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

by Lexi Maxxwell

  “You act like I’m begging,” I say. It comes out defensive. Parker Altman doesn’t beg. I wonder if I’m shoving my foot into the door, applying pressure, forcing distance between us.

  “No, just … we never talked this out.”

  We didn’t have to. Our actions said it all. I remember how much it hurt. I remember how it was unlike anything I’d ever felt, with any other girl. I remember how I swore I’d never, ever hurt that much again.

  “I guess we didn’t.”

  “If we’re going to be friends now … ”

  “Is that what we are?”

  She laughed. “For now.”

  That makes my heart skip a little. Then she adds, “For now, until I get used to you as a friend, it would feel kind of wrong to leap all the way to seeing you as a brother.”

  But then, she never thought of me as a brother because I wasn’t one. A roommate, maybe. A tormentor. On our best day, a friend. Except for that brief, painful period when we’d been more.

  “Sure.” I raise my glass, proud of my maturity. “Friends.” And we drink to it.

  But because it’s late, it would be rude to not offer her a room.

  Angela accepts, and again she’s sleeping with but one wall between us.

  Knowing she’s so close but so far reopens the wound I swore I’d never open again.

  I lie awake for hours, my mind filled with images of our innocent past.

  ANGELA

  I SUPPOSE IT’S HYPOCRITICAL TO have had that talk with Parker then lull myself to sleep masturbating in his guest bed. But I can’t help it. I’m wound up — and I don’t think it was my imagination: he was, too.

  But we’re adults. Not teenage bags of hormones. Back then, we maybe had excuses. Today, not so much. I remember having no real concept of the future when I was a kid. There was today and maybe tomorrow. But I didn’t try to save money (not that I could), I didn’t worry about my health (or sanity), and I didn’t think about what my life might be like in the future if I made the wrong decisions. It’s shocking that we didn’t detonate our worlds in a ten-megaton estrogen-testosterone bomb. Somehow, we survived … and now that we’re mature enough to consider consequences, it’s important that we do.

  I didn’t plan to sleep here, so I have no pajamas. I closed the door a bit ago — which was also hard; I could feel myself wanting to find Parker in his quiet, stunning apartment. Now alone, I slip off my confining jeans. Then the shirt and the bra. He’s set out unisex clothes for me: fancy, fine garments that probably cost more than my rent.

  I’m about to put them on when I remember I’ve still not showered. I merely splashed myself at home, before changing clothes and hoping for the best. It’s a miracle he didn’t run screaming.

  But I can’t get into those clothes or under the sheets as I am.

  So I slip of my panties and, savoring my nudity maybe too much, go into the guest bath attached to my temporary bedroom. The shower is larger than my walk-in closet at home, and there are two shower heads. I take a hot shower then shut the thick glass door behind me and slip into the sleep shorts without anything else.

  That’s all it takes: the movement of slippery fabric on skin. The realization that although I’m in the guest bedroom, it’s accurate to say I’m sliding Parker’s clothes over my naked body and climbing into his bed.

  I slip the garment back off, let my hand explore the smooth, sensitive skin between my legs, and cum while thinking of Parker.

  But it’s okay. It’s not really him. It’s my hand. And it’s my hand the second time, too. Just because I think of him while I do it — just because I wonder if his body is still as sculpted as it looks, just because I picture him climbing under the sheets with me, easing his weight atop me, sliding inside me — that doesn’t make it him for real.

  It’s like quitting cigarettes with a nicotine patch. Yes, you’re still getting the drug, but without so many of the negative consequences brought by the real thing.

  I wake up in the morning, recalling my dalliances and feeling somehow guilty. As if he’ll see relief on my face and know what I’ve done. But when I come out into the front room, I see that he’s not yet emerged. It’s strange to be in another person’s living room alone, so I decide to take another shower. I’ve never been sprayed with water from two directions at once, so I take my time and indulge. As I’m finishing, again thinking of how I’m naked in Parker’s house after all this time, I realize that one of the shower heads is detachable. I decide that it’s safest to start the day with optimum pressure released, so I pretend the spray is Parker’s tongue and cum while standing.

