Free The Hierarchy of Needs (The Portland Rebels #2) by Rebecca Grace Allen

them feel less like the gods they think they are.”
    There was more she was covering up, something other than sibling rivalry, but he couldn’t get a handle on what it was.
    “Are you just gonna stand there?” She patted the spot next to her. “Sit.”
    She lowered her legs and scooted over so he could join her. Dean held himself still, tension like a live wire inside him. It was as if every bone, every fiber in his body was dragging him forward, a magnet being pulled toward true north.
    It wasn’t a good idea, not only because she’d been drinking. It was because he felt it again—that fuse that always simmered beneath the surface between them, waiting for a spark.
    It was a dangerous feeling. Dean didn’t know if he had the power to resist it.
    He sat down anyway. Jamie turned to face him, one elbow balanced on top of the seat cushion, her hand propping up her head. The motion put the soft, full curve of her breast into full view.
    Dean clenched his jaw and clasped his hands together on his lap.
    “Thank you for helping out today,” she said.
    “No problem. I had fun.” His mouth went dry. He swallowed. “Thank you for hiring me.”
    She grinned, her eyes drifting closed for a second, and Dean jumped at the chance to take her in. The rounded apples of her cheeks. Her neck and collarbones and the flat of her stomach. Her legs, curled up and pressed together beneath her.
    He wondered if she still tasted the same.
    “I didn’t hire you, silly. I bribed you with food and beer, which I hope you enjoyed.”
    He didn’t answer, too distracted when she turned to the side and toed off her heels, then got back into the same position. She’d moved closer to him while she did it, or maybe he’d been the one to move, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he could feel the heat radiating off her, her body so close, all that gorgeous hair tumbling down over her shoulders.
    He had to tighten his clasped fingers to the point of pain to stop himself from touching her. God, when had he started wanting her this badly?
    His voice came out gritty when he said, “I had a good time anyway.”
    “I’m glad.” Her eyes fell on his collar. “You look good in a suit.”
    Dean’s pulse ratcheted up to full throttle. She brought a hand up to trace the edge of his neckline. Soft fingers stroked his neck.
    He hissed in a breath. “Jamie.”
    It came out sounding like he was trying to stop her, like he realized what was about to happen and the mistake they were about to make all over again. A war raged between his head and his body, between the right thing to do and what he wanted, but Dean’s ability to reason was hanging by a thread, and he couldn’t make himself sure this was a mistake anymore.
    She shook her head. “Don’t talk.” Pulling him to her, she whispered, “Just don’t talk.”
    Then she was kissing him, her mouth open and hot and hungry. She nudged his hands apart and crawled onto his lap, the warm weight of her legs on either side of him. Dean lost the battle he’d been fighting, giving in to everything he’d been wanting.
    Wanting until he was taking.
    He grabbed her by the hips and settled her more firmly over his lap. She groaned, and the sound went straight down his spine. Dean thrust against her, one quick lift that had him hard in seconds. His breathing grew heavy, breaths panted out through his nose until he was lightheaded, but he’d be damned if he stopped kissing her even for a second. He could live without air if it meant he could slide his tongue along hers, teasing dips into her mouth that had her grinding down on him like she couldn’t get enough.
    He sure as hell knew he couldn’t.
    She came up for air first, pulling back and working his shirt buttons with shaky hands. Two of them open and she fisted his collar, ripping it to one side to graze her teeth along his neck.
    “Christ, Jamie.”
    She nipped and sucked the spot where his neck met his shoulder—Jesus fuck, he couldn’t believe