Pierce Her Stepbrother

by Saffron Daughter

  “Nah, I don’t smoke.”

  “What about you?” he says, turning to Penny. He lurches forward off balance, and I catch him, one hand against his chest, and push him backward before he manages to knock her over.

  “Hey!” I bark, throwing him against a garden fence. “I said no. Now fuck off.”

  He’s got that drunken fire in his eyes, and I see his temper spark for a moment, so I just stare at him harder, and he crumples like a dry leaf underfoot. He scampers off.

  “Sorry, Pen,” I say. “Too many fucking drunk pricks on a Friday night ’round here.”

  “He was just asking for a lighter,” she suggests. “You could learn to be nicer to people.”

  “You can’t change everything about me, Pen.”

  I grin at her, and she returns it.

  “You’re right. Come on, I’m starving, and you’re buying.”

  She walks out ahead of me, a happy bounce in her step, her ass rolling from one side to the other.

  How these things work out is always so strange, I think to myself.

  I fell in love with a girl who was going to become my stepsister, and even though I was completely wrong for her, she fell in love with me back.

  Then we find out we’ll no longer technically be family, and that our relationship will no longer technically be taboo.

  Tomorrow she becomes a proper tattoo artist – she realizes her dream. I opened a fight training school, and I’m already hiring new trainers to deal with the load.

  I have this girl who makes me feel a way I never have before; she calmed me down. I’m happier, more satisfied than ever.

  And she’s hot as hell, too. I don’t just love her, I love the way she looks, the way she smells, the way she tastes. I love the feel of her body, those thick thighs and ass I could hold onto for hours. I love her breasts and her nipples, and the small of her back, and the back of her neck.

  And I get to hit that every day and night!

  I frown. She’d probably ask me why I have to describe it like that, like how she hates it when I say ‘junk’.

  I get to make love to that every day and night.

  Frankly, I have it made.

  And, if I do say so myself, she didn’t too badly, either.

  Not everybody gets to fuck Pierce Fletcher every single day.

  The End

  # # #

  From the Author

  Thank you so much for reading this book. Whether you bought it, borrowed it, downloaded it, or pirated it, I am glad you made it this far. I hope you enjoyed this story, and if you did, please do leave a review to help other readers.

  If you have any feedback or would like to get in touch with me, you can email me anytime at saffron.daughter@gmail.com. I don't have a social media presence, but I do check my email.

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  Wishing you all good fortune, and good health. --Saffron

  Don't Miss...

  ...the story of Cassie and Chance (who made a cameo appearance in this book) in Chance Her Stepbrother: Her Stepbrother Lover.

  Chance Her Stepbrother

  Her Stepbrother Lover

  * * *

  I hate to want him and I want to hate him... so why am I falling?

  Chance Hudson. Is he hot as hell? Yeah. Does his body make me weak in the knees? Yeah. Is he a despicable, rude, dirty-mouthed, arrogant dick? Yeah.

  So why do I want him? There's not a girl on campus he hasn't slept with. Why do I want that? Why does my body stir at the sight of him? Why is there this little voice in my head screaming: Take a chance, Cassie!

  Take a chance!

  What could possibly go wrong? It's only my first time. It's only my first boy.

  ...It's only my first love.

  Imagine my surprise when I find out that our parents got married in Vegas... the night before I took a chance.

  Take a chance, Cassie...

  How would you feel? What would you do?

  * * *

  “Great speech.”

  I look up and I see Chance Hudson. His hazel eyes bore straight into mine, and I find it hard to maintain eye-contact. He’s been teasing and tormenting me for a whole year. Somehow, he was in nearly all of my classes.

  He wipes his chestnut-brown hair to the side, and his golden-tan seems to shine in the afternoon sunlight. It’s warm, and I’m tired, and I shook like a wet puppy on the stage. There were hundreds of parents there, and the red lights of camera-phones recording me had done nothing to quell my nerves. My voice had hitched, my lips had trembled, and really, it just wasn’t a very good speech.

  I think to my parting line: And so this new generation sets off into the world, wary of the conventions set down by the old. We hope to improve, but betterment so often comes in the form of subversion. We hope that you don’t judge us for our life decisions. The world is forever in flux, and so let us be different. Let us change. Support our change.

  Because when you were our age, that’s what you would have wanted.

  I groan. It sounds so trite in my head, so vague and so boring.

  “No, it wasn’t a good speech,” I say to Chance, now looking away from him. I focus my eyes on a bright red car in the distance, but soon it turns a corner and disappears out of sight.

  I’m sitting on a bench waiting for the bus to take me home – Dad left for Las Vegas yesterday – and in my gown the sun is making me feel more than a little warm.

  Chance is standing right in front of me, though, so it’s practically impossible for me not to look at him eventually, and when I do, he’s got his hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side, and an amused grin pulling at his lips.

