Steel Crew : Books 1-3 (Steel World Box Set Book 7)

by Mj Fields

  Truth kicks me under the water, and I turn in the opposite direction, not wanting her to see my face, as I’m sure it’s flushed.

  As luck would have it, I see a bomb coming in.

  “That’s mine,” I say as I quickly maneuver my body on my board and charge the wave. I paddle faster as the wave builds higher and higher.

  “No fucking way!” I hear Max yell from a distance as I pop up and the wave begins to barrel.

  “You got this, Katy girl.” I hear my dad’s voice and his loud laugh as I enter the tube.

  I almost feel bad for Max, I think as walls of water form around me. This is one of those moments every surfer lives for.

  Now totally surrounded by water, I hear Dad’s voice in my head as clear as if he were standing right beside me, “Plant your feet, crouch down, center your body weight, keep your shoulders square, your eyes on the exit, just ride it out.”

  Those words were always for Max, because this was never my thing, but my God how beautiful is this moment.

  So beautiful.

  My heart is beating rapidly, but there is a calm hold to its hurried pace. I reach out, steadying myself as rolling water pushes me through.

  The ultimate goal, of course, is coming out at the end of the tube, feet still planted, but at this moment, I really don’t care if I do or not. This could be a once in a lifetime happening, and if it is, that’s fine with me.

  Nearing the end, I crouch lower and lower as the space becomes smaller and smaller. When I emerge out of the end, I hear them all cheering as I stand on my board. Smiling to myself, I simply hold up my hand, pinky and thumb extended, and give it a slight shake—shaka.

  Dad throws his hands in the air, laughing as he claps, while I glide easily toward shore.

  I look out of the corner of my eye at Brand and catch him with a soft smile on his full lips as he shakes his head very slowly back and forth. Then he raises his hand and gives me a very discreet shaka.

  Friday Night

  Katherine

  Standing at the sink, looking out the window while washing dishes, I watch them all sitting on the deck, relaxing after the evening feast, while Uncle Xavier, Patrick, and Brand are playing their guitars and singing quietly.

  Lost in watching Brandon, I no longer look away when he looks toward me. If the situation was different, this would be kind of like meeting at a club, or a party, with a bunch of other people around anyway. Then we’d leave and head to his place, or a hotel, definitely not my house, but whatever. It is what it is, and I’m fine with it.

  Fine.

  Brandon Falcon is fine.

  So fine.

  “Earth to Katherine,” Mom says on a laugh.

  Shit.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say as I turn on the faucet to rinse the last of the dishes.

  “I can finish up if you want to head out,” she offers.

  “It’s my night.” I shrug.

  She tugs lightly on my braid. “To be fair, it’s yours, Max’s, and Brisa’s.”

  “They cleaned up.”

  Mom shakes her head as she takes the glass from me and sets it in the strainer. “Your uncle Cameron and I weren’t close growing up, not like your father and your uncles anyway.”

  “You’re closer now, yeah?”

  She nods, taking another glass from me. “As much as it drives some of us nuts that you eight are like a little gang—”

  I smile. “By some of us, you mean Dad and Uncle Cyrus.”

  She laughs. “I’m not throwing anyone under the bus, Katherine Ann. My point is, I’m so glad you have each other.” I glance over at her, and she smiles almost sadly. “But don’t you ever forget that, if you need me, I’m always here. Always.”

  “I need you, Mom,” I assure her as I lean over and kiss her cheek. “And I’m not saying that just because you’re helping me with the dishes.”

  Standing in front of the mirror as I brush my teeth, I scrutinize myself. Do I blow out my hair? Do I look too casual? Should I put on a full face of makeup or just a few swipes of mascara? Should I change into something sexy or is shorts and a tank top fine? Do I bother with underwear and a bra? If I put some effort into this, would I appear too thirsty? Normally, I wouldn’t worry about it, but tonight I’m way out of my norm.

