by Alexis Angel
I peel my legs out from under the thick covers and onto the cool wood floor and drag my feet over to the bathroom. I peek inside, thinking that he might be in there, even though I know he isn’t—the door’s wide open. I was just hoping that I’d be greeted by a naked and freshly showered Owen.
I splash some water on my face and square my shoulders at the reflection in front of me.
I’m impressed. I still look good after the cluster fuck that was last night. I sigh, feeling the sexual tension still lingering in my muscles. I twist my neck and stretch my arms, hoping to loosen them.
I notice a bottle of cologne in the middle of the large granite vanity. I pick it up to smell it, and my body tingles.
It smells of him, and it’s damn intoxicating. It’s a warm woodsy smell with hints of sweet spices. It feels like I’m drinking a rich scotch.
And I do love my scotch, mostly when it slowly slides down my body.
It makes me want to search him down, find him, and pounce. Force him underneath me and take him for the ride of his life.
I chuckle to myself, enjoying how that’d look and imagining how it would feel. My fingers know how to get the job done, but I know that him and that cock of his will go above and beyond what’s required.
I put the bottle back where it was, not wanting to get caught snooping, and walk through the bedroom and out towards the kitchen.
I look around, thinking I’ll find him somewhere in this massive penthouse, but no luck.
I beeline to his coffeemaker, needing some caffeine, and search through his cabinets until I find the Italian roast coffee.
Ahh, yes! I’ll take a hot cup of coffee on the side of a steaming hot man, please and thank you! Waking up to that every morning would be a dream.
I rummage through his fridge, looking for something to eat, and find some Greek yogurt and fresh berries. I guess this will do.
I’d rather have a hearty, more pleasurable breakfast, but there isn’t much in this house, surprisingly. I bet he has a housekeeper who shops for him and a cook who makes his meals.
I would hate that. Like everything else in my life, I like to have control, especially over what food I buy, cook, and eat.
I arrange a simple parfait and pour myself a cup of coffee. I sit on one of the barstools in the center island and begin to seriously contemplate his whereabouts.
Where in the hell is he?
It’s his place, after all; he couldn’t have just left me here alone. I might be a part of his family, ugh, but I’m still a stranger. And everyone tells you to not trust a stranger in your house, even though I am harmless.
Um…harmless to an extent. Apparently, there are many things in harm’s way with me just being here. It’s really fucking annoying, and everything in me just wants to say fuck it.
Hell, that’s what I’ve been doing so far.
I hear the front door slam, and I yelp, not expecting it.
Owen storms in, fuming. He briefly stares at me and throws a box of Danishes on the counter. He then slaps down the latest issue of The Capitalist Chronicle.
Shit. That’s never good. I’m sure Lis Langley has a thing or two to say about the wedding last night.
“What’s Lis up to now?” I ask him as I reach for the box. I open it and am greeted to the sugary smell of almond and chocolate croissants, raspberry tarts, and an assortment of scones and muffins. My mouth immediately salivates looking at them.
They almost look as good as the man glaring at me…almost.
He leans over the counter, with one hand holding him up and the other squeezing his toned bicep.
“She has fucking eyes everywhere. We’ve almost been outed.” He runs his hands through his hair in exasperation, and I watch as the muscles in his arms tense and twitch. I bite my lip, wanting to calm my hunger.
I shake my head and laugh. “She’s a reporter, they always have their ways—informants, sources. Blah, blah,” I wave my hand in the air carelessly, ignoring the severity in his voice.
This isn’t news to me. I expected that I’d be in the spotlight more, given my position as CEO and as the daughter of Mrs. Westbrook.
“This isn’t funny, Mira,” he yells.
I reflexively lean against the back of the chair, almost as if his voice pushed me. I fold my arms against my chest in defense and straighten my shoulders. “I know it’s not funny, Owen. But what else are we going to do about it?”
“There’s one big thing we should do.” He points to me. “Whatever this is, needs to be dropped. I don’t even know why I brought you here in the first place.”
The last part stings a little, and I try to cover my wince by reaching for my coffee and taking a large gulp. He starts to talk, but I interrupt him.
“I’m well-aware of the repercussions of this. It was made quite clear last night. But in all honesty, I don’t give a damn. I don’t want to live my life according to someone else’s definition. Especially my gold-digging mother and her meal ticket. I’m going to live my life how I damn well please, and I will do it while fucking whoever I choose to.”
He’s gotten under my skin. In more ways than one.
“Is that so? You really think you have a shot against Lis Langley, the stock market, your customers, and your family?” He cocks an eyebrow, challenging me.
“I can take them all on. Dare me.” I lift my chin up to him and reach for a croissant, taking a dramatic bite out of it.
“Please. People like us have no chance in hell against them. They have us all by the balls.”
I tilt my head, confused by his sudden vulnerability. It was cute when he was playing coy last night, but now, it’s discomforting.
He continues, his voice low and rough. “Usually, I don’t fucking care. I play their game with my own rules. But when it comes to another person’s livelihood, I have to be smart.”
