by Ruby Scott
“You move, I stop.” I teased and he took a big breath as he nodded again.
I held my hands on his hips and started thrusting myself against him again. This time I slid my fingers downwards and started playing with myself as I uncontrollably shuddered at my own touch. Moments later Trey’s hands were back at me and his fingers replaced mine, delving between my wetness. I didn’t stop him this time. I couldn’t stop him. I was lost in the eruption developing inside of me and we were both moaning and grunting so loud that I knew he was feeling it too. Finally, everything came to a stop and the release was insane. His juices lay sprawled across his stomach and I lay on top of him, actually wanting to feel his pleasure against me.
“I do love you, Kaitlin. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Trey.”
And we held each other for hours, not caring what the future brought, as long as we were together.
THE END
© Copyright 2015 by Kristen Chase - All rights reserved.
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Forbidden Billionaire
by Maya Grey
When Mom told me that she was getting re-married, I was initially happy. That was before I knew just who she was getting married to. If I would have known that I would have laughed at the billionaire on the screen with my dorm mate just before returning home and seeing him in person, I wouldn’t have been nearly as happy.
I probably would have thrown a fit, honestly. She had seemed a bit surprised at my lack of negative emotion; probably because she oh-so-conveniently neglected to tell me who she was getting married to. Later, I doubted it was on purpose. Mom has always been a bit spacey, probably a side effect of being an artist who wandered the U.S. as an adult before she met dad and settled down.
Packing up and leaving campus for Christmas break was a blessing. I had just taken my psychology and criminology finals, and I was about as useful as a potato when I was done. The chance that I would get to splurge on Mom’s pumpkin pecan pie was something I looked forward to all year. I thought about that on the drive home, not even sparing a thought to her new fiancé.
When I walked into the house, I was greeted by the smell of her famous cooking. It felt like home for all of two seconds, and then that was spoiled by some sort of strange cologne that wasn’t at all like Old Spice and whiskey; dad’s smell. My eyes, which had closed upon the delicious scent, snapped open, and I was staring at a man who was completely unfamiliar to me. I know I should have realized just who he was; I had seen him on TV over the years, but he looked so different out of his customary suit and tie. He was in jeans and a button up flannel (one point against him for looking like a freaking lumberjack) and his graying-at-the-temples hair wasn’t slicked back as it always was when he appeared in public. I’d also never seen him smile on camera, and he was flashing a hundred-watt grin at me.
“Um,” I said eloquently. “Hi?” I dropped my bag onto the floor beside the tray where all of our shoes were and reached out a hand. “You must be the fiancé.” I flinched internally as I said that. It sounded too harsh for anything good to come from it.
On his account, the fiancé simply laughed, flashing gold molars. “I’m Randy. Randy Nicholson,” he said, taking my hand and giving it a few firm pumps.
I should have caught it there, but ‘Randy’ was a fairly common name, as was ‘Nicholson.’ It wasn’t as if there would only be one in the entire mess that we somewhat-lovingly called New York City. “Oh, nice to meet you,” I said, not missing a beat. Randy looked at me a bit strangely, which I later realized was confusion at the absence of fawning and cooing that usually came with his amount of money. He probably thought that I never flipped on the TV in those first few moments.
Mom came out and rescued both of us from the torture we were putting each other through; awkward introductions and all. “Honey,” she cried, wrapping her arms around me. I patted her on the back and tried to avoid getting a face-full of heavily styled hair. “You should come home more often,” she tutted, pulling back and looking me over. “I swear, you’ve lost more weight since Thanksgiving.” At 5’6” and 140 pounds, my mother was considered voluptuous. She had curves in the right places and lean muscle in others. I did not inherit that from her.
“I’ve been trying out the meals you sent me,” I sighed. “There’s just not enough time to go out and get all of the groceries.”
My mother patted my arm consolingly. “We’ll get you fattened up for the week,” she promised. I nodded, though I knew it wasn’t happening. No matter what I ate, I hardly ever gained weight. I had to eat like a linebacker just to gain one measly pound. It was getting to the point of ridiculousness.
Before I could find something to say, the sound of another set of footsteps carried through the house. I looked at Mom questioningly, and she gave me that look that deer got when they found themselves standing in front of a car moving at sixty miles an hour.
Well, damn.
“Is this Isabelle?” a deep, rich voice asked. I felt a shiver go down my spine at the voice alone. And then came his face. The recognition was lost for a few moments because he looked a million times better in person than he did on TV. Deep, tanned skin framed by dark, inkblot black hair set the perfect canvas for intense blue eyes that were almost neon in color. I caught a ragged breath at the desire that shot straight down my body like a hand sliding over bare skin, chasing the shiver with pure fire.
Then the recognition hit. Bastian Nicholson. Player extraordinaire, the guy was practically the wealthiest twenty-something in New York. He went through girls like condoms and had managed to build an empire that centered on the entertainment industry. He owned and operated over a dozen clubs that were high class and VIP entrance only throughout the entire city. His parents were also very wealthy, but he had gone out and made his own name and his own money. And, oh, did he know it. The arrogance alone had instantly turned me off from thinking that he was the least bit attractive. The devil-may-care attitude was a second, and the way he flaunted his looks was a close third. I don’t like my guys cocky. That was exactly why I had laughed at his face on the television that morning while packing up.