  But I refuse to feel guilty. Fantasy isn’t reality. Fantasy assists reality. If I couldn’t get off on my own, I might be tempted get off with Parker for real. And that’s nothing but trouble.

  I leave the bathroom and find Parker. He can’t meet my eye when saying hello, and I find myself strongly suspecting he might have let off some pressure this morning too, thinking of me.

  The awkward moment passes. We spend some time discussing my family despite him clearly not wanting to, probably so we can remind each other that we’re legally (if not biologically) related. Parker makes a joke about how Mom and Bill screwed things up for us by getting together. I tell him that if they hadn’t been together, there was no way in hell we ever would have met. I was Miss Perfect, and he was Mr. Wrong. His friends beat up my friends. We had them to blame, not thank.

  Then Parker goes too far, pointing out that all the problems would go away if they’d just break up or die. “Then we could rock the bedposts,” he says. It’s such a ludicrously awful thing to say, a truly tasteless joke. We both laugh, too hard, and it’s clear that it’s only made things worse for these two people trying to reacquaint without reacquainting too far.

  We talk about a bunch of other boring, platonic things: his business, his standard artist contracts, WinFinity’s expansion plans. I make him show me an organizational chart because it’s the least sexy thing I can possibly think of. And after a while the moment passes, and we really are just two people. A golden hour begins, and I can almost imagine us hanging out, being buddies, maybe acting like siblings joined by marriage.

  And at that point, with the cold shower of ordinary reality between us, I realize to my surprise that I like Parker Altman.

  He’s smart. He’s interesting. He’s lost his worst habits and gained a few better ones. He still has his arrogance, but that’s okay; the world’s difference makers are all arrogant.

  When he suggests that I meet Duncan — who, he assures me, is even more arrogant than he is — the air feels safe enough to accept his offer. I have today off work, and I’ve already made my excuses to Mom like a teenager. I tell her I’ll be late and add that I may stay another night away. That will have to be played by ear. Right now, I’ve found myself comfortable playing with fire.

  But I must remember it’s fire, and be ready to run if it blazes.

  I tell Parker I need to go home for dinner clothes. We’ll be meeting Duncan and a woman named Samantha. I can’t do it in jeans that probably stink from yesterday’s sweat. What’s more, I intuit that Samantha is Parker’s girlfriend. Him making a point to invite her is probably like me bringing up Mom and Bill. It’s Parker saying, See? I have a girlfriend. How could we NOT be platonic forever and ever? Clearly, it’s not a problem because I’m inviting her to dinner … and no, it doesn’t sound to me like protesting at all.

  Regardless, I don’t want to look dowdy when I meet Parker’s girlfriend. I don’t know why; it just feels wrong. He has a few pictures of her around — not in frames, but as vacation snaps printed and propped up loose on his massive black desk. Samantha is stunning. I feel an unreasonable desire to compete.

  But when I suggest running home, Parker laughs. “We’re family,” he says with an unreasonable emphasis, as if trying to convince himself, “and I have too much money as it is.” This turns me on a little in a way I’m ashamed of. I push the feeling down.

/>   We visit boutiques in Beverly Hills, right there on Rodeo Drive. He won’t let me see any prices. He keeps repeating that as obnoxious as it is to point out, the highest prices mean nothing to him. He keeps telling me that he likes to give gifts, and that by accepting his offers, I’m doing him a favor.

  I wonder what Mom will think of these clothes. Will she think I’m a sellout, gone the way of my previously Hellbound, suddenly birthday-card-worthy stepbrother? Or worse: Will she congratulate me on narrowing the gap, bringing the three of us closer to gold?

  Parker must have appointments even though it’s Saturday because his cell keeps buzzing. He declines the calls every time. “Not important,” he says. And: “That’s what assistants are for.”

