Wearing Him Down

by Jessa Kane

  WEARING HIM DOWN

  Jessa Kane

  Copyright © 2019 Jessa Kane

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Epilogue

  Want to read Ophelia’s story?

  CHAPTER ONE

  My name is Sienna and I have a problem.

  A gorgeous, six-foot-three-inch problem named Grant Foster.

  My hormones have been doing toe touches since the moment he strode into my life, all business, no pleasure. A mean, modern overlord who can make Wall Street roll over and beg with a flick of his dark eyebrow. Only, he’s not mean to me.

  Oh no. I’m his princess.

  Did I mention Grant is my stepbrother?

  That seems important.

  Let’s start at the beginning.

  Our parents met last year, married on a whim and headed for Paris within a week. They’ve been on a whirlwind tour of planet Earth ever since. Being that my wealthy mother was never around to begin with, I was resigned to being raised by the housekeeper, which had been the status quo since I could remember.

  Grant, however, was not about to let that happen.

  The morning after our parents split to France, Grant arrived with a team of muscle-bound bodyguards that are now permanently assigned to me. Their first order of business was to make sure I was packed and transferred to Grant’s multi-million-dollar penthouse in Tribeca. At the time, I was heartbroken over my mother leaving—and frankly a little in shock that my high-powered hedge fund owner stepbrother gave two craps about my well-being.

  I would soon find out he did care. Quite a bit.

  Grant loves me. Spoils me. Loses his mind if I’m even in the vicinity of danger.

  But he doesn’t love me like I love him.

  I sigh and close my current assigned reading, The Art of Confident Living. I thought college would be the logical next step after I graduated high school, but Grant placed me in finishing school instead, where I’m learning how to conduct myself like a proper upper crust lady. Instead of classes like trigonometry and nineteenth century poetry, we study things like social media grace, polished wardrobes and strategic first impressions.

  Using my tiptoe, I spin my chair away from the clear, glass desk to face my bedroom. Even by my standards, this room is a palace. One wall is a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking New York Harbor. The other walls are covered in fine, black and white photography inside gilded frames. Polished floors peek out from beneath expensive oriental rugs, my giant four-poster bed sitting against the wall, fancy almost to a fault with its pink, puffy bedclothes. It looks like a cotton candy cloud.

  That bed is where I dream of Grant. Where I wake up frustrated and achy.

  It might as well be a torture table, the sheets made of broken glass instead of high thread count Egyptian cotton.

  My cell phone beeps on the table, letting me know it’s six o’clock and every inch of my body comes alive, anticipation raising goosebumps on my arms. Every single night, my stepbrother gets home at the exact same time. He didn’t become the lord of finance by playing fast and loose with his schedule. No, Grant is exacting and precise. He gets what he wants.

  I just wish he’d want me the way I want him.

  Knowing he’ll walk through my bedroom door any moment, I stand and drag a brush through my long, blonde hair. I reach for my silk robe, where it hangs in its usual spot on my desk chair—I’m not sure what stops me from putting it on, though. Maybe since my eighteen birthday came and went a week ago, I’m growing braver. My heart skips and skids as I let my hand drop from the robe. I pad toward my bed, lying across the mattress on my stomach.

  In nothing but a tank top and panties.

  What am I doing? Am I crazy?

  Looking back over my shoulder, I realize my butt cheeks hang out of my boy shorts and start to lunge off the bed, intending to put on my robe like a decent upstanding citizen—

  But I hear the telltale creak outside my door.

  “Shoot, shoot, shoot,” I whisper.

  Coming up with no other options, I flop down on the bed and pretend to be asleep.

  You know, like a totally mature, worldly eighteen-year-old.

  The door opens slowly and that ticklish sensation hits between my legs. It’s his scent. Bourbon poured over ice, topped with mint. There’s no reason why that smell should appeal to me. I’ve never had an alcoholic beverage in my life. I’ve often dreamed of tasting that combination of menthol and liquor from his tongue, though. Too many times.

  It’s a ridiculous dream. My gorgeous, thirty-three-year-old, millionaire, bachelor stepbrother has only moved me into his home because there’s compassion lurking deep inside him, underneath the cold exterior. Either that, or having an abandoned half-sibling running around untethered in New York City could be bad for his reputation on the off chance I land myself in trouble. Whatever the reason I’ve found myself under Grant’s care, I should be grateful and stop wishing he’d kiss me. Or touch me.

  If he did, I swear I wouldn’t tell a soul.

  I feel the slightest hesitation in Grant’s step when he walks into my bedroom. Don’t clench your butt cheeks, I order myself. As if this could get any more embarrassing. Trying to tempt my stepbrother—I should be ashamed of myself.

  And maybe I’ll locate that shame…tomorrow.

  Right now, I can do nothing but soak up the feeling of his gaze riding up the backs of my naked thighs and lingering on my half-exposed bottom, my cheeks cut in half by purple polka dots. Any second now, he’ll turn and leave the room and we’ll never speak of this again. Only, he doesn’t leave. I hold my breath as he circles around the back of me, stopping. He releases a long, slow exhale, then returns to my side in two measured steps. The robe is draped over me.