I stare at him, my gaze watching his chest rise up and down rapidly, his fingers tapping the counter, and his jaw tensing every so often. Every part of him is so enticing, and I can tell he’s really trying to control and refrain himself against my advances.
“Why can’t we be smart and a still play by our own rules? No one has to know.” I smirk at him, learning forward while placing my elbows on the counter. It does wonders for my cleavage.
His eyes wonder down, stopping briefly at the view, and he pushes himself back to lean against the fridge. “Because that’s fucking stupid.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not calling you stupid. It’s just that that plan is idiotic. It’ll never work.”
“That’s not any better. I’m surprised. A man of your means should know how to defend himself.”
I start to get up from my seat and walk away from him, not needing this shit right now.
“Don’t,” he pleads, and I hear a trace of remorse in his voice, though his eyes burn into me. “I know damn well how to defend myself. I’m honestly just concerned about you. And how this scandal will affect your company.”
He reaches over to the paper and flips it open to a different article that discusses me and my Wilder Lingerie company. It goes into detail about when we’ll be going public, and it has some projections regarding our profitability.
I then read over Lis’ article and her speculations. My stomach drops.
“This is what you need to pay attention to.” He jabs his finger onto the glossy pages.
His expression goes from anger to sincerity, and I stare at him, listening intently.
I might want many things—one of them being right in front of me—but the number one thing that I truly care about and have been working my ass off for is this company and this line.
Blood, sweat, and tears are sewn into each piece, and my heart and soul has been laid bare as I make every decision. So, I’ll do anything in my power to make it what it deserves to be.
I re-read the previous piece on my company and feel a sense of pride overwhelm me—that’s me they’re talking about.
“Peop
le will find out about us. And this step-uncle, step-niece thing will be blown out of proportion. They’ll spin this narrative out to sell paper’s and increase ratings. It’ll be an explosive scandal. That’s a fact.” He’s talking to me as someone who’s experienced and knows his shit.
I swallow his words, and I continue to stare at the pages in front of me, not wanting to look away, but they start to become a blur once the reality sinks in.
He continues. “The scandal will ruin you before you even begin. And Mira.” He pauses, and the intensity in his voice pulls my gaze to meet his. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let that happen.”
It goes silent for what feels like an hour, though its only really a few seconds. We stare at each other, and the air around us becomes thick and heavy with anticipation.
I hate to admit it, but he’s right. I can’t let whatever this is get in the way of what I’ve worked so hard for.
“Okay,” I mumble.
“What?”
“Okay, I get it.” I say louder, looking directly at him. “This will not happen.”
“This can never happen. Ever,” he repeats, more sternly and louder this time.
I nod my head and toss the Chronicle between us, making direct eye contact as I declare my promise. “Nothing will ever happen between us. Ever.”
Chapter 11
Owen
Watching Mira in my kitchen is killing me. Fucking killing me.
I’ll just be frank: a lot of women have passed through my kitchen before—hair a disaster, makeup smeared into Hamburgular masks, clothes a complete mess.
Sometimes they even look like completely different people, rendering me speechless when I see their half-awake, hangover-stricken bodies grotesquely twitch into the kitchen.
But Mira, she’s different. Only she can wake up in the morning and look like a picture of perfection.
Honestly, it’s so surreal, it’s completely unfair.
She leans against the kitchen counter while clutching her coffee mug, the shape of her body curving perfectly in the morning light. If she was anyone else, I’d be practically shoving her into an Uber by now.
But of course, the one time I find a woman who makes me want to devour every inch of her just so happens to be my step-niece. She’ll completely ruin my reputation if anyone finds out I stuck my dick in her mouth once, despite me not knowing beforehand.
Mira finishes her coffee and starts strapping on her stilettos.
“Guess I better head out.” Her voice is upbeat yet sad, like she’s still trying to convince herself that she’s okay with leaving.
She grabs her clutch and starts checking her hair in the reflection of the microwave door. Her dress looks so much looser than I remember. Her tits keep bouncing around in her top as she tugs up her dress, the shiny fabric barely covering her.
Of course, my naughty girl wouldn’t wear a bra.
She puts her hair up into a bun and turns and looks at me, as if she’s looking to be inspected.
She throws her arms over her chest suddenly, clutching her arms tightly.
“I can’t go out like this, can I?”
Hmm, let’s see. My hot step-niece stumbling out of my penthouse with her tits practically falling out of her dress? Honestly, even if I weren’t famous, it’s not a good look for a burgeoning young CEO—or anyone for that matter.
“Not unless you want to go the Kim Kardashian route,” I say as I peer out the window.
Ugh, the paparazzi are like roaches. Disgusting roaches who probably like to jerk off to all the pictures they take of me and hot young girls that stumble out of my penthouse so early in the morning
I won’t let those vermin treat Mira like that.
“What am I going to do?” She pouts against the counter, leaning forward so that I get a peek down her dress. Was that intentional?
“I have an idea.” I smirk at her. “I can give you a change of clothes so that you don’t stumble out of here looking like some,” I shrug, “slut.”
“Slut?” She crosses her arms in fake anger. “I don’t like that word.”
“Why’s that?” I take a sip of my coffee, never taking my eyes off her. I love watching her get pretend-mad.