  This is making me nervous. He’s doting too much. Yesterday, I hated him, and he barely remembered me. Now we’re best pals — but not just best pals; he’s spending his day in shops and salons, talking to me while I’m having my hair done on his dime, chatting me up while I’m getting a manicure. It takes all day, and I can’t help but wonder what he’d normally have done with this time.

  I’m not stupid. I know this is lingering affection. I keep turning the discussion to our families, and he keeps turning it to this mysterious Samantha, just to keep us honest. The fire at my heels is burning hotter. We’re risking burns that will scar. But I can’t stop. He’s out of line for doing all of this; I’m out of line for letting him.

  We should stop. We don’t. It’s all so familiar because we’ve been on this seesaw before.

  Dinner’s at eight. We have reservations somewhere fancy. He showed me the menu, but I don’t recognize a single thing. But it’s been such an amazing day that I don’t care whether any of this is smart of us or not.

  When we reenter his penthouse, I’m carrying several bags from the most expensive places I’ve ever shopped. I pause to look in the mirror and hardly recognize myself. I look like a model. I suppose it’s arrogant to say that, but what the hell; I’m here with the king of arrogant. He was cocky as a hot teen boy, and now he’s cocky as a hot wealthy man.

  “You look amazing,” he says, coming up behind me. He’s wearing a very fine suit — fine enough, in fact, that even my terrible eye for tailoring can see the difference. I haven’t seen him in a half hour, and right now he looks positively delicious.

  Alarm bells screech inside my mind:

  I’d thought of him as a “hot wealthy man.”

  I’d decided he looked “positively delicious.”

  And I’ve already mentally made myself at home here, in this place, so far from my home. Somewhere out there, my mother and stepfather are waiting for me. I have a job and responsibilities. Yet here I am playing fairy princess, acting like this is how things are for me now, and forever will be.

  Whatever I’ve tried to stuff down inside me regarding Parker Altman, I’ve failed.

  It’s too late to get out of dinner. After all he spent — in money and time — to gussy me up, it would be unbelievably rude to run off or cancel. I have to get through it, but that will be hard now that I’ve heard my yearning heart.

  My eyes are softening for him. And oh shit oh God oh hell, I’m getting wet for him.

  I’m longing for the bathroom and about to make an excuse, knowing full well how incredibly undignified it will be to hike up this fancy dress and play sticky fingers. But I’m left with little choice. I’m in too deep.

  I’ve watched the fire at my back, but without warning here I am, surrounded.

  I want to turn, but Parker’s pulled out a beautiful silver necklace with gemstones at the throat. He lowers it to my skin from behind, his hands brushing my bare shoulders and the nape of my neck. He clasps it and whispers, “For you.”

  I don’t know what’s happening.

  Parker doesn’t finish saying those two words before I’m turning my head and pressing my lips to his.

  PARKER

  EVERYTHING WAS DIFFERENT AFTER SANTA Monica.

  I suppose I’d known that I liked Angela for a while, but Santa Monica put the truth in neon for us both. The dawning of my attraction had been slow enough to crawl up and catch me by surprise. Every day, I’d told myself it could be easily ignored. It wasn’t happening.

  Angela had started to grow nice boobs? So what? Even obnoxious stepsisters grew boobs. That didn’t mean I’d spent ever more time wondering what they looked like. It didn’t mean that when she wore short shorts, I looked at her ass more often. It meant nothing.

  The creeping lust before that day — and I’m positive she felt the same for me — was so gradual that we had time to deny it for a while before being forced to confront it. By then, even though I didn’t like living at Maria’s house, I’d still come to think of Angela as a reluctant sort of family, and she’d thought the same about me. You know how you’ll get used to thinking of someone a certain way, and then it’s hard to switch that mental pigeonhole even if it makes sense? That’s how it was for us. For all of us.

  Angela turned eighteen not long after that. That made things a little easier for me — but not much. I’d spent a lot of time fantasizing about her, and I told myself that once she was eighteen, I’d at least not be a total creep. Now, instead of thinking about my underage stepsister’s body, I was thinking about my eighteen-year-old stepsister’s body. That made me merely disgusting rather than a total perv. I’d invoke the wrath of my dad and stepmother, be shunned by others upon discovery rather than be arrested.

