Stepbrother UnSEALed

by Nicole Snow

  “Come onnnn, big brother. You can do better than this,” Delia purrs. “Show them what you've got. Bet big. All or nothing. We'll drown ourselves in beer or hit the fanciest place in town tonight.”

  It's a ridiculous idea. I'm not made of money like her father. I've always been responsible as hell growing up under my mom's slow motion self-destruct sequence.

  I can't stand a challenge, though, especially when it's coming from my playful and dangerously fuckable stepsis. I look at the dealer and split my hands, pushing big bets on all of them.

  The Asian man starts to sweat. He stares at me like I've lost my mind, and ups his own bet, while the dealer manages a friendly smile.

  The first cards are aces, one in each hand. Fucking great. I take a quick survey and tap the table for another hit, never falling for the wishful thinking that Lady Luck might actually give a damn about me tonight.

  Five more seconds. The dealer finishes up, ends with a queen and a seven. It's too good to be true.

  The Asian guy goes bust, and the dealer comes up short.

  I'm staring at a king and an ace in both hands. Perfect twenty-one.

  Delia jumps out of her seat and lets out a yelp. The dealer frowns, grudgingly passes me my winnings, and I throw a chip back for a tip.

  By some freak miracle, we've just hit it fucking big. The thousands that stack up in a neat pile when I cash in are almost like half a mission's hazard pay. I tuck it into my wallet and head to the ATM for a deposit. It's never good to carry too much excess in Vegas, especially when we're going out after dark on the streets.

  “Holy shit, Chris, what're you going to do with all that money?”

  “Give some back to my lucky charm,” I tell her with a wink. Maybe it's the casino's humidity, but there's a light, sexy glow to her underneath all the lights, a gentle halo of sweat along her brow.

  I can't resist. It's a fairly lonely spot next to the cash machines, so I corner her, push her against the wall, and brush my lips over hers.

  It's insane, it's wrong, and I can't fucking stop. She gasps pure pleasure when I grab her bare thigh. I dig my fingers into her flesh, all I can do to fight the burning urge to slide my hand up, find out what kind of panties she's wearing, how damned soaked they are.

  I'll only feel them for a heartbeat before they're gone for the night, leaving her wide open for all the rowdy, savage things I want to do between her thighs.

  “Chris...what the hell...” she's half drunk, but not so gone that she doesn't understand that look in my eyes.

  “I was wrong about you, babe. Dead fucking wrong. I don't give a shit if you've never had a man between your legs or if our parents shacked up like idiots.” My voice turns into thunder as I drag my hand off, wrap both around her back, and cup her ass, pulling her to me. “I fucking need this. Pick a place for dinner, and load up. No more drinks. I want you sober, well fed, whatever you need to stay up all night and take my cock.”

  She trembles so hard I can feel it. At first, I think she's going to flip, overwhelmed with my about face. Then she jerks forward, shoving her lips into mine.

  I push back. Hard.

  We kiss, wet and hot and wild, for the next few minutes while people walk behind me. I can't pretend with her anymore.

  I need, need, need to fuck her, claim her, show her what she's done to me. The taboo only makes it worse. I want her because she's hot and pure, because my stupid mother made her off limits.

  Or, I should say, she tried. And she's about to fail miserably.

  Truth is, no woman's off limits for Chris Cleveland, and Delia's going to be my best fuck ever by the end of the night.

  “Come on, baby, hurry up and pick a place.” I'm dragging her down the Vegas strip, reading every other menu, going toward the edgy part of town.

  “Holy crap, wait, look at this!” Delia points to this goofy looking comedy club, one more thing we'll have a whole week to see. She needs to make up her mind about dinner.

  My stomach keeps growling and I barely care. I know she's got to be hungry too, and we need to eat.

  My cock won't stop begging me to skip dinner and deal with the much more pressing hunger first, but I want her ready for me with no distractions.

  The girl can't keep up. She falls behind me, dizzy and wowed by Vegas at night, the city of lights yawning wide in all its glory.