“Because if there’s a slut in this room, it’s definitely you, Mr. Cakeilingus.”
I grasp my chest, pretending to be shock-offended, then I turn to her and smile. “You’re very clever, Miss Mira.”
She shrugs. “I guess it runs in the family. Our family.”
I feel a weird twitch go up my spine when she says this. I look at her face and see a flick of excitement. I shrug, shaking the whole moment off.
“Let me see if I have something for you to wear.”
I head to my bedroom and open my massive walk-in closet. My shirts are organized by designer, color, cut, and style, each one shrink-wrapped by the cleaners. It keeps them fresh. I grab one of my cheaper Hugo Boss shirts and head back to the kitchen.
I toss her the shirt and laugh as she barely catches it. The shirt flops around in her hands, back and forth, before she gets a firm grip on the plastic.
“Like aiming things at my face, huh?”
I grin deviously. “That’s an understatement.”
She turns the shirt around in her hands like it’s something foreign and odd.
“Is this shirt brand new?” she asks. “You just keep a bunch of brand new shirts stockpiled in your closet, Batman?”
“Maybe,” I smirk, letting her believe the fantasy.
She jumps off the counter she was sitting on, and, right there in the middle of the kitchen, takes off her dress. Her tits bounce all wild and free, as if they were just waiting to escape.
Her boldness surprises me, though it shouldn’t be since she almost stripped for me last night. Sure, she might be a little young, but this is no girl. No fucking way.
She squeezes out of her dress, swaying her hips from side to side as it slides down. Once the dress is on the floor, she kicks it with one foot, sending the dress sliding across the floor.
I grab the kitchen counter, bracing myself. Is she playing games with me? Because she really shouldn’t if she knows what she’s doing to me right now.
You have no idea how hard I just want to pounce on every inch of her. How badly I just want to bury my face into her tits until I fucking smother myself and die.
As my eyes go from the dress—now nothing but a piece of crumbled cloth—back to her, I see her in all her perfection.
Well, sort of.
She turns her back towards me as she unbuttons the dress shirt I gave her. As I stare daggers into her back, my eyes traveling down to see her perfect ass, she turns around and eyes me over her shoulder.
She giggles. Giggles!
“Don’t look!”
Is she fucking kidding me?
My cock is throbbing so hard, I feel like it’s going to burst through my pants and go soaring through the air. And now she’s telling me not to look?
I give her a pleading look. Who knows how pathetic I probably look right now?
“No!” She waves her little finger at me as if she’s scolding a little boy. “I’m changing. Be a gentleman, and turn around, please.”
I throw my hands up, surrendering, and turn around. As I stare at the wall, I can see her figure through the reflection in the microwave door. I see her body all transparent—but clearly visible. All her curves, her perky tits and ass.
I grip the counter—again—not knowing how much more I can take.
Without waiting for her permission, I turn around and see her buttoning up the shirt. It’s oversized on her and makes her look fucking hot. She actually looks hotter in my shirt than she did in that loose-fitting dress.
“You should wear my clothes more often.”
She smiles and continues buttoning up her shirt. “I told you not to look.”
I shrug. “I guess I couldn’t help myself.”
“Well that’s not very gentlemanly of you, is it?”
&nbs
p; I walk up to her and place my hand on her face, admiring her. My fingertips brush against her mouth as she seductively licks my thumb. “I never said I was a gentleman.”
I grab her around the waist and pull her close, my pulsing cock rubbing up against her, and I know she can feel all twelve inches of me.
She smells like a stale mixture of fruity perfume and champagne. It’s that salty aroma you smell in the morning, and it lingers and seeps into your clothes like smoke. I inhale her, rubbing my face along her hair. She’s delicious—and now, I want a taste.
She has her palms raised and placed on my shoulders, as if she’s trying to push me away. Although if she’s trying to, she’s doing a shitty job of it.
I can feel her panting as she grips my shoulders, bunching my shirt into her hands.
I reach down and feel a slight wetness outside my pants. Fuck, I’m seriously about to explode. I don’t know if I can hold it any longer.
Suddenly, Mira pushes against me, weaseling out of my grip.
“I better go,” she stutters as she awkwardly maneuvers around me. I look up at her, frozen with shock with the worst case of blue balls.
“Yeah, sure.” I try to play it off as if I don’t care, although I clearly do. All she has to do is look down at my still-hard dick to see how badly I want to continue.
I hand her one of my blazers for her to wear over her shirt. She puts it on and straps on her stilettos. I’m surprised how put together the whole outfit looks, as if she really did come here already in those clothes and not that tit-show of a dress.
She grabs her clutch as she stands in front of me. I stare through her clothes, thinking of how exposed she was in the kitchen just moments before.
I know we both made a promise to each other, but how the hell are we supposed to stay loyal to that when we clearly want to fuck each other’s brains out? There were lots of girls at that wedding; I didn’t have to choose her.
And yet why is it that she’s all that I want?
Fuck me.
We both walk to the front door and brace ourselves. What’s waiting on the other side is a medley of bullshit I’m not sure either of us are ready for.
Chapter 12