  Angela seemed to be feeling the same things. The rest of the Santa Monica trip was hard because I could no longer pretend I was the only pervy one. Something had passed between us, and both of us knew it. She hadn’t covered up; I’d known she liked me seeing her half-naked like that. And although I should have averted my eyes, I didn’t. And she knew I hadn’t wanted to.

  We’d both wanted to do more than just looking, and easily could have. After the moment had passed, we’d both seemed to have realized it and danced toward trying to find another suitable spot … without making it obvious that we were looking. Then, when we ended up alone again, neither could make a move. Because even though we weren’t related by blood, we’d become related in our minds, used to thinking of each other as forbidden, and even as much of a shit as I was back then, I couldn’t do something that felt so utterly wrong.

  We avoided one another more than usual. But I found myself wanting Angela more than ever. I tried to catch glimpses of her running to or from showers. I listened at our shared walls, wondering if she touched herself at night. Wondering if, when she did, she ever pictured that day on the beach like I did, imagining how things might have unfolded if we’d only had the nerve.

  Eventually, things calmed between us, at least enough. Until one evening, we were both in the living room, holding bowls of popcorn for an ultra-rare family movie night. Only after we’d sat on the couch — right beside each other; we’d left the chairs for Dad and Maria — did we realize that the adults had made other plans. They were leaving us alone, on the couch, together.

  It was too awkward to stay but far more awkward to leave. I couldn’t say, “I’m sorry; I lust for you far too much for a movie together.” We settled in for our two-hour game of chicken, and I could see the fear in her eyes. A desirous fear of me, same as the delicious terror I had for her.

  We made it easily through the romcom’s first half, laughing and pretending that everything was cool. We stayed side-by-side on the couch because moving apart felt like admission of something neither of us was willing to admit. Her warmth was close. Funny parts made us forget.

  But then there was the romance.

  Then the first sex scene.

  It was about a relationship that shouldn’t happen. Taboo, like ours.

  Then the second sex scene.

  It turned out all right in the end. The taboo stopped mattering, like ours shouldn’t matter. We were both legal adults; only our parents’ marriage made us family. In other circumstances, we’d have been two young adults, bo
th breathing shallow, alone in the house, free to do whatever we wanted.

  But a huge part of me tried to remember that I was the black sheep. Nobody liked or wanted me here. My dad tolerated me because he had to. Maria hated me. Angela hated me beneath her desire; I’d sensed that from the beginning. Maybe I could lean in, as the credits rolled, and make this happen. Maybe I could show her that taboos didn’t matter.

  But then it would be my fault, and I’d only have proved everyone right.

  The black sheep strikes again.

  Angela raised the remote to kill the TV. But she fumbled, and it landed across my other side. We were too close; she’d dropped the thing because her inside arm had run along mine. Instead of asking me to grab the remote for her, I saw this terrified look on her face as if she’d done something horribly wrong but promised to fix it. She leaned. As she reached, her breasts brushed against me. Her hair draped my chest. Angela grabbed the remote and turned to me as she withdrew, but I could no longer take it.

  We were boiling, and had been for weeks. The movie had stoked every bit of what we’d been trying to hide. The guilt remained, but it was somehow above us, looking down.

  Lust was stronger.

  I embraced her. One hand slithered around Angela’s back, pulling her face to mine. She easily came, wanting the same thing. One hand found her chest as her momentum rolled us, Angela’s back lying flat and me coming above her, my hand pawing her shirt, kneading her soft breasts. Our mouths were a frenzy; once the bubble had popped, there was no way to slow or stop or hesitate. No way to think.

  No need to say anything.

  What needed to be said had already been whispered a thousand times inside my mind and hers, late at night while our parents were sleeping.

  I was instantly hard. Angela, despite her inexperience, didn’t hesitate; her hands found my erect cock and rubbed it through my jeans. Her mouth was alive, insatiable. Her breath was short and hot, gasping, almost desperate.