My mother, Randy and Bastian were all staring at me, and I realized that I was simply staring at the sex god that stood before me, one hip cocked out to lean against the door frame. “Um,” I repeated. Well, looked like I’d be the idiot for the night. “Yeah, I’m Isabelle.”
“I’ve heard so much about you.”
The way he said it made me instantly melt. My mother had been telling him about me? Oh, shit, what had she been telling him?
Get a grip, I groused to myself. It’s not as if you even care. I blinked and realized that I was still simply standing there like a fool. “You have?” I managed, trying to wrestle with myself internally to stop these idiotic feelings before they even began developing. Step. Brother. He’s your stepbrother. That did nothing to calm my heart, which pounded as if I had just gone for a run.
A sudden beeping sound broke me out of my reverie, and I blinked. Mom started. “That would be the roast. You go sit down and I’ll bring supper out,” she said, shooing us into the dining room.
It was strange to walk the same halls I had as a child with complete strangers at my side. Randy attempted to make polite conversation, but Bastian ignored both of us in favor of the silverware, which he apparently found exceptionally fascinating.
“I am very interested in what you are going to school for,” Randy halfway-asked.
“Criminal psychology,” I responded dully, wishing that I was infantile enough to act like Bastian.
“Interesting,” Randy said. “Why did you choose that line o
f work?”
I shrugged. “Dad was a cop. It seemed only natural that I would get into the same line of work as him. I just didn’t want to chase drug dealers down the streets.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, and I realized too late that I should have left Mom’s first husband out of the conversation for the first few weeks—or years. Bastian finally looked up and smirked at me as if he could sense my discomfort. I gave him a glare and was about to attempt to patch up the situation when Mom bustled in with a huge roast wreathed by carrots and celery. It had been months since I’d had a good, home-cooked meal, and I perked up for the first time since finals.
Mom was either oblivious to the tension I had accidentally created or chose to ignore it. “It’s nice to know that you two are already getting along so well,” she said. “I hope Bastian and Isabelle will get along, too,” she added conspiratorially to Randy.
I let out a snort that I quickly covered with a cough. Not a chance in hell, Mom. “I’m sure we’ll get along admirably,” I said, laying the sarcasm on so thick that I’m surprised it didn’t drip from the very air. I slanted a look over at Bastian, who was watching me with a quirked eyebrow.
“Of course we will,” he answered, grimacing at me, but turning it quickly into a dazzling smile when Mom looked at him. “Pass the wine?”
I huffed out a breath and took a generous sized portion of meat and began decimating it with my knife. It might have been slightly childish, but I pretended it was Bastian’s face the entire time I sulked in silence while Randy and Mom tried to engage both him and me in conversation. This was going to be absolute and utter hell; I could already tell.
###
I woke to the smell of coffee brewing and my sheets tangled around my ankles. A strange scraping sound was issuing from outside, and it took me several moments of blinking at the bobblehead cat that was inches away from my nose on the nightstand for me to recognize it.
I was up in an instant and flying down the stairs into the kitchen. Mom looked up at me, seeming unsurprised at my frazzled and half-dressed appearance. Randy, however, nearly choked on his coffee. I wasn’t sure whether it was because of my sudden appearance or the way my hair was probably sticking out. Maybe both.
“Mom, what’s going on outside?” I asked.
“Bastian, the dear, decided that he would shovel the snow that fell last night,” Mom said.
“But…” I sputtered, “But I would have done that. I always do that!”
“You seemed really out of it last night,” Mom said. “Bastian offered and I took him up on it.”
“I was fine last night. And just because I’m a student now doesn’t mean that I’ve become unable to do what I’ve done for five years.”
“I know,” Mom soothed, patting my cheek. “And you’ll get to do it next time, alright?”
I hated that she was speaking to me like a pouting child, but I couldn’t stop now. “Whatever,” I said, going over to the coffee machine and pouring myself a cup.
The door opened and closed, and my irritation surged once again. Bastian came into the kitchen after stomping his boots loudly on the front stoop and generally being annoying.
When he came into the kitchen, his cheeks were tinged with pink from the cold and he had snowflakes all over in his hair. I started to think it was cute and then shut my brain down. Bastian grinned at Mom. “Your driveway’s all done.”
Then he turned to me, and the smile fell. He looked me over slowly, carefully, and I felt something in my chest squeeze tight as his eyes went just this side of hungry as he reached my bare legs. I shifted uncomfortably after he stared uncomfortably at the short hem of my shirt for several seconds and he seemed to snap out of it. He didn’t meet my eyes again as he turned to Mom. “Have any coffee?”
The fact that he could actually talk was amazing and rather annoying. I felt as if my tongue was glued to my mouth and my mouth was scattered in a thousand different directions from that simple look. “Of course,” Mom said after a few moments, reaching past me into the cupboard and pulling out a mug. She shot me a look that said, stop being so infantile, and I shrugged. She had misread my hesitation. I was still reeling from that utterly lust-filled look.
