My Billionaire Stepbrother (Lexi's Sexy Billionaire Romance #1)

by Lexi Maxxwell

  I’d seen him beat people up. I knew.

  “Because I don’t let them. It’s that simple.”

  “This isn’t messing with me. This is me doing favors for my — ”

  “You can’t even say the word,” he laughed. “At least do that. Say the word, Angela.”

  “What word?”

  “‘Fucking.’ I said ‘fucking with me,’ and you came back with ‘messing with me.’”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “Do I? If you can’t have a filthy mouth sometimes, how are you supposed to ever stand up for yourself?”

  “I don’t see what one has to do with another.”

  “Just say it. Say ‘fucking.’”

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

  “Say it.”

  “No.”

  “Jesus, just say it, and I’ll leave you alone!”

  “Fucking!”

  He looked over at me for a second. A strange look passed through his eyes.

  “It sounds good on you. You should swear more. Say, ‘cock.’”

  I looked out the window. The silence almost made me think he’d persist, really wanting to hear me say it, but then he continued his berating.

  “And it is them fucking with you. My dad doesn’t fuck with me anymore, but he’s found out he can fuck with you. He saw your mom doing it. And why not? You’ll do all their crap jobs without a complaint, thinking it’s your duty. It’s cute, Angela. Maybe even charitable and kind. But where are you in all of this?”

  “I’m right here.”

  He looked at me, then back to the road. “I can only stand by so long. This is kind of my fault in a way. I don’t do Dad’s crap, so it goes to you. And I figure I have a responsibility to teach you some stuff anyway. Clearly, you can’t demand what you want while you’re busy doing everyone else’s work.”

  I didn’t know what to make of that, and couldn’t protest or arrange the pieces with Parker talking.

  “You wanna know why we’re going to the beach? Because you need to learn some disobedience. So we’re gonna ditch your mom’s fucking shopping errand. You’re not going to call her and tell her where you are or that you’re not coming home. You’re going to the beach. You’re gonna be a kid.”

  “How do you ‘be a kid’?” I was deriding him, not asking. I had friends. I hung out. I played, in my own way. Just because I listened to the rules, was considerate, and did nice things for my mother didn’t make me a bad person, or old before my time.

  “You ever been to the pier?”

  “What pier?”

  “Santa Monica Pier.”

  “No.”

  “Well, today you’re going. We’re going to ride rides. We’re going to play video games and carnival shit. I got beer. I — ”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Well, I do. And you’re gonna hang out on the beach without a care in the world.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I looked over at Parker, trying to decipher his impassive profile.

  “I don’t have my swimsuit,” was all I could think to say.

  He ticked his head toward the back. “I brought it.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of Parker rummaging through my drawers.

  But I didn’t protest as the highway unspooled before us.

  ANGELA

  PARKER AND I WERE BOTH dirt-ass poor back then, our already-pressing poverty exacerbated by us both being teenagers. I still don’t know whom he borrowed the car from, but I did know the gas to get us to Santa Monica in that fuel-guzzling monster must have hurt. He probably didn’t have a choice. His Ford was always falling apart; it ran its final year on spit and bailing wire. He’d probably been afraid we’d break down and find ourselves stranded, and getting to the pier seemed unduly important to him.

  I didn’t understand why. We’d been passingly friendly lately, but only passingly. As in: I passed him, and he passed me, and we were usually able to resist sniping. He was moody and barely spoke; I was a bit intimidated in spite of the broken tension and kept my head down. We had an understanding, but didn’t mesh and never would. He was the troublemaker, I was coming to understand; I was the stuffy drama girl that he seemed to feel some obligation to protect. That was it.

  In the past, when we were alone, things had been slightly uncomfortable. When Mom and Bill were out, I worked in the living room, and Parker stayed in his room. He came and went. We nodded and traded brief greetings. But we never sat for long in the same room. It was too strange. There was the tension of unfamiliarity, plus a different strain that hung in the air like a cloud. I felt guilty for my part. I’d started to notice that despite being an asshole, Parker was hot. That was wrong on a thousand levels, and I hated the feeling. Worse: I didn’t like what those feelings said about me as a person. I was supposed to date nice boys who did their chores and earned good grades. I was supposed to be into people who weren’t my stepbrother.