  “Sienna.”

  I blink like a cartoon owl, sit up and scramble into my robe. Where I should have been in the first place. “Oh hey! What time is it?”

  Grant’s brows arch over midnight blue eyes. He’s wearing a tie that matches them perfectly today, tucked into a pressed black suit. Power rolls off him like plumes of smoke. Looking up at him from my kneeling position on the bed, I could be praying to God. If God was sinfully handsome with black, close-cropped hair and kept secrets hidden behind his eyes. His shoulders are so wide they block everything else out, his chest and stomach in ruthless shape. He’s sturdy in a way that dares me to get a running jump and wrap myself around him. My stepbrother is slightly too handsome to be a beast, but there is something animalistic about the way he watches me. Unless that’s just my wishful thinking injury acting up again.

  “You never fall asleep at this time, Sienna. What has made you overtired?”

  If he only knew the rush I get when he says my name, he would probably stop. It’s like someone teasing me with a feather from the inside. “I was up late last night studying for my social etiquette exam,” I lie. “I guess the lack of sleep caught up with me.”

  “I will speak with your instructors. You require eight hours of sleep.” A muscle ticks in his cheek and he reaches for the cell phone tucked inside his suit jacket. “Perhaps I should arrange for private tutoring.”

  “Oh no,” I breathe, reaching out to
stay his hand. “Please don’t do that. I’d miss everyone at the finishing school.”

  “Would you?” He takes a single step closer to the bed. We’re still separated by a good foot and a half, but that one step might as well bring our bodies flush. I swallow a whimper and feel his scent sink deeper and deeper into my blood stream. “I assume you’re talking about missing your girlfriends. Considering there are no male instructors, students or faculty members.”

  I swallow. “Yes.”

  “That was my first order of business when I purchased the school and hand placed you there. Only females would breathe the same air as you. No males, save me and your security team. That won’t be changing.”

  “Yes, I know, Grant.”

  Do I imagine the way his eyelids droop when I say his name? “You say you would miss everyone at the finishing school.” His brow furrows. “Does that mean you’re lonely at home?”

  “No, of course not,” I hedge. I’m not lonely, exactly. Not with Grant around. But I wouldn’t mind a friend my age to talk to once in a while.

  And he seems to know it. Of course he does. This man misses nothing. “Because if there is a friend in particular you’d like to come over, I will allow it,” he says, cutting a glance toward the window. “If it makes you happy.”

  My mouth stretches into a smile. “Really?”

  His attention returns to me sharply and he clears his throat—hard. “Every pupil has been vetted, along with their families and close friends. Nonetheless, whoever you choose will still be watched very closely.” At his sides, both fists clench and release. “I don’t trust anyone with my princess.”

  I try and hide the fact that moisture is pooling between my legs. Princess, he calls me. I know he means it as an endearment between stepsiblings, but I hear it differently. I hear it the way a lover would, whether it’s right or wrong. “Thank you, Grant. I’ll think about inviting someone over.”

  He nods briskly.

  Several moments tick by as we stare at one another.

  “Do you want your hug now?” I whisper, just in case my dozen security guards can hear us through the door.

  Grant’s big chest starts to rise and fall. Fast. Fast. His jaw looks like it might shatter. “Yes.”

  Anticipation is tossed around in my belly like powder puffs. Don’t read anything into the daily hugs. I’ve told myself this hundreds of times. Ever since the first evening Grant came to my room and we performed the ritual, I’ve been reminding myself not to paint some romantic idea of how we touch. My stepbrother is a closed off man who works constantly. He trusts no one. As far as I know, he doesn’t date—please, please let that last part be accurate. Basically, Grant has no use for humans, unless they’re making him money.

  Or so he lets the world believe.

  With me, once a day, he lets his guard down and absorbs the human contact the rest of us need to be happy. To survive. He’s chosen me to give him that few minutes of comfort and I’m not going to twist our act of love into something sexual. As badly as I might want it to be.

  I walk toward him on my knees, arms outstretched. He used to feign indifference during this part, but he doesn’t any longer. Now, his pupils dilate, turning his blue eyes black. His breath shudders in and out through his nose, faster and faster the closer I come. And when I finally wrap my arms around his neck, he groans into the quiet room, picking me up off the bed with ease and holding me tight to his chest.

  “Tell me what I want to hear,” he orders, his mouth open against my ear.

  “I’m your princess.” I wrap my legs around his waist. “All yours.”

  “The rest of it, Sienna.”

  “I’ll never leave.”

  A shudder goes through him and I soak it up, letting my stepbrother run his hands all over me. Down my back, over my hips, up my arms. He’s so starved for human contact, he has to do this. I could feel his need for touch from the very first day we met, which is why I spontaneously hugged him our first night living together. I had an immediate need for Grant to know he could be human around me, if no one else.

  After stiffening for several seconds, he returned the hug.

