Wicked Stepbrother (Book One)

by Lila Price

  He goes on. “You were trying to piss me off in that club, trying to show me that you’re old enough to take care of yourself. But all you did was prove how young and naïve and sheltered you still are.”

  He’s sounding way too parental. Without thinking, I step toward him.

  “You are not my fucking father, Tristan.”

  It’s as if I’ve pushed a button in him, pushed him too far. He smiles, and it’s tilted and lethal. “Your father, huh? We’re talking about the man who drifted out of your life because he didn’t give a shit?”

  Ouch.

  My voice shakes. “Mom chased him off, and you know it.”

  “Don’t blame her.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” I shake my head. “You adore Mom. But you know damned well she’s not that innocent.”

  Why had he even gone there when he knows that I still blame Mom for manipulating me into lying about my real dad during custody hearings so that she could have me full-time? Yes, he knows all about my issues, but what have I ever known about his?

  In this game of ours, this warped one-upmanship we’ve been at all day, he’s not playing fair.

  His gaze his gone softer again—is he sorry for what he said?—but that doesn’t matter. I hate him for bringing this up.

  Yeah, I’d been the one who’d mentioned my real father in the first place, but Tristan has taken things a step over the edge just to get a rise out of me.

  “Cherry—”

  Near tears, I throw one of my shoes at him. When it hits his chest, the anger steals over him again and his gaze hardens back to how it was before.

  “Sosie,” he says now.

  I chuck the other shoe at him, but he dodges it.

  “Jesus,” he says. “You know what I’d do if I was your father?”

  I have no more shoes to throw, and Tristan is walking toward me. I freeze in place like a damned doe in the headlights.

  He comes to stand so close that I have to look up at him, so close that I catch the scent of his skin—soap and musk.

  As he skims his gaze over me, I shiver. Air combs down my exposed back, raking over my spine, giving me a delicious chill.

  His gaze dwells on my chest, where my nipples have once again gone pebble-hard, and there’s heat in his eyes as he looks back up at me. “If I was your dad, I’d take you over my knee and spank you until you learn to calm down.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  He looks at me and I look at him. The intensity in his gaze makes something clench between my legs. I’m pounding for him with every second that passes.

  I give him a cruel smile that dares him. I doubt he’ll do any spanking but, dammit, I secretly hope he will.

  At my defiance, something clicks in his gaze, and the next thing I know, he scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder. I punch his back and kick as he walks into my room and flicks on the light. He tightens his hold on me right before he pauses at my bed.

  “Obviously you haven’t learned a goddamned thing yet,” he says.

  “You’re not one to talk about good behavior!”

  “Really?”

  In one smooth motion, he’s sitting on the bed and I’m draped over his knee, face down, staring at the carpet.

  And when I feel the smack of his hand on my bottom, I gasp in shock, as well as something else that shakes me to my core.

  4

  I’m burning inside, a mixture of taboo desire, embarrassment, and a trembling need for something else that makes no sense. My bottom smarts from where Tristan’s palm connected with me, and even though my dress is between us, it’s as if he’s already seen me bared to him.

  Worse yet, I feel swollen between my legs, stiff and aching, as if my body is screaming for more.

  “Fuck you, Tristan,” I say between my teeth, and I barely get the words out, because even those are burning in my throat. I feel like I might cry, but it’s only because I want this. Dear God, help me, I really want this.

  “Such language.” He laughs. “You should watch your tongue, Cherry.”

  He’s worried about language? I’ll bet the girls he dates say things like fuck and pussy and clit all the time. Maybe I should, too.

  I anticipate the next spank, and I try to squirm away, but my quick move only makes my skirt ride up.

  I hear the sound of his hand smacking my naked flesh right before I feel an erotic sting.

  The room goes silent except for my tight breathing…and his. He’s also panting as the imprint of his palm seems to spread over my bottom, consuming me. I’m getting wet; there’s a slick beat in my…yes…my pussy, fuck him, and all I can do is bite my lip to keep from making any noise. A gasp, a groan…I can’t let him hear how he’s affecting me.

  The only thing I’m wearing down below is a flirty, lacy thong, and from the feel of air on my ass, I know he can see it. He isn’t moving. I’m not moving. I’m caught between thinking that even taking another breath will make him push me off his lap or make him spank me again.

  But what he does next is better and worse than either.

  I feel his fingertips trace my cheek, right over where his palm made contact with my exposed skin. My pussy contracts again, and I fist the bedspread with one hand, unwilling to let him know that pressure is building in my belly, threatening to burst. It’s killing me and also making me feel more alive than I ever have before.

  “Have you learned anything yet?” His voice is gritty.

  I can’t speak, especially when he drifts his fingertips down to the curve of my cheek. He skims the crease there, and I hold back a sob of pure need.

  “God, Sosie…” he whispers harshly.

  I’m not sure if he really says my name or if I’m only imagining it in my fogged mind. I’m not even sure any of this is happening as he slips his fingers lower, between my thighs, parting them slightly. The movement brings out a wet sound from my pussy, revealing my arousal.

  Then, just as I’m thinking that, yes, I’ve got to be dreaming this, I feel Tristan’s finger slide against my panties to test just how juiced I am.

