Dear Stepbrother, I Want You

by Madison Faye

Skye

  My heart races and my knees knock — literally knocking together — as my eyes drag up to the huge, massive wooden door. The house is enormous, even by Malibu standards. All glass and exposed beams — sexy, lavish, huge, and expansive.

  Rich.

  Terrifying.

  Some people come to Malibu — the shining jewel on the crown of Los Angeles — to seek their fortunes. But most are here to show off the fortune they already have. I mean, every house on the drive here is easily pushing twenty million a piece, with another couple million in cars in the driveway or boats out on private marinas.

  But this house trumps them all.

  I’m not here to seek my fortune, and I’m certainly not here to show off, since I don’t have any fortune to speak of, at all. I’m the opposite of rich — not just poor, because “poor” would be an improvement than the current state of things for me. No, I’ve moved beyond “poor” into something worse.

  Debt.

  Not mine, but now it’s mine to shoulder. Mine to bear. I swallow, glancing back at the driver. As scary as he was on the ride over here, he’s at least a face I know, even if he didn’t speak a word and hardly even looked at me the entire way over here. This time is no different. The hulk of a man stands motionless beside the Bentley, impassive as the door I stand in front of, his shaded eyes not meeting mine.

  I have no idea what to expect beyond these doors. Servitude? Prison? Torture? I shiver, my heartbeat racing and my innards turning to jelly as the weight of the reality of this hits me. Because as of right now, I belong to a monster.

  I’ve never met Jagger Kovac before, but I of course know of him. Most people might not, truth be told, but in my house, the name is like the Pope. Mr. Kovac operates in the shadows. He’s the boogeyman — the man pulling the strings for most of the syndicated crime in California, if not the entire western sector of the United States, after taking over from his uncle a few years ago.

  He’s not a gangster — not one of those people you hear about, or see in flashy blingy cars, or read about in the papers when they get caught.

  Jagger Kovac is above all that. Filthy hands that never get dirty.

  My father is one of the underlings — a low level drug pusher, not to mention a mean drunk, a gambler, and a frequent and sore loser. And that’s why I’m here — a bet. A damn gambling table bet that he was stupid enough to get into with Jagger.

  With me as the prize.

  No, really. My father loses a stupid poker hand, and now I belong to Jagger Kovac. Payment for a debt.

  I’m shivering again at the thought when the door swings silently open in front of me. A demure, quiet older man ushers me inside the enormous foyer — the doorway inside flanked by two towering indoor palm trees. From where I stand, I can look through into the massive living room, and out beyond it, the sparkling azure of the Pacific Ocean glittering in the So-Cal sun.

  “This way, Ms. Jensen.”

  The butler, or servant, or whatever he is, says only those four words before he gestures with his chin, leading me through the house into the living room. The view is striking in here, and I’m practically dragging my jaw across the floor when he nods at a chair overlooking the view by the window — indicating for me to sit.

  “Please wait here for Mr. Kovac.”

  I nod quickly, demurely, trying to act as if this is something I do all the time. Like arriving at gorgeous, palatial houses because the mob bosses who live in them now own me is a regular thing for me. The butler doesn’t meet my eye though, merely nodding at the chair and waiting for me to take a seat before taking his leave.

  The house is silent, and I can feel my heart racing all over again as I look out over the water. My hands smooth the cream-with-pink-flower-print sundress I’m wearing down over my thighs. It’s the nicest thing I own, and for whatever messed up reason, something inside of me wanted me to look nice for today.

  For him.

  We’ve never met, but again, I know who he is, and I certainly know his reputation. Ruthless, brutal, and dominant. Jagger Kovac runs the empire he controls with an iron fist — demanding loyalty and obedience like a king of an ancient land. And when even mean, hardened lowlifes like my father and his friends are scared of the man, you know it’s more than just rumor and reputation.

  That’s the part that should terrify me. It’s knowing all that about the top man in a vast criminal empire that should have me trembling in fear, or crying, or begging for mercy. But there’s another part of Jagger Kovac, and it’s not stories I hear from my father’s drunk, drugged up friends. It’s not from reputation as a fearsome, domineering crime boss.

  It’s that one time, a few years before, I saw the man that barely anyone sees, and after that, something inside of me caught fire.

  It was at a wedding for the son of one of Jagger’s underbosses. How my scumbag, middle-management drug-pusher of a father got an invitation I have no idea, but he insisted on bringing me. And that’s where I’d seen him.

  That’s when I’d felt wicked, heated, illicit feelings like that somewhere deep inside of me for the first time in my life.

  He’d only appeared for a moment. After all, this was soon after he’d taken over the empire, and I’m sure there were more than a few people out there who wanted him dead to try and take it from him. But the man whose son was getting married had been one of Jagger’s uncle’s top men, so duty mandated he make an appearance.

  And God, what an appearance.

  Because for all of the scariness, and fearsome, brutal reputation surrounding him, there’s one thing I hadn’t known about my father’s boss before that night: Jagger Kovac was gorgeous.

