by Remy Blake
Stepping even closer, I lick my lips while I stare at his. His breathing comes to a halt as I invade his personal space. Instinctively my body reacts to his presence. Shivers racing up and down my spine, goosebumps erupting all over my skin. I finally meet his gaze and the flicker of desire in his eyes lets me know he feels it too. His eyes roam down my face, past my lips and settle on my tits. My breathing quickens and my nipples harden underneath his glare. I have to keep reminding myself that no matter how attractive he is, this is a game. I need him to be putty in my hands. Get him right where I want him and then run.
“Well, are you?” I whisper.
The sound of my voice and my breath fanning his face snaps him out of his hypnotic trance. He steps back, putting a significant distance between us. Rubbing his hands down his face, he growls through his frustration. “Am I what?”
I arch my back, and stick my breasts out. Nipples on full display, I’m ready to work my best assets. “Don’t you want me to call you Daddy?” I pout.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he turns around; giving me his back.
“Can you just stop talking for a minute and follow me inside?” He snaps.
I bite back the natural urge to have the last say and quietly follow him and all his charm into the house. Wearing a navy blue tee and well worn jeans; on the surface he looks almost exactly how I pictured. But with the majority of his arms exposed, his fists clenching with each step, and swirls of ink decorating his skin, I know there’s nothing predictable about this man. Every move he makes accentuates his muscles deliciously. His body is the epitome of strength and virility. Teasing me, luring me in. Imagining all the ways he can throw me over his shoulders and show off the sculpted alpha male look that he wears so well. Shit, Mr. Temperamental is hot.
I struggle to work out what he and my father had in common, or why he would even agree to taking me in, but I also know I can’t get caught up in the details. Details slow you down. They mean you’re attached, that you care, and I don’t.
Walking through the doorway is like stepping into an alternate universe. I expected a live-in bar; a living room full of beer bottles, a seventy-five-inch flat screen TV mounted on the wall and a stench of alcohol and tobacco to be imbedded in the carpet. But this is a home. Spacious and luxurious, the house is full of modern furniture and sleek appliances. The living room opens into the kitchen where a glass window stretches against the length of the house; showcasing the only reason I’m excited to be living here. A pool. Before my mind has time to catch up, my body is already walking toward the picture perfect sight in front of me. I’m dreaming of how nice it could be to sit in the sun; reading and swimming whenever I want to. I’m a city girl; I bleed bright lights, loud noises and crowded places. I live for the hustle and bustle. But here I can see how easy it is to fall in love with the laid-back lifestyle.
The noise of someone clearing their throat behind me snaps me out of my daze, and the reality of where I am and why I’m here hits me straight in the gut. Preparing myself to turn around I take a deep breath and put my game face on. Stick to the plan, Ivy.
The look on my face must show my confusion, as I notice him holding my bags in his hands.
“I got them from the car while you were...” he nods his head to the window, letting me know he watched me be enamored by the view.
The mood in the room has shifted. It’s a lot more calmer and I don’t like it.
“Thanks Daddy,” I say with a smirk. Just like I wanted, the tension in his body returns at the mention of his new nickname.
“Your room is upstairs. First door on the left. I’m going to put your bags up there and we can talk when you’re settled in.” he states.
A brain snap has me walking ahead of him and leading the way up the stairs. I hear him mutter something under his breath, and I know we’re back on track. This skirt hides nothing, so with every sway of my ass, I’m one step closer to getting him right where I need him to be.
Pushing the door open, my eyes are blinded by pink walls. Abruptly, I stop in the doorway and a lump of man walks straight into me. I feel his erection against the top of my ass, and I push back into him.
“While I’m all up for a little bit of wood action, we need to discuss the My Little Pony party that’s going on in this room.” I turn to him, because his facial expressions have quickly become a new addiction. “Or did you and all your Floridian friends have a pink Disney princess party and forget to clean up?”
He drops my bags, the thud making the floor vibrate. Walking me backwards he pushes me into the room until my back hits a wall. Hands grip my chin and our eyes bore into one another, anger and lust dancing around like flames in his eyes.
“My name’s Brock,” he says through clenched teeth. “You can call me Brock. And only Brock”
Releasing my chin, he walks backward and holds my stare.
“Oh, and Princess, this party is all for you.”
