shifts. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Heads turn toward the grand entrance like sunflowers following the sun. Even the waitstaff seems to freeze. That's when I see him. Khalil Blake. My breath catches in my throat. He's changed, God, how he's changed. Gone is the charming boy who used to ruffle my hair and steal cookies from our kitchen. This man is a force of nature wrapped in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. His dark hair is shorter now, styled with precision. His jaw is sharper, more defined. But it's his eyes that stop me cold, those deep brown eyes I remember so well are now guarded, calculating. Dangerous. He moves through the crowd like a predator, all controlled power and barely leashed intensity. Women stare. Men step aside. He doesn't seem to notice or care about the attention. Five years. Five years since he vanished without a word, leaving behind only whispers about family scandals and business deals gone wrong. Five years since I was sixteen and foolishly thought my crush on my brother's best friend was the deepest emotion I'd ever feel. I was so wrong. "Holy s**t," I breathe, then immediately regret the words when Mrs. Whitman gasps beside me. Khalil's gaze sweeps the room and lands on me. For a moment, the world stops. His eyes widened slightly, surprise, maybe recognition. Then his expression hardens into something unreadable. He starts walking toward me, and my heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I want to run. I want to stay. I want to slap him and kiss him and demand answers all at once. "Amira Romano," he says when he reaches me, his voice deeper than I remember. Rougher. "You've grown up." The way he says it, like he's surprised, like he's seeing something he shouldn't makes heat spread through my chest. "Khalil Blake," I reply, lifting my chin. "You haven't." His mouth quirks at one corner. Almost a smile. "Still sharp-tongued, I see." "Still arrogant, I see." We stare at each other while the party swirls around us. The air between us crackles with something I don't want to name. "Excuse me," I say finally, needing distance before I do something stupid. I turn to walk away, but his voice stops me. "Running away, little Romano?" The childhood nickname hits me like a slap. I whirl around, fury blazing through my veins. "Don't call me that." "Why not? Still fits." "I'm not little anymore." His eyes sweep over me, slow and deliberate. When they meet mine again, they're dark with something that makes my stomach flip. "No," he says quietly. "You're definitely not." The way he looks at me, like he's seeing me for the first time, like he wants to devour me, makes my skin burn. This is dangerous territory. Forbidden territory. "I need some air," I mutter, pushing through the crowd toward the back of the house. I don't realize he's following me until I'm in the wine cellar, surrounded by ancient bottles and blessed silence. The cool air against my heated skin is a relief. "Did I say you could follow me down here?" He leans against the doorframe, blocking my exit. "Since when do I need your permission for anything?" "Since you disappeared for five years without a word," I snapped. "You don't get to waltz back in here and pick up where you left off." "Where I left off?" He steps closer, and I catch his scent, expensive cologne and something uniquely him that makes my head spin. "And where exactly was that, Amira?" "Treating me like a child. Like Zayne's annoying little sister who didn't matter enough to say goodbye to." Something flickers across his face. Pain, maybe. "You think that's what you were to me?" "I don't think so. I know." I cross my arms, trying to create some barrier between us. "You never saw me as anything more than an inconvenience." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Jesus, Amira. You have no idea." "Then enlighten me." He runs a hand through his hair, and for a moment, he looks like the boy I used to know. Lost. Vulnerable. Then the mask slips back into place. "You want to know why I left? Why couldn't I say goodbye?" He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Because you were sixteen and beautiful and looking at me like I hung the f*****g moon, and I was twenty-seven and wanted you so badly it scared the hell out of me." The words hit me like a physical blow. My mouth falls open. "I had to leave," he continues, his voice rough with emotion. "Because if I'd stayed, I would have done something we'd both regret. Something that would have destroyed my friendship with your brother and ruined you in the process." "You don't get to decide what would ruin me," I whisper. "Don't I?" He reaches out, almost touches my face, then drops his hand. "You were innocent. Pure. Everything I'm not." "And what am I now?" His eyes search mine. "I don't know. That's what terrifies me." We're standing so close I can count his eyelashes. The air between us is charged, electric. One of us needs to step back, needs to be the voice of reason. Neither of us moves. "You still think you know what's best for me?" I challenge myself. "I think I'm the last thing you need in your life." "What if I disagree?" "Then you're making a mistake." "Maybe I like making mistakes." He closes his eyes briefly, like he's in pain. When he opens them, they're filled with something that makes my knees weak. "Amira," he warns. "What? Scared you can't control yourself around Zayne's little sister?" That does it. His control snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. His hands cup my face, fingers threading through my hair. "You want to play with fire?" he growls. "Let's see how much heat you can handle." His mouth crashes against mine, and the world explodes. This isn't gentle or sweet, it's desperate, hungry, five years of want and denial poured into one kiss. His lips are demanding, claiming, and I meet him match for match. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more contact. He tastes like champagne and danger and everything I've ever wanted. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I moan into his mouth. He responds by pressing me back against the wine rack, his body caging me in. This is madness. This is wrong. This is everything I've dreamed about since I was old enough to understand what desire meant. His hands slide down to my waist, gripping tight enough to leave marks. I arch against him, and he groans deep in his throat. The sound makes a liquid heat pool in my belly. "f**k," he breathes against my lips. "We can't.." "Yes, we can," I whisper back, nipping at his bottom lip. He kisses me again, harder this time, like he's trying to consume me. I let him. God help me, I want him to. We break apart, both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed tight. "This is insane," he whispers. "I know." "Your brother will kill me." "I know." "We should stop." "I know." But neither of us moves to step away. We stay frozen in this moment, this bubble where nothing exists except the thundering of our hearts and the taste of forbidden desire on our lips. Then I hear it, the soft creak of the cellar door opening above us. Footsteps on the stairs. "Amira? Are you down there?" Zayne's voice cuts through the haze like a knife. Khalil and I spring apart, but it's too late. My brother appears at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes taking in our flushed faces, our disheveled appearance, the guilty distance we've put between ourselves. His gaze moves from me to Khalil, and I watch his expression shift from confusion to understanding to pure, murderous rage. "What the hell is going on here?”