  It wasn’t in a Brad Pitt, handsome Hollywood kind of way, or one of those pretty boys cooing out wimpy love songs in music videos. No, Jagger Kovac was beautiful, and dark, and gorgeous in a very grown up way. Dark hair and even darker, haunting eyes. A jaw carved out of wood, and strong, eastern European features that highlighted his Serbian background. He’d worn his dark blue suit without a tie that night, the crisp white dress shirt open at the neck and the swirling ink of his dark black tattoos peeking through. Broad, muscled shoulders, like those of a football player or something, stretched the material of the suit. I’d watched, dry-mouthed and panting, at the way his biceps rippled and strained at the sleeves as he’d shaken hands.

  I’d never before felt the wicked, teasing feeling I’d felt inside the instant I’d laid eyes on him back then, but I knew one thing.

  I liked it.

  I liked the way looking at this dangerous, brutal, ferociously sexy man made me feel — dirty, tingly, excited, and scared, all at the same time.

  But that was years ago. And besides, even if he’d seen me back then — and I’m sure he didn’t — all he’d have seen would’ve been a gawky, silly little girl staring at him like a weirdo. So, as much as my dirty, inappropriate fantasies want to pretend that that was why I’m here, I know it isn’t. No, I’m here, in this gorgeous, glass castle of a house, because my scumbag father went on a bender, then went on a losing streak, and then decided to stake me on one last hand.

  And lost.

  I’m not here because Jagger Kovac wants me, like my teasing little fantasies want to pretend. I’m here because I’m his now, and all because of a bad draw in a game of cards. If my father weren’t the cruel, spiteful human being he is, Jagger might just have another stack of poker chips, or keys to a car, or maybe even an IOU in his possession right now.

  Instead, he has me. I shiver, smoothing down my sundress again as I let my gaze drift over the beautiful, serene view of the ocean.

  I feel his presence before I hear his footsteps, and as my heart jumps into my throat, I start to stand.

  “No.”

  The voice is like that of a Viking’s — strong, powerful, commanding, and menacing all at once. And yet, there’s a touch of something heated there too — a tinge of something fiercely protective.

  I freeze at the command, breath coming
fast, and my skin tingles as I hear him move towards me from behind.

  “Sit.”

  I nod quickly, smoothing my sundress down as I do as he says. The silly, girly fantasies and daydreams vanish, replaced by the cold fear and the brutal reality that I’m now in the possession of this fearsome man.

  He moves right behind my chair, and I shiver at the feel of the heat from his body. I can smell the scent of his aftershave — something woodsy and manly. Something that smells expensive, and powerful, and clean. For a second, I have a funny thought that a man with this sort of reputation should smell like smoke and sulfur — like the devil I’ve been told he is. And yet instead, he smells, well…

  Good.

  Really, really good.

  His hands find my bare shoulders, and I tremble at the contact. I’m not sure if I want to jump out of the chair and run or melt into him. The warmth of those hands seep into my tensed muscles, the strong, powerful fingers brushing across my skin and leaving tingly, teasing trails as they trace the straps of my sundress.

  I very suddenly know I don’t want to run. I want to melt.

  “You’re here now.”

  His voice is a smooth, steely baritone, rough and yet warm, with the hint of accent from his background.

  I nod.

  “Yes,” I say quietly.

  “And do you know why you’re here?” he purrs, this time the voice lower and closer to my ear. I tremble again, my eyes half closing as those powerful hands stroke my skin and that dark, deep, dominant voice melts through my ears.

  I nod again, panting.

  “Good,” Jagger growls lowly.

  “Because you’re mine now.”

  Find the full book here!

  The Innocence Claimed books can be read in any order.

  They are all standalone stories.

  Legal

  Legal

  She's way off limits, and I know it. The problem is, I don't give a f*ck if she is.

  Somehow, that innocent girl next door - that girl I had no business thinking about like that, grew up. And I HAVE to have her. I've never felt this way about anyone, even in my Navy days - obsessed and crazy to the point of madness. It's like something primal; a beast inside of me that roars whenever she's near. She might be my buddy's little girl, and my next door neighbor, and damn near half my age...

  But she's legal, and I'm going to be her first; I'm going to claim and breed her. I don't care what the consequences are, because I'm going to make her mine if it's the last thing I do.

  Copyright © 2016 Madison Faye

  All rights reserved.

  Editing: Sennah Tate

  Cover: White Rabbit Creative

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.

  This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains extremely sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. This book is strictly intended for those over the age of 18.

  All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.

  1

  Chelsea

  I wanted Jake Harding before I even really knew what "wanting" something like that meant. I mean, what wasn't there to want about him? He was charming, and rugged in that manly way you only read in books or saw in movies, and he always had something nice to say to me, even at my dorkiest, nerdiest phase.