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Charlotte
Rummaging through the excessive amount of underwear I have spread out on my bed, I look for my lucky thong. I’ve tipped the contents of the dresser drawer out twice, desperate to find the fluorescent yellow scrap of fabric. I need a small pick me up, and these always do the trick. Leaning over the length of the bed, I pull out a bunch of bras that have managed to find themselves underneath the ridiculous amount of throw pillows that decorate my king sized mattress. “Yes,” I whisper shout excitedly into the empty room. I found it.
In my hands, a sliver of brightness stands out amongst the sea of black. The line of jewels that hang from the waistband have latched themselves onto the front hook of one of my bras. Tossing everything but what I need back onto the mountain of a mess that sits in my room, I make my way to the ridiculously large walk-in closet, and use both hands to successfully detach the pieces of lingerie from one another.
Standing in front of the wall sized mirror, I step into my thong and pull it up. Alternating between a side on view and a full frontal, I watch my hands and fingers slide underneath and tug at the material on each side of my hips. Finally the thin string sits perfectly between my ass cheeks.
Searching through all my dresses, I struggle to find something appropriate to wear. What do people wear to funerals? Is there a rule that states you have to look sad and uninterested in your outfit choices? Huffing in annoyance I continue to scan through my options. There are so many pieces of clothing with tags on them, unworn and forgotten. It's like I was on a mission to fill up every space in this mansion of a wardrobe. I don't even need a walk-in closet this size or all the stuff in it. I'm used to living in simplicity; it was all I knew before this. Four walls and some furniture, living on my weekly paycheck and hoping it lasted. Hell, I would mix and match items to death hoping to make the same thing look different. The way I live now eclipses any memory of my former life. I know I could do without the excessive air of luxury that I drown myself in, but I’ve yet to find a woman who would turn down access to the latest Louboutin shoe collection and a handbag to match.
Two years ago I met Geoffrey; our whirlwind romance was publicized everywhere. Twenty-six years old, and recently single, I wanted more out of life. So when Geoffrey Rockwell, of the world renowned Rockwell Investments, one of People Magazine's top bachelors ten consecutive years running, set his eyes on this lowly assistant, there was no way in hell I was going to pass up the attention that followed. At forty, he was like a premium blend of Scotch; only getting better with age. His hair was short on the sides, longer and heavier up top. Often caught raking his hands through to stop it from falling into his eyes, Geoffrey managed to turn disheveled into distinguished. His light brown hair was complimented by the sexiest amount of stubble seen on any man. Always in designer suits, he screamed money, sex and control - he was the ultimate prize.
From rags to riches, I was the envy of every female. Everyone knew
who Geoffrey was. Starting from the bottom, Rockwell Investments was his biggest achievement. Successful and handsome, he was everything you wanted your future husband to be. In thirty days, and with a team of stylists to follow me around, I was prepped, pampered and ready to become the very first Mrs. Rockwell. I got called an attention seeker, a greedy bitch, and a gold digger just to name a few. But Geoffrey told me to ignore it all. He said he knew what we had was real. I was worried at the speed of it all, told him I would be happy to wait - there was no rush. But he assured me it would be fine. He told me I was the one he was waiting for - his perfect match, and thanks to a two million dollar media exclusive and a glossy ten page spread in Us Magazine, eventually the rest of the country thought so too.
Two nights ago, I got the phone call that my husband was involved in a car accident. A drunk driver ran his car right off the road, and Geoffrey and his driver died on impact. It had been months since we’d spoken. Our last conversation was an argument about something that I can’t even remember.
Shortly after we were married, I walked in on Geoffrey fucking his married male best friend; it was then I realized my life was never going to be the same. It’s been a long two years, playing the doting wife in public. Behind closed doors I lived on my own, restricted by rules, and bound by secrets. Hopefully, today is the last day I have to wear this mask
Deciding on a black fitted Gucci dress, I step into my black six inch heels and give myself a once over in the mirror. I mull over the appropriateness of the outfit; my hair and makeup are perfection. In a massive contradiction, I’m supposed to look like the mourning widow and undoubtedly wear my money. I hear the buzz of the front gate intercom letting me know the funeral car has arrived to pick me up. With a deep breath, I walk out the front door and get ready to face what is bound to be a challenging day.