  So I look at his body because I don’t want to meet his eyes. He’s wearing a tight-fitting t-shirt, and it fits him too damn well. It’s unfair really. I hate that I’m attracted to him. The shape of his body is easily seen through it, from his muscular chest to the way the sleeves wrap around his veiny, defined arms. He’s lean, like an athlete… well, he is an athlete. Well, he was an athlete.

  He barely graduated, from what I heard on the grapevine.

  “What do you want, Chance?” I ask, impatience in my voice. I don’t bother playing nice or blunting my attitude. We’re not friends. We never have been.

  “Nothing,” he says. “Why are you so sensitive all the time?” He smirks at me while he stands in front of me. I can’t understand why he behaves this way. He’s so repulsive.

  “I’m not sensitive. I just don’t like you.”

  “Why? Because you want me?”

  He doesn’t move. His hands don’t move. He doesn’t fidget. He’s just so damn comfortable all the time. I find my eyes going to his lips… and I hate that I like the shape of his lips. They are full, kissable, set within a strong jaw.

  I just can’t see why the most attractive boy in school is also the most assholish. It bothers me.

  “I don’t want you.”

  “Sure you don’t,” he says, sitting down next to me on the bench. He spreads his arms out on the backrest behind me, and pokes my shoulder with a finger. “So, why are you waiting for the bus, then?”

  “My dad is away. He left the car at the long-stay parking at the airport, and we only have one car.”

  “He didn’t come to your graduation?”

  “No.”

  “My mother didn’t, either.”

  “Really?” I ask, looking at him. For the first time, I feel there might be a thread of similarity between us, but he ruins the moment.

  “But it’s not like I give two shits. I couldn’t care less.”

  I balk. “You don’t care that your own mother didn’t attend your graduation? Figures. You must be dumb.”

  “Oh, I’m certainly not as smart as you.”

  “Hey, I worked h
ard for this. We’re in a weighted-GPA school. Do you know what that means?”

  He shrugs. “Jack shit, truthfully.”

  “It means that you are awarded more for harder courses, and less for easier courses.”

  “So?”

  “So?” I echo, exasperated. “It means that I’m not just any little-miss-smart or whatever. I worked for this. I took the toughest courses and I aced them. I did extra credit.”

  “So? So what?” He looks at me and grins. “What’s it going to get you?”

  “Well, it got me into LSE. That’s the London School of Economics, in case you weren’t aware. It’s one of the best universities in the world.” I peer at him. “You probably weren’t.”

  He grins, like he’s enjoying this, and it just pisses me off.

  “You’re a bit of a snob, aren’t you?” he says.

  “I’m not a snob. I’m just telling it how it is.”

  “What’s that super-prestigious degree going to get you, then? Run through your plan with me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Well, the bus isn’t here yet, and you’re enjoying talking to me.”

  I make a face. “You don’t know anything, do you?”

  “So, what’s it going to get you?” he pushes.

  “I’ll graduate with honors in political science.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’ll do my master’s.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll teach.”

  He scoffs. “You’ll teach? That’s it? That’s your sole ambition? That’s the final step in your plan?”

  “Hey,” I say. “The world needs more teachers. Good ones. Smart ones.”

  “You’ve got this little plan all worked out. You think that it’s all going to depend on how well you do in your classes, what grades you get. Let me ask you, we go to a good private school, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, nodding.

  “What do you think of Dunham?”

  “He’s my history teacher. He’s—”

  “A fucking idiot.”

  “No he’s not.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “He’s got a doctorate, he’s written books on the first and second dynasties of Chin—”

  “And this is where he is! Why do you suppose that is, if he’s so accomplished?”

  “No shame in teaching in a good school.”

  “Why don’t you ask him if he wanted to teach a bunch of stuck-up teenagers all day.”

  “You’re in this school too, you know.”

  “Not by choice.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you even know the point you’re trying to make, Chance?”

  “He doesn’t know anything about anything useful. Is that what you want to be? In some stupid little corner, some narrow field of study, that nobody else gives a shit about? You want to go into academics? You want to live and die by what you publish? Have your work peer-reviewed by a bunch of cliquey circle-jerkers? You know they all just suck off their friends, don’t you? You know it’s all one big boys club.”

  “Can you not be so vulgar? And, anyway, political science is not a narrow field.”

  “Oh, you’ll be encouraged to specialize over and over again.”

  “Like you would know anything about academics, Chance. You barely graduated.”

  He laughs. “Surprised me, too. I hardly went to class.”

  “I thought you got caught for cutting last year.”

  “I did,” he says. “But this year most of my teachers were women, so of course I made attendance minimums.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re so gross and up yourself.”

  “Hey, I ain’t lying. Apparently I’ve attended the minimum number of classes required this year. That’s how I could graduate, but I know for a fact that I didn’t.”

  “That’s so much bullshit.” I frown and I’m sure my expression darkens. It isn’t fair.

  “Don’t be so upset, Cass. Why does it matter to you what happens to me?”

  “Don’t call me Cass.”

