It couldn’t happen fast enough. I kissed her mouth, felt her tongue, ran my mouth along her long neck. Angela tipped her head back, exhaling, lifting her body toward me in a long wave.
My hand slid under her shirt. Along her flat, smooth belly. I felt the bottom of her bra then wrapped my hand around to her back. She arched to give me room, and I slipped the clasp one-handed. The hand circled back, lifted the front edge of her undergarment, finding the soft swell of flesh beneath.
I’d been wanting this. Imagining this. Picturing every moment. I’d thought of that day on the beach thousands of times, wondering what she’d feel like, how her nipples would respond to my touch. I’d imagined my mouth on hers, imagined the fingers of my spare hand running through her long, dark hair. Just like I finally was.
I pulled away for a second, one hand under her shirt, the other caressing the soft moon of her cheek. Just a beat — enough to make sure she still wanted this as badly as I did. My eyes weren’t asking if this was a good idea or if she’d regret this tomorrow — the answers were clearly no and yes — but if she wanted to continue, damn the taboo.
She responded by pushing me more upright. By unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans. She didn’t move like a virgin; Angela’s hand was under my boxers, wrapping my throbbing cock, within seconds.
We couldn’t speak. Neither of us could break the spell. I leaned into her working hand, grinding against her friction. Then I unbuttoned her, violently yanking both pants and panties down just far enough to see. She’d kept herself trim but not shaven, a small and intoxicating patch of hair visible between her legs, topping pink lips blushed with moisture.
Light washed the front windows, and we heard the sound of a car’s engine.
My heart raced. Angela’s eyes went wide.
Lust melted to panic.
We were adults, but still our parents’ children, brainwashed into convention, living under their roof.
We pulled away, my urgent cock wanting to cry out at her fleeing touch. She yanked her pants back into place and zipped as I did the same. Angela tugged her shirt down then fumbled with her bra to reclasp it.
Seconds bled as Dad fumbled with his keys. Angela’s fingers had gone dumb; she couldn’t get her bra in place and the way it hung from the front was obvious. I thought she’d sprint to her room, but she somehow pulled the whole thing off one arm at a time instead, fishing fabric through the armholes. It came out one sleeve, and she shoved it between the cushions.
When the door opened, we must have looked like two kids caught raiding the cookie jar. We bolted upright, hot and bothered, my lap sporting a rail spike and Angela braless and obvious. I could still see the outline of her nipples through the stretched fabric, and it took everything in me not to reach for them.
Bill entered first. He went straight to the kitchen, barely tossing us a glance despite what I felt must be damning visual evidence. It’s almost like he didn’t expect his son to be fingering his stepsister, for said stepsister to be minutes from wrapping her soft lips around his son’s throbbing cock.
We sat on the couch, awaiting discovery. Of course neither of them could see our guilt, or sense the slowly dying sexual energy still pervading the room.
What we’d almost done would have been terrible, and the next morning’s guilt was excruciating. Only the act itself was missing — the good thing that might have made the bad worth it.
Still, despite my yearning, I felt that sense of disaster barely averted. I was a fuckup already, the blackest of sheep. Angela, on the other hand, was all I wasn’t. A good girl. She earned straight As. She was respectful and kind, generous in ways I never had been or would be. She was sweet, and I’d almost stolen that from her. I’d almost been her first, even knowing I’d be soiling something beautiful. She’d wanted me, and I with my selfish, black sheep ways had almost taken advantage.
From then on, I knew we’d be a powder keg.
From then on, I knew that if we were alone, neither of us would be able to halt the inevitable. She’d want to be ruined, and I’d want to ruin her. I’d take her potential and soil her fleece. What was sweet, I’d certainly sour.
From then on, I knew we’d never be able to resist acting on our inappropriate urges.
I had to be strong enough to leave them all, and never return.
ANGELA
PARKER’S PHONE VIBRATES AND BREAKS our kiss.
The air is uncomfortable for a few pregnant seconds. We’ve never quite revisited all that happened between us as kids, even though it’s been heavy over our heads like clouds while we’ve pretended we’re friends.
I want to joke about vibrators as his phone buzzes again, but it feels too near the bone.
Parker fishes it out and looks at the screen.
“It’s Samantha.”
“Your girlfriend,” I say.
“Yes, my girlfriend.”
“She probably wants to get going.” He’s already told me that she’s coming here, that she and Duncan are both at some hoity-toity thing just one building over and that we can all ride to the restaurant together in Parker’s limo.
But Parker just stares at his phone. It goes to voicemail, but she must not leave a message. Instead, Samantha sends a text.
For no reason, Parker looks up at me and says, “We’re breaking up.”
I put my hand on my chest — which, thanks to this pretty dress and miraculous undergarment, is generous and bursting with alluring cleavage. The new necklace dangles in place, and I find my mind straying to our brief kiss: something broached yet arrested by the phone call and too late to continue.
“But we’re not even going out!” I reply, laughing.
“Me and Sam. We’re breaking up.”
But we’re going to dinner with Sam. How uncomfortable.
“Does she know that?”
“I don’t even like her, Angela. I never really have. Duncan set us up. She’s ‘right’ for me, in his mind. Because everything is about appearances and perception.”
“So you’re not really together?” For some reason, the idea that Samantha is a fake girlfriend thrills me. I think of the photos. She’s beautiful. I don’t like to think of Parker’s hands on her for real.
“No, I mean … ” he stammers. “We’re together; I just think she’s a horrible person.”
