Spring In Her Step: BWWM Stepbrother Romance

Chapter Three

I stand in front of the designated apartment door, heart in my throat, debating whether I should knock. I hear a muffled voice from inside. Male. Very male. The sound like an arrow to my belly, causing a fleet of winged insects to scatter in every direction, only to regroup in my chest.

Noah.

It's not the voice I remember but somehow, I know it's his. Deep. Resonant. Then I hear another voice. Female.

Higher-pitched but husky, oozing familiarity in a way that makes my skin prickle with discomfort.

Instinctively, I start to leave, deciding to just bite the bullet and go home to my uncle. But just as I turn away, the door abruptly swings open. My startled heart jumps and I jerk backward, losing my balance on my crutches as the plaster cast weighs down my leg. But almost immediately, large hands grip me by my shoulders as my crutches clatter to the floor, strong fingers digging into my skin, steadying me. Saving me from another dangerous tumble. Instinctively, my fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt, bunching the soft cotton as I cling to his chest, cage between his arms.

Really toned, muscular arms.

Holy shit...

I stare up at him, my heart playing bass drum solos against my ribcage. This can't be the same Noah I knew. The one who used to make my skin vibrate just by walking into a room. Whose very presence was the only antidepressant I ever needed as a lovestruck teenager.

This man before me is like a mythical creature—one I maybe caught glimpses of in the shadowy recesses of my fantasies, but never really believed could be flesh and bone. He's broader, more brawny, with bulging biceps and a chiseled torso that have no business looking so edible through the thin fabric of his shirt. Gone are the wiry muscles and sleek lines I was so well-acquainted with. Now it's all brawny sinew and hard, unforgiving planes that ooze nothing but blatant masculinity.

Seventeen-year-old Noah had a 'body'.

Present-day Noah has a fucking 'bawdy'.

His jawline seems sharper somehow, carved from granite and ringing with authority. Thicker stubble shrouds his mouth, those full lips I used to spend countless hours daydreaming about. Still smooth. Still inviting. There's a ruggedness to them now, hinting at experiences and cravings I never got to explore with the pretty boy version of him. Experiences I tell myself I don't want any part of, even as my body insists otherwise.

His amber eyes flash hot, mirroring my own shock. Seeing him again is...nothing short of overwhelming.

Even his stance is completely foreign—shoulders squared and weight balanced like he's ready to bulldoze through any obstacle. So different from the casually cocky lean of his youth.

But then a voice breaks the spell, shattering the moment. As if snapping out of a trance, he releases me as a woman comes up behind him, clearly a fellow graduate student given her casual attire of leggings and an oversized university hoodie. Her bare feet pad against the hardwood. Lithe and lean, with an edgy, platinum blonde pixie cut and eyes the color of rich honey. She silently acknowledges me with a pretty smile...before pressing it to Noah's lips.

"See you later," she purrs, casting me a sidelong glance laced with subtle curiosity.

There couldn't be a clearer indication.

They're fucking.

Emotion burns through me at the sight, raw and fierce, deciding in that moment that this was a mistake. A big, terrible mistake. And even though I've lost count of how many times I've imagined meeting him again, how many times I wished hopelessly to see his face in person, not a single iteration included me being more than ready to flee the scene. Feeling my veins singe with the very emotion that haunted my uncle when Noah's mother divorced him.