  Brand isn’t some boy who looks at the same girls at school day in and day out. I’m sure when he was still in high school, there was no shortage of pretty girls dropping to their knees before him or offering up ass. He’s been traveling the country for two years, surrounded by beautiful women for just as long. I’ve seen the posts on IG—not his, of course. He only posts selfies or short video clips of himself on stage or at an interview. The only time he’s not alone in his posts are when his father, Garrett, his mom, Jules, and his twin brothers, Bryce and Brady, his uncle Gage, Gage’s wife, Phoenix, and their daughter, Genevieve, or his uncle, Grayson—who writes some of Brand’s music with him—Grayson’s wife, Mandee, and his cousins, Anthony, Vincent, and Grace are with him.

  The pictures I see that give me pause and cause me a bit of insecurity are the ones that all the girls—hell, even grown women—post that they’ve taken with him and used the hashtag, #IvebeenBranded. Almost all of them are backstage after one of his shows. In most of them, he’s shirtless, his skin glistening with sweat. In all of them, it wouldn’t matter if he was wearing a damn turtleneck, he’s just that beautiful to look at. In every picture, he’s looking at the camera with a sexy smirk and a devilish glint in his eyes, showing he knows just how damn hot he is.

  Tonight, I feel a bit out of my league, for the first time ever. Tonight, I won’t be with some boy fumbling his way through straps, buttons, and clasps. I’m sure Brand’s hands won’t shake when they touch my flesh. Hell, I know they won’t. They certainly didn’t last night. And I am one hundred percent positive that, when he’s lying on top of me, he won’t look like he can’t believe that I, Kiki Steel, haven’t broken his nose, or hand, when it attempts to slide under my shirt to fumble around, trying to fondle my C cups.

  So awkward.

  But I know it won’t be awkward with him. He’s experienced. That thought is oddly a blessing and a curse at the same time, in this situation.

  I hold my hand over my belly, trying in vain to calm the chaos inside.

  I take several deep, cleansing breaths, a technique that actually works that I learned through yoga with Mom … Why the hell am I thinking of Mom right now? The next thing I know I’ll be thinking of Dad and totally chickening out.

  Jesus, now I’m thinking of my parents.

  Make it stop.

  Make.

  It.

  Stop.

  All is quiet when I sneak out of the room. Well, except for the sound of my heart beating and the voices in my head telling me to turn around, go back, abort mission. I brush them off easily, though. I have wanted to feel his lips on mine for as long as I can remember.

  I had thought that would be enough. I believed that just a kiss would cure whatever spell Brandon Falcon cast on me all those years ago.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I feel a shiver slowly dance up my spine and look toward the French doors, where Brand is leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest that’s covered with a white tee-shirt, the fabric stretched across his chest like another layer of skin. He’s wearing black track pants, hanging low on his hips. His eyes, like a crayon in the hand of a child, trace my body.

  I exhale a deep breath and stand perfectly still, allowing him to do just that as I relish in his touchless caress.

  He lets out a long sigh as his eyes travel back to mine and he pushes off the doorjamb, holding out his hand and using the other to open the door.

  I swallow back the desire pooling in my mouth and walk toward him.

  Once outside, he closes the door and smiles. “Look at us. And we didn’t even plan to match.” His words are playful, but his voice is deep, thick … rich.

  The nervousness I felt is immediately coated w
ith desire. Not wanting to come off as needy, or desperate, nor do I want to waste any time, I conjure up my inner Steel and tug his hand, stopping him from continuing the walk toward the wooden boardwalk.

  He turns back, giving me a questioning look.

  “Quick question.”

  He lifts his chin, motioning me to continue.

  “Did you decide against panties and a bra, too?”

  He startles slightly, and that split-second I caught him off guard spurs my inner badass.

  I step away from him, pulling him toward the pool house.

  “Got some things set up down at the beach, Katy.”

  “I don’t want sand in places sand shouldn’t be.” I turn and walk with purpose toward the pool house.

  “Katy.” My name, a whisper-hiss, a warning.

  “Don’t.” I hide the plea in my voice as I reach out and turn the knob to open the door.