  It's like the third time it's happened. The first two times, I found her gawking at some Vegas sight, and had to march backwards to take her hand and lead her along. This time, I'll drag her if I have to.

  We're getting further away from the lights and all the tourist areas. Stone faced men sulk in the shadows, looking out at us from the alleys, beggars and bastards who'd love to lay their hands on a drunk, rich girl who's lost in Vegas.

  It's not just about playing protector. I'm moving this night along.

  I need that pussy tonight, and every second we waste gallivanting around Vegas is delaying me from sinking inside her hot, tight sweetness.

  “What the fuck, babe? You need me to carry you around in those heels, or what?”

  There's no reply, and I turn around. Shit.

  Delia's gone.

  She's disappeared inside what looks like this cheesy fortune telling and magic show. I curse and fly up the short steps, consoling myself because it's one more reason to find out how nice that ass of hers bounces underneath my palms.

  I'm going to spank her ass raw from getting away from me like this.

  When I get inside the place, sex is about the last thing on my mind.

  There's not even a door concealing the entrance, but a cheap burgundy curtain. The place smells dank the instant I walk in, and I nearly trip on some old boards.

  Fucking hell. It's abandoned, and it clearly hasn't been locked up very well by the city. My heart shoots adrenaline into my system, and I scan the darkness for her.

  The place is like a small theater inside, with several rooms full of seats and separate stages. It's dark and seedy as shit. I'm wondering what the hell she was thinking by rushing in here alone, but something isn't right, and it's hard to give a shit about anything except finding her safe.

  It's too damned quiet in this place. I need to take a risk.

  I cup my hands over my mouth and yell. “Delia? Where the fuck are you? Come out right now!”

  Shit. There's a narrow hallway with some restrooms, and I wonder if she's ducked in there, either lost or looking for a real bathroom. The girl drank like a fucking fish before I hit the blackjack table, and we only made a quick pit stop before leaving the casino.

  My gut tells me that's too damned easy. I walk up to the women's room and press my ear to the door, listening for Delia, listening for anything.

  A second later, there's a loud smacking sound, like somebody throwing flesh against a wall. “Shut the fuck up and stop struggling, bitch, or we'll cut you wide open. You can suck us off or bleed out on the floor here with the rats and the roaches. Your choice.”

  My teeth pinch together so hard they're about to break. My hand shoots down and I squat, ripping the knife out of its holster around my ankle. I carry it everywhere, naked without it, and our Vegas getaway is no exception.

  I'm in full mission mode now, feeling the kind of angry, survival-focused adrenaline spiking through my veins that always hits during a big operation.

  The last time it seized me was in Kirkuk, when those Iranian bastards started shooting. We were outgunned and surrounded then, and it was only their fear of creating a bigger international shitstorm that caused them to backoff.

  I don't know how many vicious motherfuckers I'll find behind the door. I don't know if they have guns, or if they'll tear into Delia the second I walk in.

  I just hear their brute laughter, listen to her muffled sob, and I know exactly what I need to do.

  I have to fucking save her!

  I let three more seconds go by – all I'll spare to assess the situation.

  “Gag her with her fucking panties,”
the same gruff voice inside growls. “Take a pic once you've smeared your load across her eyes. The boys in LA'll eat this shit right up. She's got nice skin. Young. She'll fetch a pretty penny for sure.”

  My heart thuds as Delia whimpers again. Fuck, fuck.

  “I dunno, Bumble, I kinda wanna go easy on this meat. She looks like she's never seen a grown man's dick before. It's fucking hot, but we can't break her 'til we get her back to the van, yeah? We've got more shit in there to really loosen this bitch up.”

  “You goddamned pussy,” the older man growls, his boots stomping hard on the tile. “Let me have at her. Step outta the way, I'll show you how it's done.”

  The next sound I hear is a belt coming undone. No more.

  My boot hits the dirty old door so fucking hard it almost comes off its hinges. Two big, dirty men are inside, mafia or sex traffickers, maybe. Right now, I don't really care about anything except slamming my blade through both their skulls.

