Wicked Stepbrother (Book Two)

by Lila Price

  I stroke him, the lather slick, making it easy to get him harder in my hands. This is heaven, with the steam around us, the water pelting us, with me throbbing for him.

  “And what do you want?” I ask on a breath.

  “I’m learning as I go along.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “But right now it’s you, Sosie. Only you.”

  Right now.

  I want him to need me for all time and not just for a few nights or the summer. So I coax my slippery hands behind him, running the soap up his back, pulling him closer.

  Then I slide my hands lower and a rush of power overtakes me as he grips my arms, his cock so stiff that it’s prodding my belly.

  Hell yes. I’m not only in Tristan’s league now—I feel as if I’m in my own category with him altogether, and all those other women he’s had can’t touch me.

  But I want him for longer than just tonight. So much longer. And if I need to tease some promises out of him, I will. I’m going to make him see how much he needs me.

  I push him against the wall, where the water hits our sides, then stand on my tiptoes to carefully soap his neck, his face. He smiles in frustrated amusement, as if knowing exactly what I’m doing.

  “Just making it easier for you to come clean,” I say.

  “I thought you liked it a little dirty.”

  “I can like it more than one way.”

  I lather him under the arms, and he starts to play my game, slipping down the wall low enough so that he grips my hips and his cock nudges my sex. Then, with a provocative stroke, he slides himself between my folds, not entering me, only rubbing back then forward again.

  I drop the soap, clenching his arms, biting back a tiny cry at this ultimate tease.

  “Still so much to learn,” he says softly.

  He glides his palms under my jaw, then brushes his thumbs over my cheeks. As he looks into my eyes, a deeper thrill spins through me. This isn’t just sex. This is…

  I still don’t know what it is for him, but for me, it’s genuine. It’s every fantasy I’ve had about the day when Tristan would finally look at me—really look at me—and see what’s always been there in front of him. It’s him actually waking up to realize that he doesn’t have to search anymore—I’m what he’s always been looking for so recklessly and restlessly.

  He brings me forward so that my chest is against his, then kisses me with such lingering passion that my heart stutters, trying to find a normal beat again. I’m not sure it ever will as he slips his tongue into my mouth and lifts me to my toes, then runs his hands to my bottom to cup it so that his cock skims through my folds once again.

  When he reaches over to turn off the shower, my body goes into overdrive, cells banging into each other like they’re in a high-speed, electric race. He carries me out of the shower, and the sound of the water dripping off our bodies and onto the tile keeps time with my pulse, except everything inside of me is much harder and faster.

  We don’t make it far, just to the counter. He sets me up there, his cock still nestled against my sex then looks at me again, his gaze wild, and I’m vaguely aware of the half-fogged mirrors around us. Mirrors filled with him and me, and only us.

  “Sweet, sweet Cherry,” he whispers, maneuvering so my legs are draped over his arms.

  Then with one smooth thrust, he’s inside me, and I tense up, expecting the same first-time discomfort from last night to return. But after a moment, I moan, loving the feel of him inside of me. I cling to him as he fucks me on that counter, ramming into me until I’m slumped back against the big mirror. He grasps my hips, moving me so that we’re in perfect time with one another.

  His gaze melts me as it travels from my eyes and lower, over my chest where my breasts are moving with each churning drive, then down to where his cock is slipping in and out of me.

  “Fuck,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that I feel, too, and I look down at how my legs are spread for him, how my pussy is open and surrounding his cock and how my juices are coating him as he pumps in and out of me.

  Heat burns through me at the sight, and I gasp as a tiny bang of ecstasy starts off my orgasm, then patters through me.

  He hammers into me even deeper. “You’re so tight, Sosie—fuck, so tight.”

  He’s about to come, and I’m there with him, the heat inside me wavering like a growing flame, because this definitely isn’t sex anymore, it’s something else, something that the flame is bringing out in the both of us, expanding and consuming, flaring up.

  When he climaxes, I catch on a sharp series of breaths, snagging on one as the muscles in my belly contract, skipping over another as the pressure only grows, and then…

  Then I blast apart, pulling him toward me with such fierceness that I gasp and gasp again, finally holding my breath until I can only pant in the aftermath.

  When Tristan gathers me into his arms, he’s also struggling to breathe. I hold him close, and neither of us says anything, not even after he carries me out of the bathroom and to his bed, where he lies down and brings me on top of him, body to body. Skin to skin.

  And best of all, heart to heart.

  8

  I lie on Tristan’s chest as it rises and falls with every breath he takes, and I rise and fall with him. I can hear his heart beating against my ear, and I slip my hands down until they cup his sides, where his lats are hard with muscle. His skin is so warm, and it smells like soap, and I’m drowning in him, afterglowing. Just plain glowing.

  My breasts are crushed against his chest, and it’s an intimate sensation, but not sexual as much as…I don’t even know how to describe it. The word that seems even remotely to fit is close. I’ve never felt this close to anyone, with my body stretched over his, our breaths matching until we feel like one person.