  He was also incredibly handsome with dark eyes, a strong jaw and a totally dreamy smile. I think I knew a man like Mr. Harding was “sexy” before I even know what sexy was; I knew he stirred something inside of me, even if I didn’t quite know what that something was.

  Ok, at twenty-five years my senior, and married, and our next door neighbor, and best friends with my parents, it was hardly a feasible match; not by a freaking mile.

  But I couldn't help what I felt. And what started as our names written on the covers of notebooks and childishly flighty daydreams quickly turned into something much more adult and much more longing as I got older.

  By the time I was eighteen, a senior, and getting ready to leave home for the first time, I was barely able to talk around him he got me so tongue tied and flustered.

  I'd watch him, biting my lip with bated breath as he peeled his t-shirt off his sweaty muscled torso after mowing the lawn. I'd let my eyes wander over every inch of his rugged chest, and imagine those big strong arms of his - still muscled from years of playing football back in the Navy with my dad - picking me up, instead of the bag full of grass clippings.

  Sure, I flirted, in that geeky, bumbling and inexperienced way that girls do before we really know what the hell we're doing. But it obviously never led to anything in the slightest. To Mr. Harding, I was just that gawky girl from next door; his buddy's daughter with braces and a bizarre way of blushing and stumbling over her words.

  But still, the seed was there, and as senior year turned into summer, that burning feeling of need and want got stronger and stronger the closer I got to leaving for college.

  We’d moved a lot when I was a kid, with my father being a Navy doctor. And being that a lot of those moves were overseas, by the time they got back to the States and stuck me into more regular schooling, I was stuck somewhere between two grades. The school decided that it was better for me to be on the older and more prepared side than the younger and playing constant catch-up side, so I was placed into 8th rather than 9th grade, which was also good because it gave me another year to acclimate to being a kid in the States and not living on a Naval base before I jumped into high school the next year.

  It was late August that last summer at home, the night of my nineteenth birthday and just two weeks before I'd be on my way to school. That’s the night when that first event occurred that would quickly push me down the path to what happened later. Yes, I'd wanted Jake for years, but when I look back, I know it was what I heard, and then what I saw that night that turned me from curious and fantasizing to flat out pining determination.

  I remember the night was hot and sticky in that muggy way only Florida can get. We had an AC unit in our living room back then, but my parents being the conservationist sticklers that they were, we were stuck with only fans in our bedrooms for those long hot nights.

  I tossed and turned that evening, kicking off even the thin sheet from my sweat-sheened body and then yanking my tank-top off before lying back in just my panties trying to get comfortable in the heat.

  Part of it, besides the temperature, was that I had Jake Harding on the brain bad that night. My parents had thrown me a big BBQ cookout in the backyard by the pool to celebrate my birthday that night. I'd invited a couple friends, but mostly it was just my mom, dad, and younger brother, and of course the Hardings from next door.

  I suppose it’s worth reiterating one teeny little detail here that Jake was not only much older - scandalously older, really - and friends with my parents, but also very much married. But Lenore, his wife, was always a little frosty I thought, and it wasn't just because I had the hots for her husband. They were one of those couples that just didn’t make sense to anyone. My dad had once let something slip about how Lenore’s father had given Jake a pretty great job after the Navy, before he started working for himself as college football scout, but my mom had hushed him after that, saying we had better things to do than pry into that.

  Well, she might have, but understanding what Jake found appealing about women was something I was very much inte
rested in.

  Anyways, that night at the BBQ, she’d seemed extra standoffish, giving me only the smallest of cold smiles as she wished me a happy birthday.

  Jake meanwhile had given me the best present I could have never actually asked for, which was part of the reason I was lying awake like this now, so late in the evening. When they'd walked over from their yard to ours for the party, he'd dropped a nicely wrapped gift on the picnic table, and then come over and picked me up in a big bear-hug! I about died right there as he'd swung me around, those big strong arms holding me tightly to his muscled body and making me squeal as he chuckled.

  "How the hell did you get so big, Chelsea?" He’d said, grinning broadly at me at he set my trembling, blushing body back on the ground.

  "Jake!" Lenore had rolled her eyes and smacked him in the arm. "You don't call girls 'big'. And watch your language!"

  He'd rolled his eyes at my furiously blushing face. “Oh, heck, you know what I mean Chelsea. You grew up! And now you're heading off to college! Man, where does the time go?" He pushed his hand up through his thick brown hair, flashing me that handsome grin that got me hot all over. “Besides, Lenore, she knows I'm not calling her big." He'd looked at me with that melting smile across his jaw. “You know you're going to be a little heart breaker at school, don't you Chelsea?"

  2

  Chelsea

  Ugh, that hug! Here I was hours later, long after the party had wrapped up and Jake and Lenore had gone back home, and I was still imaging his hands on my back, his arms wrapped around me, and the feel of his body so close to mine.

  The schoolgirl crush was much more adult these days. I'd barely even kissed a boy, being the skinny geek that I was, but I did know what desire felt like, and what to do with those urges when they kept me awake at night like this.