Lucas
I grip the perfectly tied Windsor knot and tug it down an inch hoping to relieve the choking sensation, but it doesn’t seem to help. Nothing can. My father is dead. My father who I never really got a chance to know and now...I’ll never have the opportunity. The reality of this sinks in more and more as the car I’m riding in brings me closer and closer to the stepmother I’ve never met. She’s rumored to be a gold digging whore who used her tits and ass to land him. I’ve seen pictures of them together and she definitely has the assets needed to sway the world’s most famous bachelor. My dad always did have impeccable taste in women, cars, clothes, and just about anything else you can think of.
I settle into the butter soft leather seat and close my eyes, relaxing into the smooth ride of the limousine. I’ll be meeting my stepmother dearest very soon.
I always imagined that someday my father would want to make me a part of his everyday life. I pictured us playing golf together, going to a Yankees game, running the Rockwell empire or any of the numerous cliche things that fathers and their grown sons do. Now I’ll never know how he really felt about me - his only son - his only child.
Having Geoffrey Rockwell as a father has its benefits for sure. Money was never an issue. My mother and I were always well provided for. He bought us a house in a well to do suburb of Connecticut, close enough to his Greenwich mansion and his New York City penthouse that he could keep an eye on us, but still have the distance he seemed to prefer.
I was sent to the best all male boarding school money could buy, from the time I was ten years old until now at eighteen. I’m to graduate in less than two months’ time, and right now I’m on spring break. How convenient of dad to pick a school vacation to kick the bucket. A cross between a laugh and a sob leaves me as the thought occurs. I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze hard to stop the urge to cry. I’m not a baby. I’m a man, goddammit, and I need to conduct myself like one. I’ll be under close scrutiny being Geoffrey Rockwell’s only living relative and heir to his empire - unless he left it all to my stepmother.
The limousine slows and my eyes open, glancing around at the scenery. We’ve pulled up in front of large, black gates blocking us from entering the driveway to a large stone mansion. I’ve never been here, but I recognize it as my father’s estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. I’ve seen pictures in magazine spreads. It’s pretty fucked that I’ve only seen it in print. We sit there, the car idling until the gates sweep open, allowing our passage through. The long, wide driveway is lined with well-manicured trees. We pull up to the green front door, and it’s only a minute or two before it opens inward. I hold my breath and wait to see who will appear. Will it be my elusive stepmother? Or will it be one of her paid lackeys who waits on her hand and foot?
I notice the black heeled shoe first and then my eyes journey up from there. And what a fucking journey it is. Her ankle is delicate, her calf, long and leanly muscled. Her dress ends just below her knees, obstructing the view of her amazing legs. The black material hugs the curves of her hips, clearly outlining their shape, before dipping in on each side for her narrow waist. The modest neckline covers her large tits, but any red blooded male can tell just by looking at them, they’re fucking phenomenal. My dick twitches in my pants as I imagine what they’d look like bare. Fuck, I can’t think about my stepmother this way. I shake my head as if I can easily do away with the inappropriate images in my mind. My shaggy brown hair lands in my eyes. I rake my hand through it, gripping it painfully tight for a moment and squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t think about her tits.
She moves closer and closer to the back door of the car, where I’m seated. I panic, my fingers grip the edge of the leather on each side of my legs. I focus on her lips as they part when she speaks to our driver and then flashes him a smile. Christ. Those red lips were made to suck cock. I bet she sucks a mean one. Either that or her pussy is tight as fuck. There has to be something special for my father to have given up his long-standing bachelorhood to marry her.
I’m so hard right now, imaging her on her knees in front of me with her full, red painted lips wrapped around my shaft. Fuck. My breathing picks up speed and I have to squeeze my cock for a moment and push it down. It’s immoral to think of my own stepmother this way. What am I going to do?
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Acknowledgments
Thank you goes out to Diane Hamilton for continuing to assist in getting our name out there. You continuously dedicate your time to our books and we appreciate it.
To our Beta reader Laura, and proofreader (Hawkeyes Proofing) we appreciate the time, effort and input you gave when reading CLIPPED. The final product wouldn’t be what it is without you.
Thank you to Sybil from PopKitty Design. Our covers and teasers are always receiving compliments; your work is instrumental in getting our books seen.
To everyone that shares our teasers every week; readers, bloggers and pimpers; you all really do go above and beyond the call of duty. Thank you for your unwavering support from the very beginning. Thank you to anyone that received an ARC of CLIPPED and took the time to read and review.
Last, but definitely not least; we thank the readers for taking a chance on Remy Blake and buying our books.
We hope you enjoy it.