  I don’t ever want this to end.

  We don’t say anything for such a long time that I wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but then he winds my hair around his finger, playing with it.

  “It’s gotten wavier.” His voice rumbles through me.

  “Just in the last couple of years.” At the end of my whisper, I kiss him near his nipple. I watch how it pebbles and feel his hand rest on my bottom in a possessive way.

  This wasn’t just sex, I think again, and I kiss him once more.

  He nestles his other hand into the small of my back. I cuddle against him.

  “When did you ever notice my hair?” I ask.

  “I always noticed some things about you. Mostly how bratty you are.”

  “It’s a quality that only comes out when you’re around.”

  He goes quiet, and it’s almost as if he’s thinking about how long he’ll be around to notice anything more. Is he still the drifter he’s always been? Even after this?

  He exhales, and it’s a jagged sound. Then he pulls me up higher against him until the top of my head burrows under his chin. He leans against me and wraps his arms around me.

  It feels like he’s torn about something, and my throat burns.

  “How long are you going to stay?” Maybe I shouldn’t ask. Maybe I should just take what I can get from him and be happy about that.

  God, no. I’m not capable.

  “How long do you want me here?” he asks, and I don’t think he’s joking around this time: when he laughs, it definitely doesn’t sound like the flippant Tristan I know. In fact, his laughter soon dies, leaving a silence that feels like a pane of glass that we’re walking over while trying not to break it.

  “How about you stay here forever?” I say with my whole heart.

  He sighs again.

  Now I’m the one who tenses up. “Never mind. You’re too cool to hang around home for an extended period of time, anyway.” And maybe I’m truly not the kind of girl you like. I was probably just a challenge, and you know you’re going to get bored with me soon.

  “That’s not it, Sos,” he says. “Not even close.”

  A damn tear leaks from my eye, and I start to rub it off.

  �
��Hey,” he says, running a finger over his skin, wiping away the moisture. “This has got nothing to do with you.”

  “What? Your leaving has nothing to do with me? Or are we talking about how you fucked me and—”

  Gently, he draws his thumb over my mouth, shutting me up. He keeps stroking my face.

  “It’s just that things won’t be the same when our parents get back.”

  My pulse startles. I’d almost forgotten about my and Tristan’s dad. They’ll return at the end of summer, and of course Tristan will want to be gone before then. What we’ve done will be written all over our faces. But shouldn’t it be that way? Why should I hide how I’m feeling from anyone when this is meant to be?

  “We can handle our parents.” I’m gripping Tristan’s sides now. “We grew up in the same house, at least when you were around, but it’s not like we’re really brother and sister.”

  “My dad would kill me if he knew about this.”

  “And my mom would never speak to me again.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “But it’s not like everything between her and me is a-okay, anyway.”

  “They consider us to be a family, Sos, and it’d be serious. You know that as well as I do. But that wasn’t really what I was getting at.” He lets out a breath and holds me tighter.

  I feel as if he’s on the edge of telling me something important, that this time, the sex was different for him, too. That’s why I don’t move as he stops stroking my cheek, and instead, buries a hand in my hair, pressing his face to my head even harder.

  “Being in this house…” His words fade off, and when he starts again, his voice is wrecked. “It’s always been hard for me.”

  If I say anything, I fear I might shatter the path we’re on—the path I’ve been hoping he’d find—so I just let him talk.

  “There’s a reason I wasn’t around the house much,” he says. “My dad and I have a complex relationship. Obviously we fought a lot, but you don’t know why. Dad made sure no one excerpt your mom knew the truth, and even then, neither of them knew the extent of it.”

  His hands are still in my hair, and I wait, wait so long that the oxygen is sharp in my lungs because I’m holding it.

  “When I was a boy,” he says, “I blamed my dad for working too much, for never being at home, for never noticing that something went wrong every time he wasn’t there.”

  I feel the glass starting to crack under me.

  “It was because of my real mom.” I hear Tristan swallow hard. “She would beat the shit out of me every time Dad wasn’t around, and it took him years to see what was happening.”

  I feel as if he’s reached into my chest and pulled out my heart, and I close my eyes as if it’s going to make his confession go away. But in the darkness, I can see Tristan as a boy, rebellious, with a hank of that brown hair waving over his forehead. I remember how he would lock himself in his room and his dad would let him get away with it, telling Mom and me that he just needed time to himself.

  He wouldn’t have been older than seven when he’d been with his real mom, and I’m not sure I want to know more of this story. But I don’t have a choice, because Tristan continues without any inflection at all.

  “My mom was fucked up in the head, and I still don’t know why, but she hid it well from everyone, including Dad. She’d start by locking me in a dark closet without food during the weekends when he was out of town on a job, then pound on the door to mess with me, telling me I was a mistake and worthless and I needed to be punished.”

  Now I can see Tristan looking at me from the fighting ring. I see him leaving himself open to those punches from his opponent and only stopping the assault after I yell for it to stop.