  He tugs my hand, stopping me, pulling me back hard against his chest. Then he entwines my fingers in his. “Katherine Anne Steel, we’re not doing this in the dark.” He pushes my hair to the side with his face, and I feel his smooth skin against my cheek as he whispers, “Not when the stars are dancing in the sky above us.”

  I wish he’d stop saying such pretty things. I really do.

  I take our interwoven hands and slide them under my shirt, guiding them up as I open my hand and cup my breast. He groans in my ear when I squeeze our hands around it. His teeth scrape my neck and his hot breath heats my skin as he squeezes my hand again, over my breast.

  Then I move my hand out from under his and reach behind me, running my hand under his shirt, allowing my finger to trace the hard lines of his muscular abs, then down the line of his V.

  He grips my tit harder as he kisses and licks my neck, then rubs his thumb across my nipple. My knees weaken, and I become desperate to hold on to something.

  “Easy, Katy girl,” he hisses as I squeeze his dick, trying to touch my fingers while wrapped around him, to no avail.

  Stroking him, he groans, and the burn between my legs intensifies. I release his other hand and push it down my black shorts.

  “Fuck, Katy,” he groans as I widen my stance enough that his fingers can ease the burn.

  One hand still on my breast, kneading, fingers tweaking my pebbled nipples, and his other fingers splitting me in two, I finally release a held breath wrapped around his name.

  “No one else but me,” he groans, releasing me and turning me toward him.

  I flatten my palms on his abs as I stare down at his tented track pants and lick my lips. Never having given a blow job because, in my head, it’s degrading and gross, I seriously consider dropping to my knees, but then I’m sure he’s had hundreds of women in that position that are far more skilled than I am.

  He lifts my chin. “You gonna s—”

  “I’m not sucking your dick,” I interrupt him.

  “Not gonna let me finish my sentence either, huh?” His eyes twinkle in the moonlight. He brushes his thumb across my bottom lip. “Not even on my mind until you said it.”

  When I roll my eyes, he leans in and warns, “Stow the badass, Katy girl. I want you soft and breathless.”

  “Well, that’s not—”

  I gasp when I feel his big, strong hands grip my ass hard, and then he lifts me up.

  “Give me those pretty lips.” He doesn’t ask; he gives a soft demand. And he doesn’t wait for an okay; he just takes.

  He crashes his lips against mine harder than I anticipated.

  So hot.

  He thrusts his tongue into my mouth.

  So wet.

  He slides his hands lower, grabbing the back of my thighs and wrapping my legs around him, grinding against me.

  So hard.

  My back hits the side of the pool house, and my head falls back as he kisses down my neck.

  Reaching between us, I greedily grab his dick that’s peeking out from his waistband.

  “Fuck. Yes,” he groans against my throat as I swipe my thumb across his wet tip.

  “Christ, Katy,” he growls as I then rub my soaked core against his cock.

  “Jesus, you’re gonna make me come too fucking soon,” he hisses when I push my shorts to the side and rub him against my entrance.

  He quickly turns us around as he crashes his lips against mine, and I’m lost, so lost, in his taste, his touch, his sounds that I don’t even realize he’s laid me down until my back touches one of the chaise lounges.

  With a growl, he pulls his lips from mine and sits up, kneeling between my legs.

  “Can you see the stars from here, Katy?”

  I don’t bother looking away from him; I simply nod.

  “Doesn’t have to be here. Doesn’t have to be this way.” He licks his lips and looks down.

  My eyes follow his line of vision, but all I see is his perfect erection hanging out of his pants.

  Need has me sitting up and quickly pulling his pants down, grabbing his rock-hard erection firmly in my hand.

  “Fuck, Katy, I—”

  I take him in my mouth, as fully as I possibly can, and listen to his groans and feel the way he first starts to pull away then stops, giving in to his own desire … for me.

  I grip him firmly and look up at him. His eyes widen, his nostrils flare, and he sputters curses through clenched, bared teeth.

  “This feels better than anything I could have ever imagined, but I wanna be inside you, not your mouth.” He pulls out and leans down, taking the back of my head in one hand, and crashes his lips against mine.