  As my hips arch, my other hand grips his leg, and I press my lips together, my teeth clamping down as I fight a growing throb that threatens to explode. I know what’s happening, and it’s never happened before. I’ve never climaxed for anyone.

  “You’re not talking so much now, Cherry,” he says.

  I don’t feel his finger there anymore—if I ever did—and I remember why I’m over his knee.

  Fuck him. Fuck him for making me this way.

  “You can’t do this to me,” I say in a strangled voice.

  Suddenly he spanks me again, and I blast apart, a cry nearly escaping me as waves of intense pleasure flow through me. But I don’t let it go anywhere, not even when the second wave of this brutal, wet release tugs me inside out, making me tense up and bite my lip again as I push it back. I fist the bedcover and let go of Tristan’s leg, my nails digging into my palm.

  He’s not going to see what he’s doing to me. I won’t let him.

  I’ve pulled so hard on the cover that it’s off the bed now, and his hands aren’t on me anymore. Does he know what just happened? Is he happy that he made his naughty charge orgasm?

  When he picks me up and tosses me on the mattress, I glare at him, but he’s already on his way out the door. He slams it behind him and I hear him stomp off to his room.

  It’s as if life goes into gear again, the sound of a car passing on the street reminding me that I’m still part of a world that’s just been spun upside down. But there’s a sharp ache that’s unfilled in my clit, in my belly—remnants of trying to hide my climax.

  I hear Tristan shut his bedroom door, and I fall back on my bed. God, I hurt, but it’s a good kind. Good and bad, with my bottom still stinging and my sex still pounding. I touch myself, pressing my fingers against my clit to make the carnal pain go away. But it’s not enough, so I massage myself, my panties soaked. I reach one hand over my head and grasp the sheets as
I work myself to an edge.

  Pressure rebuilds inside me, tapping, gathering steam until it’s too much and I come again, my hips rocking off the mattress as I stifle another cry.

  After it’s over, I breathe, wishing I could get the feeling back, already addicted to it. I hear the music that Tristan is blasting in his room. Vintage Metallica, just like the old days after he would have an argument with his dad. Tristan would stay locked in his room until he worked whatever demons he had out of him, then leave the house, sending the mysteriously troubled cycle he experienced daily into motion again.

  As the bass pounds through the walls, my heartbeat pounds, almost in sync with the music. My hand is still between my legs, my fingers slick.

  You didn’t dream it, I think. This just really happened. You and Tristan, Tristan and you.

  So what now? Is he gloating in his room because he thinks he punished me?

  I sit up on my bed and catch a glimpse of myself in my closet mirror. What I see is a girl with wild long hair, her breasts straining against the front of her red dress. Red, as in sin. And that dress’s skirt is up around her hips, revealing a peek of white lacy panties, a flash of the clueless flirt she used to be.

  I’ve never looked this way before, not with any of the boys I’ve kissed or allowed to feel me up. I’ve never needed to work off my sexual frustration in the way I just did. There’s a stranger in that mirror, and I’ll bet Tristan is smugly congratulating himself for teaching her a lesson. It’s just not the one he’d been aiming for.

  I climb off the bed and fling open my door, going straight to his. It’s locked, big surprise, and I kick at it with a bare heel.

  When there’s no answer, I pound with a fist.

  The music cuts off almost entirely, and there’s a moment of near silence except for the low thrum of the bass. I pound again. I think I hear a muffled curse right before the door flies open, revealing Tristan. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. In back of him, some of his weights are askew.

  Was he also working off some frustration? Frustration from me?

  That gives me enough confidence to say, “When were you thinking of apologizing?”

  He looks completely amused as he leans against the doorframe and pushes his hair away from his face. “Should I look that up online under the category of ‘never’?”

  “You actually spanked me, you asshole.”

  His cocky grin acknowledges the one important part that’s missing. And you loved what I did to you.

  My temper kicks in, and I push his chest. It’s not nearly enough to move him, and he laughs.

  Prick. “What gives you the right to do that to me?”

  “Ask your mom. She’s the one who put me in charge.”

  “Mom would freak if she knew you treated me this way. So would your dad.”

  “Then I guess it’s our little secret, Cherry.”

  I push him again, and he sighs in exasperation. I start to feel like a tiny creature nudging a boulder, and major irritation sets in…as well as a simmering need that just keeps growing stronger.

  I can’t fool myself—I’m not just here for an apology.

  I should leave.

  But when he keeps watching me with those cool green eyes, with a gaze that lets me know he’s gotten the better of me, I start to shove him again. This time, he catches my wrist.

  “Cherry, you really need to get out of my room.”

  “Yes, because I just might come in there and spank you.”

  “Get out or I will turn you over my knee again.”

  Promise?

  He’s still holding my wrist, and I know that I can easily get away from him. From the look in his eyes, he knows it, too. But there’s something else I see there—something familiar and exciting that I witnessed this afternoon and in the club when he was watching me dance.

  Instead of going anywhere, I hold my breath, leaning closer to Tristan until he’s looming over me. I press my breasts against his chest, and when he grits his teeth, a pop of satisfaction splashes through me.