  But I’d found myself looking at Parker in the wrong way more and more often. Whenever I caught myself thinking something inappropriate, the feeling intensified rather than going away. I hated it, and hating it made me want to avoid him. But that was impossible because we lived in the same house. He walked from his room to the bathroom in his boxers, and my room was between them. I listened to the shower through one wall, unable to stop thinking of him standing in its spray, water coursing along his washboard stomach, running down his body to —

  But that was so much worse.

  And sometimes, at night, I’d hear him clicking around on his computer. Parker wasn’t much of a computer guy, and the idea that he’d be looking up information on Wikipedia after dark seemed odd. Sometimes, I’d catch the faint sounds of moaning, knowing he was watching porn. Of course. Boys would be boys. I wanted to be disgusted, having to hear that, knowing what he must be doing on the other side of our thin wall. But sometimes, thinking of it, I’d slip my hands into my pajamas and do the same. I didn’t like any of it. It was so, so wrong. So out of character for me. So not who I was.

  Our Santa Monica run made me a strange mix of uneasy and giddy. I didn’t like running from my responsibilities or not knowing what he had up his sleeve, but I couldn’t help but feel flattered by his attention. The slurry of emotion hit every corner of my being. I could barely hang on.

  Parker wanted to teach me his lessons. And while I wouldn’t just do what he said, I was willing to listen so long as his ideas stayed sensible.

  Shockingly, they did. It was as if our house had a poison aura, and Parker, once freed, was able to breathe. He was sullen and defensive around his dad and rough around his friends, but he opened up in the sun and breeze. He almost seemed to become a different person. I had no idea what to talk about, and spent the first entire hour with the vivid premonition that at any moment I’d do something to annoy him: I’d say the wrong thing or act the wrong way. He’d blow up. Then he’d drive us home in angry silence, him blaming me for this futile errand, me feeling guilty for being myself.

  But that didn’t happen. Parker laughed and smiled. We played carnival games and rode a few rides. We walked the beach and, in the sun’s sweetest heat, parked ourselves under the pier to cool off.

  It had been an hour and a half since we’d arrived, and I was gaining confidence in this strange new Parker Altman. I was also slightly intoxicated, I supposed, by being the focus of his attention. In another world, Parker might have been the bad boy I secretly crushed on, confessing about him to my friends. His attention filled me like a Mylar balloon.

  Knowing I’d never normally have the guts, I asked him a question.

  “What’s with you, Parker?”

  He was sitting on the sand beside me, knees to his chest. The slight breeze licked his hair. He shrugged.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean … you’re nicer than you seem, maybe.”

  He looked at me for a long time, and I wondered if I’d spoken out of line. Then he charmed me w
ith his smile and said, “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “So why only here? Why can’t you … you know … at home?”

  “Why can’t I what, Angela?”

  “Why can’t you … not be an asshole?”

  That was a risk. But he smiled again. “Dad, I guess.”

  “What about him?”

  “If I give him an inch, he takes a mile.”

  “That’s what you’re trying to teach me here? To be a badass?”

  He shifted and turned more toward me. The sun had been hot and, even now in the shade, I could feel a bead of sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades. A pack sat between us. I’d bought two bottles of water and stuffed them into his small cache of gear. I fished one out and opened it, waiting for his response.

  He looked at me then out at the pylons under the pier.

  “I just wonder about you, Angela. You don’t have to be a badass, but shit, I hate to see you stepped on so much.”

  “I don’t feel stepped on.”

  He took my bottle and casually swigged it. I didn’t usually share cups and bottles, but apparently Parker had no such reservations.

  “Of course you don’t. That’s why it’s so easy to step on you.”