  And now every night, we meet here and recreate a moment that gets better with time. Wrapping my legs around him is something new. Something I’ve only done for the last week or so. His big hands might have started exploring me in different—lower—places, like my backside and thighs, but that could just be wishful thinking. Maybe he’s always done it. As for his erection, I’m not sure when that started since I only noticed it when our private parts begun touching, thanks to my legs around his waist. I know his body can’t help reacting to the nearness of a female, so I don’t read too much into the thick, raised flesh prodding my panties.

  I just wish I was free to rub myself all over it.

  God, I would love that. I would die from happiness.

  But I’m too afraid to lose this connection. I crave our closeness. It’s my world.

  If I pushed too far and found out Grant doesn’t want me as a lover, I would ruin this unique relationship we have. After a youth of being passed around between nannies, it’s the most honest, genuine one I’ve ever had. So I remain still and let him take from me. Let him be someone other than the god of finance for five minutes.

  Right now, he’s just my stepbrother.

  I’m his stepsister.

  And he touches me like I’m his personal princess.

  Because that’s exactly what I am.

  Something else new happens now, however. Grant plants his knees on the bed and lays me down on the mattress, my ankles still wrapped loosely at the small of his back. His mouth is an inch from mine and I force myself not to whine or beg for kisses. Our first. I would do anything. I’d do anything for him to ram that big, meaty part of him against me, too. Just to know what it feels like.

  Grant doesn’t kiss me, though. Or ram his arousal into me.

  In a slow deliberate movement, Grant rolls me over onto my stomach. Air kisses the backs of my thighs and I feel him looking at me there. I squeeze my eyes closed and fist the sheets, waiting. Waiting for what?

  I almost shred the bedclothes with eager fingers when my stepbrother lifts the hem of my robe, exposing my barely covered buttocks.

  “I know you weren’t sleeping when I walked in, Sienna. I know every fucking thought in your beautiful head. You wanted to show this off to me.” His hand comes to a rest on my bottom, cupping my right cheek, jiggling it hard. Before I can process what’s happening, Grant delivers a slow, sensual swat to my flesh. A spanking wrapped in silk, with just enough bite to make me gasp. “Do not let it happen again.”

  I’m still reeling when the door snicks shut behind him and I’m alone again.

  A frustrated sob leaves my mouth.

  All at once, I realize I can’t go on like this. My femininity is clenching, my underwear is sopping wet—and having Grant touch my naked skin is a freshly formed addiction.

  I need another hit.

  I just have to figure out how to get it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I press my knees together tight to keep them from shaking.

  It doesn’t help.

  I’ve never been sent to the headmistress’s office before. I’ve never even had an instructor become cross with me. If anything, I’m the teacher’s pet of the finishing school, turning in my work early and raising my hand during lessons. Not today. Today I’m sitting in the row of cold, hard, plastic chairs of shame, waiting for…what? Is the headmistress going to call my stepbrother?

  I swallow a nervous sound and press my knees together tighter.

  Grant does not have a spare second in his busy schedule. Even when he’s at home in the evenings, he’s constantly taking phone calls and hammering out emails, all while remaining totally stoic and unflappable. It’s kind of incredible to watch. And I watch a lot. Usually peeking around the door jamb of his sprawling home office, wishing he would stop working and come hug me again.

  Grant i
s definitely not going to hug me today. Not if they pull him out of a multi-million-dollar negotiation so he can come deal with his goodie-two-shoes-turned-troublemaker stepsister.

  Maybe I should make a run for it.

  Chewing on my lower lip, I eyeball the main office door. I’m actually considering blowing out of the finishing school on foot and moving to Spain. Unfortunately, I’d have to make it past my dozen bodyguards, all of whom are stationed outside the office door.

  I sag and blow out a breath. Looks like I’ll have to brazen this out.

  The main office door opens and I suck in a breath, but it’s not Grant. It’s another girl in an identical uniform to mine. Blue plaid skirt, white button-up blouse, knee-high socks. I recognize her from aerobics class, though we’ve never spoken.

  She runs a hand down her long, dark ponytail and plops down in the chair beside me, throwing one shapely leg over the other. “Hi. I’m Ophelia.”

  “Hi.” I attempt a smile. “Sienna Foster.”

  Her lips twitch prettily. “I know who you are. Everyone does. Your brother commissioned the finishing school.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say on a sigh.

  We share a quiet laugh.

  “What are you in for?” she asks.

  My expression turns miserable. “I fell asleep in Time Management.” I turn to her wide-eyed. “My professor said I obviously need the class more than anyone.”

  Her mouth forms an O. “Next time, can you disrupt aerobics?” She shudders. “I don’t like to sweat. They told me it wasn’t a good enough excuse to sit out. I begged to differ and here we are. Again.”

  Against all odds, I’m smiling. “You come here often, then?”

  Ophelia gives me a prim look. “Someone has to keep these stuffed shirts on their toes. Couldn’t your brother have hired cooler instructors?”

  I’m back to being glum. “You should ask him yourself. He’s probably on his way here now.”

  She eyes me closely. “Are you scared of him?”