Secret: A Military Stepbrother Romance

by Irons, Aubrey

  I’m so close. It’s terrible, and awful, but I know the inevitable is going to happen no matter how hard I want to fight it. His fingers feel too damn good, stroking me in just the perfect place and rolling my clit over and over again until I think I might scream.

  I’m going to come, and there’s no stopping it.

  “Ladies and gentlemen—”

  The room goes quiet.

  Oh God, not now…don’t say it now. Not when I’m about to come, on camera, in front of millions of people, with my stepbrother’s fingers deep inside of me.

  Don’t say it, please don’t say it.

  “I’m pleased to announce that Major Alec Ryan will now be taking a new position, as my husband.”

  The room explodes into cheers and applause, and that’s the moment the bastard rolls his thumb over my clit just right, and I go crashing over the edge. The room goes nuts, and the cameras flash, and I’m coming on national — no, international — television. I’m holding onto the table for dear life, my mouth hangs open, and I fight not to squeeze my eyes shut as I come in front whole fucking word, at the hands of Hunter Ryan.

  My brand new, arrogant, sexy, untouchable stepbrother.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “What in the hell are you doing here!?”

  This isn’t happening; this has to be some sort of stress-induced waking nightmare. I need juice or something. I’m going to shake my head, or pinch myself in a second and this whole apparition will clear away, and I won’t be looking at him; not here in this world-famous office, not ever.

  He’s staring right back at me; smirking, actually, like he’s amused that he’s managed to conjure himself as some sort of hallucination in front of me. Those ice-blue eyes are piercing right at me, right through me, just like they did before.

  “He’s working, Madison,” my mother says, rolling her eyes dismissively before frowning at me from behind her desk. “Now will you please take your jacket off and have a seat so we can discuss this like civilized humans?”

  But there’s nothing civilized about this man; nothing “civilized” about the things we did that night.

  Breathe; just breathe.

  I inhale and feel the rush of it all roar through me; the mask on my face, the alcohol in my blood, the illicit thrill of recklessness and lust. I shiver as I feel his hands gripping my skin and his breath hot on my neck. He rocks his body against mine, and I gasp, fingers clutching at hard chiseled muscle, nails dragging over inked tattooed skin as I feel him drive in deep. The whole room seems to undulate with the two of us, the unfamiliar silk sheets teasing the skin of my bare back as I wrap my legs around his muscled torso and urge him on.

  Faster. Harder. Deeper.

  This is consuming, and this is everything. This is escape, and release, and one last explosion of wildness and recklessness. One last moment of being alive before I get shut away like a bird in a cage.

  His hands are strong and full of raw power as he grips my hips, grinding into me and pushing me back into the bed. One hand moves to my cheek, and I moan as I suck his thumb between my lips, gasping as I feel the wave start to crash over me. He pulls away from my neck, his teeth leaving delicious marks and memories across my skin there before he crushes his lips to mine, bruising me, making me moan, making me feel.

  He pulls back again, and his startlingly blue eyes like winter ice piercing into my own. Two shocking pinpoints shadowed by the mask he wears; the same mask that covers my own green eyes.

  The masks are the only things we haven’t torn off each other in the near pitch-black of the lavish room.

  And then I’m moaning, and cascading over that edge like water over a cliff. I’m rushing screaming towards that beautiful release and-

  And that was a week ago.

  But now we’re here, and now, and in a very different room. In this room, we’re not wearing masks. We’re clothed this time; him in the dark, nondescript suit and earpiece of the United States Secret Service, and me in the formal cream-colored skirt-suit and Jackie-O pearls.

  This time, we’re not pressed hotly to each other in the dark shadows of the room built for sex, draped in crimson and silk.

  This time, we’re standing on opposite sides of the Oval Office; the Oval Office, in the White House.

  This time, my world is shattering around me in a very different way than it did in that other room, before.

  “What?” I’m shaking my head. “I- I don’t understand.”

  “Madison, I’m not sure why exactly this is such a shock to you.” My mother frowns at me from behind the big oak desk - her desk as of exactly fifty-two minutes ago when she swore with her hand on a bible in front of the entire world with me standing frozen behind her in the chilly D.C. afternoon. She looks almost regal standing there behind it with her fingers splayed across the crested seal of the United States and her brow furrowed at me, like she was born for this role.

  My mother; Madame President, as of precisely fifty-two minutes ago.

  She frowns again and gestures with a slight nod of her head at Alec - Major Ryan, I should say, otherwise known as her Secretary of State - standing beside her. And she’s right; it’s not like the first part of what she’s just told me - told us - is any sort of surprise. Her and Alec’s relationship had of course been a secret to the media and in fact most people outside of her immediate circle for the entire campaign. I knew, of course, just like I suppose I knew there was a possibility of the news she’s just dropped on me happening.