  I cup the side of his face as I deepen the kiss, pushing my fingers up to feel his silky, thick hair on my fingertips. After a few seconds, I release his face and reach down, beginning to push my shorts down.

  He grabs my hands and stills me. “Slow it down, Katy. No rush.”

  “Please,” I whisper.

  “Not gonna deny you.” He pulls my shorts down and drops them beside the chaise. “Not ever again.”

  My chest squeezes as I look up into his eyes, and then I close my own. I don’t want to feed into pillow or, in this case, chaise lounge talk.

  I finally open my eyes and look up at him. “I’m lying here, legs spread, waiting, Brand. No more talk.”

  “Condoms are down at the beach.”

  “You clean?”

  He nods.

  “Me, too, and I’m on the pill,” I whisper as I reach for him.

  He presses his lips to mine, softer now as he takes my hands and holds them over my head, pressing them into the cushion, then he takes them in one hand. His lips leave mine, and he presses his forehead to mine. “You’re beautiful.”

  He reaches between us and drags himself up my soaked slit. His eyes roll slightly, and he groans and stalls. “Fuck.”

  “Brand,” I sigh.

  “Never felt this before. Gonna have to go slow or round one’s gonna be over really quick.”

  I curl my fingers around his hand as he slowly pushes inside me.

  I close my eyes as I spread wider to accommodate him, hoping the pain is quickly over and the pleasure succeeds it.

  I wrap my legs around him, and he groans.

  He thrusts in and out, once, twice, three times, then presses his lips to mine. “Incredible. Fucking incredible.”

  “Don’t stop,” I whisper against his lips.

  “Don’t want it to end,” he groans as I thrust against him.

  “Round one,” I remind him.

  “Yeah?” He kisses my forehead.

  “Yeah.” I close my eyes.

  He lifts his body weight off me and begins to move again, in and out, farther in with each stroke, but I know he’s holding back.

  “I want all of—”

  “Fuck yes.” He kisses my forehead and pushes off me again.

  Slowly, he pushes in deeper. The burn I anticipated begins, and then he gasps, and I feel heat spreading inside of me as he growls through his release. “Fuck, Bella.”

 
; Gasoline

  Katherine

  When my phone rings, I know who it is. It’s Truth, and I’m sure she’s watching the CMTs. We watched them together while on the phone last year when Brand received Breakout Artist of the Year for that stupid song, “Short Skirts, Tight Shirts.”

  Sighing, I sit up and hit accept call. “Hey, Truth.”

  “Is your TV on?”

  “No, not—”

  “What do you mean? They just announced the Brand Falcon band. Turn it on!”

  So, I lied. I’ve been watching. It’s paused.

  I hit play then watch live. “Fine, but you know I can’t stand country music.”

  “Whatever.” She giggles then sucks in a deep breath. “He’s on!”

  “Yeah, probably for only, like, thirty seconds,” I mumble under my breath.

  “What?” she asks, obviously not hearing me, thank God.

  He takes the stage, looking down at his sleek black guitar that’s strung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a crisp, white button-up shirt, impeccably tailored, showcasing his fit as fuck body. The sleeves haphazardly cuffed, giving every groupie a view of his lean, defined muscles and the veins that bulge when he fingerfucks the strings. His hair has grown out, and his messy waves curve around his white backward baseball cap. I hate that my fingers itch to feel the silky mess of waves again. When he looks up, his sexy lips curve up in the corner, and his eyes … those fucking eyes, seemingly look through the camera and at … me.

  “He looks like hell,” I huff.

  “Looks hot AF, Kiki.” She laughs.

  He turns and looks at his band, and I see his ass hugged by Lucky jeans. I inwardly laugh at the fact that, when his next girl unzips his zipper and reads the “Lucky You” label, they, too, are being led astray. Then, when his big, hard dick gets unveiled, they’re going to get their hopes up so high that they, too, will walk around for weeks asking themselves, “What the fuck was that?”