  He fumbled the bottle, and for a few seconds it danced in the air. Finally, it fell and rolled away from us, the cap (luckily) still on.

  “Grab that, will you?”

  I flexed to rise, but he put his hand on my lap and pushed me back down. Then he crawled after the bottle and held it up. “Exactly what I’m talking about. Here’s what you say: get your own bottle, asswipe.”

  “I was just being nice,” I said, realizing I’d just been tested.

  “You’re nice anyway. Err on the other side.”

  I looked across the water. “I’m not always nice.”

  He nodded. “Yes, you are. Look at you. Your whole personality says ‘nice.’ It’s how you’re defined.”

  “That’s so not true!” I said, faux indignant.

  “Hell yeah, it is. You’re straight-As, drama club, choir, volunteer work, you name it. You’re so squeaky clean, it hurts.”

  “Oh yeah.” I meant to be dismissive but didn’t know what to say. Everything so far was true.

  “I’ve known a lot of girls like you. If you played right, you could get whatever you wanted.”

  “What girls like me?”

  “Pretty, popular girls, with — ”

  “You think I’m pretty?”

  He pushed on as if he hadn’t heard. “ — all sorts of guys around, but they get stuff done. But you? You don’t get stuff done that you actually care about. Really, you just take shit.”

  “Hmm. I see.”

  “You’re too sweet.”

  “Sweet how?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like there’s no dirt on you at all. You’re all … virginal.”

  “What makes you think I’m a virgin?”

  Parker laughed. “Aren’t you?”

  I felt myself blush. “None of your business!”

  “Yeah, you are. You can tell by the way you act. I’ll bet you don’t even know what a dick looks like.”

  “Parker!” I almost added, “I’m your stepsister.”

  I found myself not wanting to remind him.

  Now he was laughing. “You couldn’t even say ‘fuck’ earlier. So go ahead, Ang. Tell me you’ve fucked a guy.”

  “I’m not discussing this.”

  “Go on. Say it. Even if it’s not true. Just say it. Say, ‘Fuck me.’”

  I watched the water, wanting to leave. Finally he said, “That’s what I thought. But it shows, you know. And the guys who could be doing your bidding, they know you’re a dead end. So why should they — ”

  “I’ve done stuff.”

  He looked at me. “What stuff?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Not the big one. You’ve never had sex.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but — ”

  “Right. That’s what I thought.”

  “But other stuff, yeah.”

  I was feeling warm in my jeans. I wished I’d worn shorts, but it hadn’t been this hot earlier, and I hadn’t known I’d be sitting on hot sand. The denim felt tight. And tingly.

  “You ever sucked a guy off?”

  I couldn’t look at him. “No, but … ”

  “Yeah. You’re a wild girl.”

  “But I’ve done stuff with my hands.”

  I thought he’d laugh at me again. A handie here and there was minor leagues. Guys really did think I was a prude. Seventeen and only giving hand jobs? But Parker didn’t laugh; he seemed to think it was shocking. For a moment, I felt like the dirtiest girl in the world.

  “You’re jacking guys off?”

  “Not guys. Some guys.” In truth, two. But whatever; he didn’t need to know that.

  Parker stared at me. I wanted to turn away, but I also very much didn’t. I thought something might have stirred in his lap, but that’s probably only because I was keyed up and looking for things that weren’t there.

  “What?” I said.

  “I’m just kind of surprised to realize you have any of that in you at all.”

  “I’m human, you know,” I told him, as if I had all sorts of experience.

  “And I’m having a hard time picturing you with cum on your fist.”

  “Okay.” I rolled to the side and started to stand. “Time to move on.”

  “Do you like it when they gush really high, like a geyser?” he asked, his voice taunting. “Or does that just make you afraid it’ll end up on your face?”

  “Gross.” I brushed sand off my pants, unwittingly finding myself picturing what he was trying to paint. I didn’t like that I wasn’t grossed out.