  “Don’t tell me you never saw a girl hitch her skirt up just a little, pull those puppy-dog eyes to get out of trouble? Don’t tell me you once never saw Nicole Stansfeld or Alice Ortiz get away with not doing their homework? Or get caught smoking in the changing rooms only to be let off the hook because it was a male teacher? Those two got away with far more than I ever did.”

  “That’s wrong, too.”

  “So what if you don’t get accepted into a master’s program?”

  I fold my arms. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “Cass, Cass, Cass,” he says, shaking his head. He adjusts his belt, and I can’t help but watch as he does it. For a fleeting moment, his t-shirt comes above his jeans, and I see the beginnings of his trimmed buzz of pubic hair.

  I snap my eyes away, breathing a little quicker. God, when is this bus going to come?

  “You think you’ve got it all figured out. Life isn’t like that.”

  “How would you know what life is like?” I say, glaring into his eyes. I notice, then, that embedded in his hazel irises seem to be bits of silver pigmentation. It’s like his eyes are shining. He doesn’t even blink that much, he just meets my glare with a slightly-amused look.

  “Trust me, I know much more about life than you do. You spend all your time with your nose in textbooks, never once asking if what they are teaching you is accurate, or why it is accurate. You memorize the tests, rote learn, regurgitate paragraphs from books you read the night before. So what if you did well in school? How’s it going to prepare you for real life? I mean, have you ever even had a job?”

  “Yes, actually,” I say, feeling indignant. “I worked as a barista. And rote is a pretty complex word for an idiot like you, Chance.”

  He shrugs. “Maybe I’m an idiot. But at least I’m enjoying myself.”

  “You enjoy being a total dick to everyone?”

  “I’m not a dick to everyone.”

  “Oh, I mean, except for your stupid friends who follow you around like dogs.”

  “Hey, I don’t give a fuck about them. I was talking about the girls, actually.”

  I roll my eyes. His reputation is known in this school, and the one the next county over.

  Chance Hudson has slept with more girls than ten men will in their lifetimes, they say.

  Chance Hudson has slept with half the female staff, they say.

  I don’t care. It’s disgusting. He’s a dog.

  “You’re a dog,” I say. “You’re disgusting.”

  He grins, eyebrows flashing up. “I am, aren’t I?”

  “You’re proud of it?”

  He thinks for a moment, pushing his lips together, and brown eyebrows pinching together like two caterpillars meeting.

  “Never really thought about it that way. It’s just what I do.” He smirks at me again, before getting up off the bench. “Come on,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on. I’ll give you a ride. You know you want one.” He doesn’t even grin, he just plays it straight.

  “Yuck. You’re gross,” I say, shaking my head. “No thanks.”

  “The bus isn’t due for an hour. You know that right?”

  “An hour?”

  “What, you didn’t check the timetable? I thought you knew everything.”

  “I thought you knew nothing.”

  “Well I know you can either sit out here for an hour, or I can drive you home.”

  “Why would I get into a car with you?”

  “Come on, Cass, are you really asking me that question? Why does anybody get into a car with me?” He extends his arm, all lean and muscular, but I just ignore it. He really is such a pig.

  “You’re so wrong, you know, with how you approach everything. You can’t talk to people this way. You’ve got a one-track mind.”

  “This one-track mind is about to give you a free lift home.”

  “No, this one-track mind is about t
o piss off.”

  “Are you sure?” he says. “Don’t worry, I may be a dog, but I won’t bite.”

  I snap the book I was reading shut, and get up, sighing. I don’t want to wait for an hour.

  “Don’t try anything.”

  He laughs, and puts his hands up. “You’ve got a pretty inflated opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

  “Just shut up, okay?” I say, irritated. “Just, don’t talk to me. Where’s your car?”

  “So you do want a ride?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Where’s your car, Chance?”

  “Alright, alright,” he says, falling into step with me. He rubs my shoulder with his, but I pull away. Still, it leaves my heart beating quicker.

  “Over here,” he says, and we walk to the street. There I see what looks like a sports car. “Mazda RX-8,” he says.

  “I don’t care about your car.”

  “Well, to be fair, muscle was always my thing, but this was a gift. I can’t really complain.”

  “Someone gifted you a Mazda?” I cry, flabbergasted. I realize it’s not exactly uncommon around this area, but still, it looks expensive, and who would like Chance enough to give him a car?

  “It was my uncle. He’s some big wig somewhere, I don’t care. It corners well.”

  He unlocks the car and walks around to the driver’s side. “Well, get in!” he says, smirking. “You don’t think I’m going to open the door for you, do you?”

  “Piss of, Chance. Just don’t talk, okay?” I snarl, climbing into the car.

  * * *

  Chance Her Stepbrother: Her Stepbrother Lover is part of Kindle Unlimited, and is available at:

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  Pierce Her Stepbrother

  Her Stepbrother Fighter

  By

  Saffron Daughter

  Copyright 2015 by Saffron Daughter

  * * *

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.