Brooklyn James is at it again.

This time with the usual tall blonde, hair halfway to her hips and brushing the bare skin exposed by her halter top.

I can’t see her face, but I really don’t have to. I’m sure she’s beautiful in that cold, neutral way Brooklyn prefers.

Perfect features.

Blank expression.

A fame seeker.

One hundred percent fake.

Every week he says he’s done with that kind of woman, and yet he keeps bringing them home.

Through the window beside my front door, I watch as he backs her toward my large, comfy chair until her ass settles against it. His mouth never leaving hers, he moves between her legs.

Crap.

He’d better be taking her upstairs, and soon.

I can’t take the “Oh God, Brooklyn, that’s it. That’s it” that I’ve been hearing for the past six weeks.

The same six weeks I’ve been home in my bed every night, alone.

Without thought, my gaze lands back on the window. In the few seconds I looked away, Brooklyn has turned his blonde so that her hands are flat on the back of the chair.

Control issues like his brother?

Perhaps.

Just as I’m about to put the key in the front door, I start to wonder, what else do they have in common? Is his brother just like him? Or worse, what if he is just like his brother?

A strange feeling washes through me.

One I’m not accustomed to.

I sigh, feeling like my skin is too tight. Like my emotions are swooshing in green slime. Yes, green slime, because for some reason the thought of Keen being like Brooklyn isn’t one I want to even consider.

In fact, the thought of Keen with any other woman burns like fire as it races through my mind.

What the hell?

No I’m not, I can’t possibly be feeling this emotion. It’s crazy. Preposterous. Insane. Yet, as soon as I look again into the living room and see Brooklyn leading his blonde toward the stairs, I know I am feeling this way.

Possessive.

Jealous.

And so unlike me.

Makayla’s words come crashing back to me: “Keen’s the male version of you.”

Oh, God.

I want the anger back; it was so much easier to deal with.

The thought that he is going to do to me what I have done to so many guys isn’t one I can even consider.

Worse, do to me what he already did to me.

The nonchalant “just have fun” attitude and “not label this” frame of mind I have always had is nowhere to be found.

Just like it to up and run when I need it most.

Staring at the key in my shaky hand, I decide I can’t do this. I just can’t. I can’t explain it other than something deep inside me is screaming that messing around with Keen Masters again will only mess with me even more than it already has.

Because—

No, I can’t even think it.

And yet I am.

I’ve never felt like this about any man.

There, I said it.

Happy?

This is lust to the tenth degree. This is what all those movies are about…when men and women do more than fornicate for the simple pleasure of orgasm. They do it to satisfy the full-blown desire that exists between them.

I close my eyes, remembering the way he held my gaze as he moved inside me, the way his hands moved on my body like they wanted to own me, the way he licked me and nipped me like he couldn’t get enough.

The chemistry between us is straight up off the charts.

But if Makayla is right, and Keen and I are alike, then like me, he is going to have a hard time being able to accept that this is more than anything but a sexual attraction. And then what?

Flooded with the sensation of being with him all over again, I can feel my body shake. I swear I can still smell him. Taste him. Feel him.

And he’s not even here.

It scares me to death.

Making me uncertain.

Fearful.

More confused than I have ever been, I slip my keys back into my purse.

Leaving the front door locked, I walk around to the back of my house, where I let myself in through my bedroom doors, and then turn around and lock them.

Tight.