  Parker stood behind me. I stepped into the sun and felt instantly baked, remembering why we’d gone under the pier in the first place. Parker came into the heat behind me then looked up, shielding his eyes with his arm.

  “Hell. It’s hot.”

  I fanned myself, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Give me the bag.” He pointed at the duffel.

  “Why?”

  “I want to put on my suit.”

  I resumed walking. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “Hey, wait. Gimme.”

  I pointed. “The changing rooms are down there.”

  He looked back at the scattering of posts and pylons then shrugged.

  “What? Right here?”

  “Why not? There’s nobody around.” He unzipped the bag, pulled out a pair of surfer shorts, and walked back in. Within a few seconds, he’d vanished behind a cluster.

  I saw a flap of fabric, pinpointed his location, and realized that right there, Parker was stripping down to nothing.

  Then I realized that he’d come back and see me still fully dressed, in my long jeans with my long-sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows. Sweating my ass off. Then I’d lead us all the way to the changing rooms across the beach, where he’d wait patiently while his prude-ass sister — one who everyone apparently thought of as an ice queen — changed out of her six petticoats and bloomers into what would surely be a full-body 1920s swimsuit.

  I looked around.

  Fuck it. I could be crazy too, if “crazy” meant changing in privacy behind pylons on a deserted section of beach where no one could see me.

  I moved away from the water until I felt sufficiently hidden. Feeling dangerous (and — admittedly — kind of excited), I slipped off my jeans. Without wasting time, heart thumping, I slipped off my panties then pawed frantically in the duffel for my swimsuit bottoms, sure that at any moment someone would come up behind my bare ass. I felt better once they were on: not just cooler, but less like an ice queen.

  I paused to stuff my jeans and panties into the duffel, then doffed my shirt. I wriggled behind my back, grabbed the clasp of my bra, then slipped that off, too. The breeze, despite its warmth, felt cool on my bare breasts as it swept away
my brush of perspiration and made my nipples stand tall and hard.

  I had a moment to wonder if I was being turned on by the exposure then reached into the duffel for my top.

  I rummaged.

  Then I rummaged some more.

  It wasn’t in there. I couldn’t find it. I was under a pier on a public beach with my tits out, and had nothing to cover them. I was going to have to wear my shirt after all — and because the shirt was slightly sheer and the sun was strong, I’d probably have to wear my goddamned bra, too.

  I turned back to my pile of clothes and saw Parker standing in front of me, dressed in his board shorts. He’d just come around the pylon, apparently having no idea where I’d gone. He was holding my swimsuit top, which he must have grabbed by mistake.

  He was looking right at me. Right at me.

  I wanted to cover up. I should have turned away, or at least crossed my arms over my chest. But for some reason, I was frozen. I was only wearing bottoms, with everything from my flat belly to my wind-tousled dark-brown hair bare for him to see.

  “Your suit,” he mumbled, raising the top in his hand.

  I still hadn’t moved. He’d given me two seconds of courtesy, but he’d moved his eyes down since and was staring directly at my bare breasts. They were Bs — a bit smaller than I wanted, but cute enough, I thought, in the mirror.

  I found I enjoyed the feel of his eyes on them.

  Damn me and my shame; I didn’t want him to stop taking me in. And worse: in those few seconds, I very much wanted him to reach out and touch me. A twisted timeline spooled across my vision, and in a blink I saw us in the sand, his hands everywhere, me not as frigid as he thought but instead quite willing, quite ready, quite —

  “I’m sorry.” He shoved the top into my hand, finally turning away.

  Shame descended. I took the top and pulled it on.

  We picked up our gear. Parker left the pier’s shade first. I followed at a distance of a dozen steps, my skin hotter than the sun might suggest.

  It wasn’t just Parker’s embarrassing attention that bothered me so much. It was also what I’d seen in his eyes. The horrid realization that in those few seconds, he’d wanted me — and I’d wanted him right back.

  We walked on in silence, a hot mix of emotions churning inside me. Shocked, disbelieving, aroused. I wanted to hide my face and run.