  A punishment that never has stopped, I think. A guy who still thinks he’s worthless.

  “I never knew when she would open that door so I could see her weapon of the day,” he says. “A hanger. An electrical cord. She always left her marks where I’d be covered by shirts, and she’d scream at me about how the devil had brought me to her to make her suffer. I was little, too young to fight back even against her, and whenever I tried, she’d only step up her attacks. One day, though, my dad walked in while I was dressing, and he saw some welts. He never knew what was going on until then, and till this day, I haven’t told him all of it. When he confronted my mother, she raged back at him, blaming me, just as I knew she would. She said I was a waste of life, and as usual, I believed her, because who else could make his own mother hate him so much? Then she ran out of the house and took the car. Not long after that, the police were at our door because she’d run into a utility pole. The accident killed her.”

  Now it feels as if there’s a knife cutting its way through the rest of my chest, and I want to tell Tristan that I hope his mom flew through the car’s windshield and it shredded her all over. I want to go back in time and hurt her, but he’s still going.

  “Dad moved us out of that house, away from all those memories, but he had no idea what to do with me other than that. I refused any help, told him I hated him, blamed him for being so caught up in his job and his life that he never saw what was going on, and he accepted every bit of it. I hated him even more for trying to understand me, because no one could understand, ever. I hated that he would look at me with this awful sadness, because I didn’t want to be pitied. That was the worst part of it all—having my dad look at me as if I were damaged goods.” He chuffs, and the sound is razored. “If anyone was going to damage me, I was damned sure going to do it myself. My mother wouldn’t get the credit for bringing me down—I wouldn’t give her that power. Ever.”

  The demons I’ve seen in Tristan, I think. They’d come from his mom. I don’t know if it was because she was mentally ill or just a bad person, and it doesn’t matter, because I’m here, and I can save him. I truly think I can, and I hold him tighter, my face in his neck.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You’re okay now.”

  Tristan pauses, and I wonder if it’s because he can hear in my voice that I sincerely do think he’ll be fine, here with me.

  Then he begins again. “I’m sure that’s what my dad thought, too, every time I’d screw up at school or run off the rails. I’d be okay. And when he met your mom a few years later, he told me we could start again with a new family, and to our parents’ credit, they did everything they could to make me feel like we were normal. Your mom took me under her wing, and it—”

  His words come to a throttled halt.

  I press my mouth against him, but it doesn’t do anything to chase away his obvious pain.

  “But her love never quite solved everything,” he finally says. “So I kept doing what felt right. I kept fighting and blaming Dad, and I’ve fought everyone ever since. Even you.”

  Tears are falling from my eyes again, but this time, he doesn’t wipe them from his skin. He only keeps holding me.

  “You don’t have to fight anymore,” I whisper. But what I truly mean is Don’t fight me, because you have changed, whether you know it or not. You’ve opened up to a girl who wants you no matter what and will never do anything to hurt you.

  What I feel for him isn’t just real…it’s deep. But even in my inexperience, I know there’s nothing I can say to heal these wounds. Still, I think that he needs me here, that it’s enough for me to show him that I’m not going anywhere. Surely he can see that even after he’s come clean with me about something so awful, I adore him. I always will.

  Yes, I think he sees that, because he eventually falls asleep before I do, and when I look up at him, there’s a sense of rough peace on his face, as if he’s temporarily brushed the weight off his shoulders and can breathe easily for the rest of the night.

  And that’s good enough for me now, so I contentedly drift off in his arms, dreaming of better days ahead for us.

  In my dreams, we make it across that glass plane we were walking on, make it to the other side where there’s a door just waiting to be opened. I reach for that door, grasping the knob, hea
ring the door open up, hearing voices on the other side that call out to us in happiness. Familiar voices.

  “Sosie!”

  “Tristan!”

  Even though almost everything feels right with this dream, something also seems very wrong as the door closes—

  I’m jarred awake, mainly because Tristan has pushed away from the mattress, his arm caged over me as if he’s protecting me from something. Vulnerable me, who’s completely naked under the sheets with him.

  “Sosie!”

  “Tristan!”

  As I look up at my stepbrother, I see the horror in his eyes, and it’s a reflection of the horror that’s ripping through me, because now that I’m wide awake, I realize that we’re no longer alone in the house.

  It’s our parents.

  They’re home early from vacation.

  END OF BOOK TWO

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  OBSCENE

  By Kelly Favor

  I

  Obscene (A Bad Boy Romance)

  Copyright © 2016 by Kelly Favor

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Obscene (A Bad Boy Romance)

  ZACK

  She begged me to fuck her in front of the three-way-mirror in the walk-in closet of her uptown Boston apartment.

  This chick had been dying for me to split her with my cock since the second she’d laid eyes on me, and I was in the mood to do some damage to that pussy.

  So now, here I was, drilling her from behind as she grabbed onto the closet rod above her head.