  My eyes flick to Delia. The assholes are tall, lean, nasty looking men. The fucker must've had his hand on her throat a second ago, and he's got her dark lace panties in the other, staring at me like I'm a fucking ghost.

  They move fast, but they've got nothing on a SEAL. The next five seconds are a blur. I don't think about anything except dispatching them, kicking them away from my girl, washing away the tears I saw streaming down her cheeks with their filthy fucking blood.

  That's right. My girl.

  I don't even have time to process it. There's too many bones snapping underneath my boots.

  They barely have a second to realize I've shattered their ribs with the roundhouse kicks that put them on the floor. I'd love to torture them longer, but snuffing their evil asses out is the best option.

  Each asshole gets off half a yelp before I drive the blade right through their skulls, silencing them forever. Everything melts into a three second blur of pain and blood and terror, the same confusion I always see on missions, right as I blow some terrorists' brains out.

  It's over just as abrupt too.

  The bastards are dead and barely twitching, out cold in the grimy, dark bathroom. Delia makes a sound like she's choking, and I look up, seeing the insane shock in her eyes.

  “Fuck, baby, I wish you didn't have to see that.” I drop the knife. It hits the floor with a loud clatter, and I head toward her, wishing I could kill the thugs all over again for screwing up her clothes, darkening her brain forever with this sick, fucked up memory.

  Stopping in my tracks before I reach her, I realize my hands are coated in blood. Shit.

  I stumble to the sink between us, praying the plumbing isn't shot. There's a brutal hiss behind the wall, and rusty water comes spurting out a moment later. It's a weak trickle, but it'll do, all I need to clean up.

  I have to punch the broken mirror hanging off the wall to see my own reflection. My fingers dab the few spare flecks of blood I've got along my neck, and I stare at the dead boys on the floor, long trails of crimson snaking out of their bodies.

  Delia steps carefully over the streams of blood. She staggers over to me and throws her hands around my waist, pushing her face into my shoulder from behind, and just holding it there. She's breathing like she just ran a marathon.

  “Jesus, Chris. God. You...you saved me.”

  When my hands are clean – or as clean-ish as I can get them with the rusty water – I grab her little wrists and press them tight, running my other hand across her cheek. It's smooth and flaming hot.

  My dick throbs. Against the odds. Against all reason.

  I still want her, even when I'm standing in a shitty broken down bathroom with two sick bastards starting to rot behind us. Hell, maybe I want her more because I did what I had to, saved her from a twisted fate.

  I can't stop seeing those fucks with their hands on her. It fills me with a deep, primal rage, something that explodes in my head behind a curtain of blinding red. The only man who ever ought to have his hands on her is me.

  Only me. Nobody else. Not these evil sonsofbitches trying to force her into god knows what. Not some gawky little pissant in an Oxford shirt talking about his trust fund, or what a man he is for hitting the gym twice a week.

  Delia's deserves better, and I'm it. I don't know why the virgin shit put me off for so long. She needs a man for her first time, her second time, maybe her first hundred times between the sheets. If I can give her that, then I absolutely fucking will.

  I turn around, giving her a little jerk. “You're holding up better than I thought. You ever seen a man die before?”

  She shakes her head, giving shallow, stricken looks at the dead men on the floor. “I don't know. Maybe I'm just...numb. I'm scared, Chris. What would've happened if you hadn't come through that door?”

  “Nothing you ever need to worry about,” I growl into her ear. “As long as we're in this town, you're not stepping out of my sight. You drank too much and I let you get away. That's my mistake, babe, the only one I'll make on this trip. I don't do repeats. Keep your fingers wrapped around mine and let's get the fuck out of here.”

  I lead her to the door, reaching down for my knife at the very end. One more quick rinse and it's clean enough. I also shove my hands into the pockets of the dead men, looking for ID. Predictably, there's nothing.

  Good.

  We need to get back to the hotel ASAP so I can clean up better.

  I don't bother doing shit about the bodies. There are murders in this town every week, and this place is totally abandoned. By the time they stink enough for anybody to notice, my DNA will be untraceable, and if anybody identifies these sorry fucks, they'll never know a thing.