I took my coffee mug and sat down at my usual place, shooting a glare at Bastian when he tried to sit beside me.
“So,” Richard said, flicking another page of the paper he had picked up, “what plans do you two have today?”
I blinked and realized that he was talking to me after Mom’s and Bastian’s eyes both fell on me, waiting. “I don’t have anything going on.”
“I might want to go check and see if Bart has filled that form out for building a new club on the east side.”
“It can wait. I want you and Isabelle to help clean up this place. Lisa has been wanting to for the longest time and now that you are both available, I think you should help.”
Oh, no. Was this some sort of sibling bonding attempt? Did they notice that Bastian and I were at odds, even though we had both tried very hard to be civil with each other last night?
It wasn’t going to work, that was for sure. I gave Mom a strained smile, attempting to convey that I really, really didn’t want to do this. She glanced at me, but nothing registered to let me know that she understood my silent plea.
Well, then. I sighed and turned away before I looked over at Bastian—again. He was too hot for his own good, dammit. “We’d be happy to help out, wouldn’t we, Bash?” For the first time since we had met, I actually wasn’t trying to strike a nerve, but when I shortened his name, something dark flashed through his eyes, and a slight frown drew his eyebrows over his eyes.
“Yes, we will. Where do you want to start?” His eyes found mine, and I shivered as the emotion leeched out of his gaze. He looked past me a moment later as if I was naught but a spot on the wall he had been observing with distaste.
“Mom?” I asked, turning quickly away from his strange glance. “Where do you want us to start?”
“The garage,” Mom said distractedly, flipping a pancake with precision that spoke of doing it for years. Pancakes had been my favorite breakfast as a child, so it was no surprise that she was a pro. “But you can wait until after breakfast.”
“We can start while you finish,” Bastian said, pushing himself away from where he had leaned against the counter to get his coffee.
I groaned, not wanting to get up from my chair, but after a moment when no one told me differently, I set my coffee down and gave Mom a halfway reassuring smile. “Come get us when breakfast is ready.”
The garage was cold when I opened the door and motioned Bastian through before me, and it caused goose bumps to rise all along my bare legs. Whoops, I thought. Should have put pants on. It was too late though, and I would just have to ignore the fact that I was practically naked in front of this freakishly good-looking man.
Bastian flicked on the light, and the dust smell that seemed to come with all garages hit me. I resisted the urge to cough and moved over to one of the shelves that lined the walls of the garage.
“We should probably just take all the boxes down and we can go through them after breakfast,” I said. “Mom can come help us so that we don’t throw away anything important.”
Bastian didn’t respond, but I heard the scrape of cardboard a moment later. I rolled my eyes. If I didn’t know any better, he was pouting.
We worked in silence for a long while. It wasn’t the companionable kind of silence I would have been feeling if it were Mom out here helping take boxes down. It was tense, as if someone had a piece of wire stretched taut over a knife. There was only so long before it would break and we would be at each other’s’ throats.
It happened much more quickly than I thought it would. I was moving a box off of the edge of the top shelf to the left of Mom’s old Saturn and Randy’s sophisticated Porsche, when the sudden weight caught me off guard, and I stumbled back.
I hit something hard—god was he that ripped?—and then s
trong, corded arms that one only achieved at the gym wrapped around me. I felt a shock go down my body, and I stiffened. His arms were gone by that point I had managed to comprehend what was happening.
Bastian was warm enough that I felt my body chilling once again. I took a deep breath in and let it out on a huff. “Thanks,” I snapped, setting the box down. I glanced around. Bastian was maneuvering a box to the side of the garage as if nothing had happened. He glanced up at me, blue eyes practically glowing in the thin light.
“Be careful,” he responded. I rolled my eyes at his snappy tone.
“I don’t need you to look after me. I’m fine on my own, thank you very much,” I said after a few moments.
“Very capable.” His tone was so full of mocking that I could honestly believe that he outmatched me in my level or sarcasm. If only for this Moment, because I wouldn’t relinquish my title as Queen of Sarcasm that easily.
I glanced back to see him giving me that infuriating grin that I wanted to smack off of his face. “I am,” I said, “ninety-nine percent of the time. You’re lucky you caught me in the one percent of failure. It’s a once in a blue thing you’ll never see again if you’re going to be living in this house.”
The grin faded from Bastian’s face, replaced by a glower. I found that I kind of wanted the grin back. At least I could have a good reason to gripe at him if he had that idiotic grin on his face. I sighed and turned around again.
“Your mother will most likely move into Randy’s mansion.”
“Randy, is it?”
There wasn’t a response, and I realized I must have hit a sore spot. “Were you consulted about this marriage?” I asked quietly, turning to lean against the empty shelf after setting a much lighter box beside the heavy one.
I caught myself watching Bastian’s arm muscles ripple as he slid another box off of the top shelf. He was wearing a short sleeved black t-shirt that was tight around his chest but didn’t quite hug his abs. Which I knew full well were there and very prominent, having just felt them against my back. Who the hell wears a short sleeved t-shirt while shoveling snow? I thought with annoyance.