  “As I said before,” I whisper, “fuck you, Tristan.”

  And that does it.

  In the next fierce heartbeat, he pulls me to him, his mouth crushing mine as my vision cracks into a million cuts of forbidden glass.

  5

  I fall apart under his kiss, all my common-sense instincts demolished as my knees give out and I grab his shirt, just to stay standing. He tastes like whiskey, as if he’s been swigging it in his room, and I catch the trace of sweat on his skin from lifting weights.

  The pressure of his lips on mine shatters me even more when he digs his fingers into my hair, his other hand lifting me under my bottom to bring me up against his hips. With a groan, I part my lips, wrapping my legs around him and wiggling just enough to get closer to the bulge in his jeans.

  He makes a growling sound, squeezing my ass, swinging me around so I’m all the way inside his room. I can hear what’s left of the music he turned down tapping through the air like a pulse, and it swamps me, consuming me and making me throb all over.

  As he pushes me against the wall, I gasp against his mouth, and he nips at my lower lip, waits for a strained heartbeat, then sucks at it. I’m mewling like a kitten, grinding against him, reveling in the feel of him against my clit.

  But Tristan’s girls wouldn’t just say him. They would say cock.

  “Fuck, Sosie,” he mutters against my mouth, and I can tell he’s caught off balance by the fact that maybe I’m not such a little sister. I can feel him getting harder.

  I gather all the breath I can get, then say, “What else do you plan on teaching me?”

  He laughs—at least I think that’s what the low, ragged sound he makes is—and drags his mouth over my jaw and to the sensitive spot below my ear. I stifle a tiny squeal as I buck against him. It’s the feel of his breath that turns me on, the intimate way that my skin has become all his, as well as every other part of me.

  His for the taking.

  He draws my earlobe into his mouth, tonguing it, swirling and nipping some more until my mewling turns from kitten to full-on cat, and I reach above my head with one hand, pressing it against the wall. The motion makes my breasts push up inside of my dress, and Tristan notices.

  With a heavy exhalation, he rests his mouth against my neck, where a vein is pulsing in time with my pussy. Then he untangles his hand from my hair and eases it down my throat to my neckline. When he rubs a thumb over my breast, working my peaked nipple under my dress, I wiggle against him again.

  “You’re killing me.” His whisper is graveled. “The girl who came back home today isn’t the same one I remember from years ago.”

  His confession sends a zing through me, filling my veins with electric need. I want to tell him that I’ve always had a crush on him, but I want his mouth on me even more.

  My other hand is in his hair—that thick brown hair that has grown out to make him seem even more dangerous and off limits than before. I grip his hair as his touch grows more persistent, his thumb circling my nipple, and I watch as the nub strains against my dress. The sight of him touching me is so hot that my belly tightens with devastating promise.

  It won’t take much for me to come, but I don’t want to yet. I want this to last forever, with me and Tristan by ourselves, away from the outside world that’s sure to disapprove.

  He dips his index finger into my neckline, caressing my nipple, and I suck in a breath. I couldn’t wear a bra—not with the swooping back of this dress—and I bite my lip in pure ecstasy at the naked sensation. He strokes back and forth, and every little motion makes me feel like a stiff feather is swiping over my clit, teasing it. Then he yanks down my bodice, exposing my breasts, and I become an eager voyeur as I watch his face.

  At his worshipful expression, I moan. How many years did I feel the same way about him? And when he brings his mouth to my nipple, laving me with his tongue and sucking, I almost lose it. But I battle the increased pressure in my
belly. Not yet, I think. Don’t let him see just how much you don’t know. I so want to be one of his experienced women. I want to give him the kind of wild night he’d get from one of them…

  As he kisses and teases my breast, I tighten my legs around him and press him to me, watching him work at me. I don’t know how long he’ll last with that hardness in his jeans, but I keep churning against him, dry humping, feeling the pressure rise in me until it seems I’m about to lift out of my body.

  One of his hands is still cupping my ass, and he slips his fingers over my cheek to the juiced spot between my legs. With practiced ease, he draws my panties away from my pussy, then traces between my folds. The sound I make is somewhere between an oh and a please. My clit is aching so badly that I wish he’d stop messing around and touch it.

  He sucks off of my nipple and rubs his cheek against my other breast, looking up at me. His skin is just rough enough to cause friction, his gaze filled with sparks.

  “You’re so wet me for me,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been like that all night, Cherry?”

  This time, the nickname doesn’t bother me, but maybe that’s because he’s still stroking me with his fingertips, slowly going back and forth between my soaked slit.

  “All day,” I finally say.

  “That’s my girl.”

  He slides a finger into me, and I gasp and lift with the sensation.

  “You really are tight,” he murmurs, still watching my face. “From the way you were flirting and dancing at the club…by the looks of this dress…I thought you might not be such a cherry after all.”

  I’m caught between showing each emotion on my face as it happens and keeping every one of them back. I’m still biting my lip, trying to control the quaking that laces one breath, then the next.

  He pushes his finger farther inside me, then draws it back, then repeats the motion again and again, pumping me. “So fucking tight. How many boys have done this to you?”

  “A couple.”