  She doesn't say a word while we're outside, me holding her close, hailing the nearest cab. I step out and bang on the hood to make sure it stops. The driver looks irked, but he lets us in without a complaint.

  On the ride back to our room, a bitter smile crosses my face. I'm a damned fool for worrying about screwing up her head with sex. Now, I'll be lucky if she doesn't need therapy just to live down this night.

  There's only one thing ahead that'll sweep the agony of danger and murder away. Tonight.

  No bullshit's getting between us. I don't care what the hell's going through her psyche every time I shove my fingers through her soft dark hair, stroking her while she's curled up against me, trying to forget what just happened.

  She can, and she will. I'll make her. I'll erase every filthy mark left by their fingers on her gorgeous body, and then I'll leave her something to remember forever.

  Watching me kill those motherfuckers is gonna be a footnote by the end of the week. After I'm done showing her all the things I can do to her, she'll have too much sex on the brain to ever understand the word 'murder' again.

  “Eat, babe. You need to. You'll feel like shit tomorrow.” Okay, so it's not as easy as I thought.

  When we get back to the hotel, I order the fanciest shit, and room service brings it up on two huge carts. She picks at her lobster bisque and takes tiny bites of bread, setting them down every few seconds like she's about to be sick.

  “Was all that just normal to you?” Delia looks up, her eyes wide and bright, rippling. “I mean, is this what it's like to be a SEAL? Killing without hesitation?”

  “I don't hesitate when I've got a mission that needs to be done. Every man on a SEAL Team makes a pact with God, the universe, whatever you want to call it when he signs up. It's their job to sort the rights and wrongs. It's ours to serve justice and follow orders.”

  I throw a glass of wine down my gullet and then dig into my steak. My eyes flick across her chest, admiring how her tits bounce every time she draws a deep breath.

  Killing those bastards hasn't done shit to my appetites – neither of them. It's Delia I'm worried about, and I need her to get something in her belly.

  The brain can survive any trauma as long as it's got the bare essentials. It's plastic, one of many things we learn in BUD/s training, and the same truth goes double for civilian
s.

  “This is the first time you've killed outside the force, isn't it?” she says, shaking her head. “Jesus, I'm sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn't have fallen behind you, Chris. If I hadn't stopped to look inside that scummy old theater –“

  “The next sounds I hear coming outta your mouth better be chewing, babe.” My fist hits the small black dining table in our room with a bang. “I don't need your apologies. Nobody does. Those freaks I mopped up are the only ones who should be sorry for fucking with our special night, and they're too dead now for remorse. You didn't do a damned thing. I let you wander.”

  “No, no.” Her gorgeous brown eyes pinch shut. She scratches at her bread and dunks it in the orange tinted bisque, swirling it like paint. “This is my fault. Everything, Chris. You know I wanted to pump you for information? I wanted to get into a SEAL's world, find out what makes you tick. I wanted to use you like my pet project for my senior thesis, to see a SEAL's psychology when he's not on the clock.”

  I swallow a big bite of my steak and grin. She really thinks I'm clueless, doesn't she? It would be cute, if it wasn't so pathetic.

  “I know all about your senior project. You're a bad tease, Delia. I played along to get into your panties. I don't give a shit what you write, as long as it's not classified. Nobody walking around without a trident patch on their skin knows shit. It's all fantasy to them, all pop culture, and I'm okay with you serving up exactly what they want to hear.”

  She sighs. “I wanted to do something more. Get to the truth of all this, I mean. It's not just the project...I want to know you. I meant that the first time I ever told you, and I still do.”

  I reach across the table and clasp her hand. “You will. Don't let the shit that happened in the theater take anything away. That's up to us. Now, you done playing confessional, or are you gonna drag your bread through that soup 'til it's cold?”

  She shoots me a grudging smile and finally lifts it to her lips. I watch her chew, trying to keep my cock from splitting the seams in my trousers.

  Fuck, those lips are kissable, biteable, and everything in between. I've tasted her before, but never as deeply as I want, and tonight's day one of gorging myself on everything quintessentially Delia.