  Of course they might get married.

  Just like of course I knew the Major had a son from his first marriage, and that he was joining the Secret Service after his tours in the Middle East with the Marines.

  But again, I knew those things, and those things aren’t what has my blood thundering in my ears. Those things aren’t what has my mouth hanging open and my breath catching like ice in my chest.

  Hunter Ryan - Major Ryan’s son - and I have never met before, at least not formally.

  But oh, we’ve met.

  I know those eyes. He’s not wearing a mask this time, but I’d know that piercing, icy-blue gaze anywhere. I know that smirk, and the smile lines across his sharply defined jaw. I know those arms crossed across his chest, and I know the tattoos that cover them beneath that suit. I know what his lips feel like when they’re seared across my own, I know how wicked his tongue can be in so many places.

  And I know how his cock feels as he drives in deep and fills me up like never before.

  I know how it feels when I come with him, screaming into his skin.

  “No, but-” I’m stammering, my brow furrowing and my head shaking side to side almost by itself. “I don’t understand.”

  “Madison, honey-” Major Ryan’s started calling me that on the campaign trail, as if he’s already my father. He wrinkles his brow like he does when he’s thinking heavily. “Madison what your mother is saying is that this big secret you’ve had to keep all this time doesn’t have to be a thing anymore. In a few months, after your mother has gotten her stride in this office, and after we get some test polling back, we’ll tell the press and you can stop hiding this away like some dirty little secret.”

  He smiles at me, like he’s just delivered me from darkness; like the worst is behind us.

  He’s wrong.

  The worst is standing in front of me, his teeth flashing in a cocky grin, his eyes twinkling in smug arrogance and his brow cocked at me like he’s just dying to say “surprise!”

  Surprise, the hot, domineering stranger with the body carved out of marble who made you come like you’ve never come before while you both wore masks at a damned sex club is going to be your new stepbrother.

  Surprise, you fucked your stepbrother.

  I can stop hiding this dirty little secret now? Yeah, wrong. So wrong it’s almost laughable. Because now I’ve got a worse one; a way worse, way juicier, way dirtier little secret.

  Forget John and Marilyn, forget Watergate, and forget Monica. I’ve
got a scandal that could rock the entire world; a dirty little secret that could bring the most powerful country in the world to it’s knees. And that dirty little secret is standing right in front of me, grinning as he sticks his hand out and winks at me. “Pleasure to meet you, sis.”

  Oh fuck.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Well, this job certainly just got more interesting.

  Actually, “interesting” might not be quite the right word. Surreal? Mind-blowing?

  How about “fucked”; supremely, and utterly fucked.

  Spending the last year knowing and keeping a secret that my dad was an item with Congresswoman Adams - Presidential candidate Adams - was bizarre enough. Finding out that after almost a year of testing and being accepted into the Secret Service, I’ll have to give it all up when I officially become part of the presidential family was another serving of shit. Fuck, and then there was figuring out on day one with the service that the first and only assignment I’m going to pull is basically playing chaperone to my new fucking stepsister - the new first daughter.

  See, those are the things you categorize under “surreal”, or maybe even “mind-blowing.”

  Knowing my new post was going to be a pain in the ass I was prepared for. Knowing that in a few months when they break the silence and announce their impending wedding that I’ll be taken off the service and have my whole life turned around as the new step-son to the President of the United States I was even sort of starting to prepare myself for.

  But walking into the oval office and locking eyes with the last girl in the fucking world I would ever in a million years expect to see again - let alone here - takes the wind right out of me.

  Because it’s not the Norman Rockwell painting, or the famous Resolute desk dominating the far end of the office, or that photograph of Gorbachev shaking hands with Reagan that I lock onto.

  It’s the pair of deep green eyes and those soft, pouty pink lips that I’d know anywhere.

  But those sexy, smoldering eyes weren’t scowling at me before; not that night when they were squeezed shut in ecstasy. And that mouth with those perfect, pouty, utterly fuckable lips wasn’t hanging open in absolute horror before.

  That night it was moaning as her fingernails scratched my skin and her body shuddered and rocked against me while she came.

  Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck was the first daughter of the United States doing at a Goddamn sex club?

  It’s the place out of a dark fantasy; the place that embodies the wicked and erotic underside of Washington. And, I might add, the place I only got into that night by pulling every single string and connection I had. The place with the masks and no names.

  “What’s your name?”

  She grins, those sensual lips pulling back as her eyes flash through the shadow cast by her mask.

  “Not supposed to tell.” Her tongue slides out, wetting those lips and making my cock throb in my tuxedo. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to ask, either. Those are the rules.”

  “Maybe I’m just bad at doing what I’m told.”

  It’s not even a line I’d ever use, but it seems like something someone in this place would say; whatever “this place” is. I mean, shit, I like pussy as much as the next guy - probably more than the next guy if we’re being honest. But a secret, underground, members-only sex club complete with a password at the door and phonetician masks like something out of a Kubrick movie? Yeah, that’s a first.

  She doesn’t say anything in response to my line, so I step closer. She doesn’t pull back.

  “How about you, beautiful.” I slide my hand up her arm, her skin like silk as I pull her against me. I can feel her body immediately give and melt against mine. “Are you good at doing what you’re told?”

  Those lips grin again, and I can see her chest hitch with a breath under the slinky black dress she wears. “Guess you’ll just have to tell me and see if I behave.”

  Oh fuck me. She wants this as much as I do. This is fast and forward, even for ME, and I want to say there’s something about the air in this place, or the drinks, or the thumping, sensual music. Or maybe the fact that there are people slowly taking clothes off and coming together in pairs and threes and more all around us in the sultry dim light.

  But it ain’t the place; it’s her.

  It’s something in the way I can’t tear my eyes away from her. Something about whatever scent she’s got lightly brushed across her neck that invades my mind. Or maybe something about the way those lips just beg for it.

  I pull her to me, and she whimpers as my lips crush against hers. I’m pulling at the strap of her dress, right there in the corner shadows of the billiards room, but she stops me, her eyes flashing something different; something quick.

  “Not here-” It’s the first chink in that sultry, sassy armor, but I get it.

  “Can we-”

  “Come with me.” And then I’m pulling her through the slow undulation of the room around us. Past bodies wearing only masks and the sheen of ecstasy as they move together. But we’re leaving all that madness behind as I pull her into the dark of the empty bedroom and lock the door behind us before shoving her up against it and devouring her mouth with my own.

  And then it’s just her and me, and everything that two forces like that coming together brings.

  I blink, and I’m back in this room now; this room that’s the polar fucking opposite of that room and everything that went on there. And right then, as I glance from my father, to my younger brother Dexter slumped in one of the couches and rolling his eyes, to our new President looking stern behind her desk, to Madison-fucking-Adams - my soon to be stepsister - that the last puzzle piece clicks into place.

  Oh holy fucking shit.

  Yeah, everything is about to change alright, but I’m not thinking about the fucking job anymore. When this marriage happens, the girl standing across the oval office from me looking at me with fire in her eyes like this is all my fault somehow is going to be my stepsister. We’ll all be one big happy family.

  The first family.

  And, I’m willing to bet, certainly the first family where the first son has been inside of the first daughter.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  This isn’t happening, this can NOT be happening.

  “Madison, take your coat off, for crying out loud.”

  I ignore my mother, still scowling at the man across from me as I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat, pointedly not taking his outstretched hand. He raises an eyebrow at me and rolls his eyes, as if I’m some sort of child that’s acting out of line here.

  As if I don’t have every reason in the world to be absolutely floored by this revelation.

  “Wait, so why can’t you just tell everyone now?” Major Ryan’s younger son, Dexter, the kid with sullen look on his face picking at his collared shirt and tie like they’re shackles or something rolls his eyes at his father. “Seems like it’s still this big secret if we still have to keep playing this stupid game.”

  “Dexter-” The Major glares at his son before putting a hand over my mother’s on the desk. The kid looks like a little shit, but I have to admit he’s got a point.

  “The wedding and your father and my relationship has to be kept in the dark for as long as possible, Dexter, because it has to be.” My mother - President Eleanor Adams - stands tall and squares her shoulders behind the desk. “It has to be or my opposition in Congress will hold everything up and not let a single damn thing I back or endorse through on the grounds of some sort of perceived scandal, because that’s just unfortunately the petty way things work in politics.”

  “Petty like keeping secrets from everyone? Oh that’s rich.”

  “Dexter! That is quite enough!” His father thunders at him, his whole body tensing up to his full military-grade poise.

  My mother puts a hand on his arm though and smiles at Dexter in that way she does that just seems to settle things. The way she does that’s had voters floc
king to her in record numbers since she was running for local town council back when I was a kid in Oregon.

  “This town is a man’s game, Dexter. As much as we’d like to say it’s a level playing field, we all know damn well that it isn’t.” She frowns. “And it’s bad enough that I remind them all of their mothers or their sisters or their wives, but I will not have those old bastards treating me as such.”

  “I don’t understand why I have to be a part of this charade, and why is he here?” I scowl, pointing accusingly at Hunter.

  It’s a stupid thing to say, of course. Why wouldn’t Hunter be here? Even aside from being the son of my mother’s secret paramour, his father did just become Secretary of State.