“Ah. Respect. The foundation of any successful relationship.”
“No, I mean … she’s … ”
I wait, wondering.
“I’m not that guy, Ang,” he blurts. “I’m really not the guy the media shows me to be.”
“I haven’t seen a lot of media on you actually.”
“I’m not just about the money. It was always about the music, and the business. But Duncan, he’s different. We need an image. We need to be a certain way. And Samantha, she just likes me for … ”
“That’s your business,” I say, putting a hand on his arm to pacify him. “It’s not mine or anyone else’s.”
“It’s complicated. Samantha is helping us with PR and media relations. But we’re kind of entangled, what with business and pleasure mixing, and … ”
“Pleasure?” I say the word like a joke, though it hurts.
“We’re a bad fit. I just want you to know that.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not that guy.”
Now that he’s repeated it, I wonder if he’s talking to me or to himself. Press on Parker is thin as far as I’ve seen, and I’ve actively searched. I look around his apartment and remember the boy he used to be. I wonder if anyone accuses Parker of selling out and changing with his money … or if Parker’s only accusing himself.
His phone vibrates with another text.
“The limo is here.”
We take the elevator down. It’ll go all the way to the bottom, to the limo waiting in the garage. We stop at the lobby instead. The doors part, and a stunning blonde enters with a handsome black man. Parker introduces us, and we all shake hands. By the time the doors open an
other floor down, Samantha has air-kissed around me, and we’re apparently old friends in the way Samantha understands the word — which, I suspect, is quite different from my definition.
The chauffeur is waiting with Parker’s sleek black car, holding the door open for us. We pile in and sit across from one another. Samantha and Parker are on one side, Duncan and I default to the other. Samantha puts her hand on Parker’s knee. His eyes keep flitting toward me with something like apology.
The ride to the restaurant is filled with small talk, and I find myself glad that Parker tried to inoculate me ahead of time with the knowledge that he’s “not that guy” because he’s definitely not the guy he was ten minutes earlier with these two around. He’s all false smiles and glad-handing. I hear him say things that sound nothing like Parker — classy, patrician statements that assume wealth and privilege. I keep reminding myself that it’s just the company. I have to remind myself that I’m almost doing the same, when I can find the poise and vocabulary. I find myself able to understand what Parker said: I don’t know that I like these people, but by observing my behavior and expressions from the outside, you’d probably think I do.
When we arrive, Samantha, closest to the door, waits for the chauffeur to open the limo. Duncan moves around her to exit first then takes her long-fingered, limp-wristed hand to help her out in an over-the-top gesture of chivalry. This is how it must always play out. Samantha surely never exits without a human handrail.
After a moment, I realize that Parker isn’t rising to follow Samantha. I’d assumed he’d go next and I’d go last (perhaps accepting a hand for assistance), but apparently not. I flex to rise, but before I get far, Parker gives me a look and speaks through the open door at Duncan.
“Duncan.”
“Yeah, man.”
“We forgot Angela’s purse.”
I’m about to object. First of all, I don’t need my purse because there’s no way I’m paying for my meal. And second, my purse is in Parker’s pocket. He stuck it there when I nearly tripped over my new heels getting into the penthouse elevator. It’s a tiny thing, brand new, purchased today. I can still see its small shape in his coat from where I’m sitting.
Parker gives me another look. This one, I flat-out recognize. I remember it from my youth, when this wealthy tycoon across from me was my despised delinquent stepbrother. Keep your mouth shut.
“Oh, well, that’s too bad,” Duncan says.
“Our reservations aren’t until eight. We’ll run back.”
Duncan looks at his watch. “We won’t get much time to settle in.”
“What time is it?”
“Seven,” Duncan says.
“There and back. We should be able to be back by eight, and settle in during the first course. Open the wine, okay? Let it breathe.”
Duncan nods. I can’t see Samantha, but for some reason I imagine her hands are fixed to her hips. I feel guilty somehow because I get this unfounded impression that Samantha just got annoyed at me and my stupid, plebeian, purse-forgetting ways.
“All right. We’ll be here,” Duncan says.
The driver closes the door, locking us in well-lit silence. Parker orders his limo back to the penthouse then touches a button to raise the privacy shield.
The limo pulls from the curb. Parker fixes me with his serious brown eyes.
“You have my purse. “It’s in your pocket.”
“I know.”
“So why … ?”
He puts his hand on my bare knee.
“Samantha is important to our business, but she’s Duncan’s contact, not mine. He paired us up because he thought I needed someone respectable. Someone a guy like me is ‘supposed to’ be with.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“But I’m not that guy, Ang.”
His other hand finds my other leg. It feels warm. Something stirs inside me.
“I know you’re not.” He isn’t right now anyway — the fake-smiling, slogan-spouting thing he was while the others were in the car notwithstanding.
He slides to my side of the car, his body is flush against me.
“And I don’t want to be with someone I’m supposed to be with.’”
“Oh.”
“I want to be with someone I’m never supposed to be with.”
“I — ”
But Parker is already kissing me.
My eyes sigh closed. His hand on my thigh moves higher, and I find myself transported, traveling effortlessly back in time. I’m back in my old living room — my current living room, back in reality, away from the splendor. I’m an eighteen-year-old girl again, before my first time, my heart twittering like a little bird’s.
“I want you, Angela,” he whispers.
His hand is on my breast. My nipple hardens under his palm. I feel my lips blush, wanting his lips back where they belong.
“I want you too.”
“I’ve always wanted you.”
“I’ve missed you, Parker. It hurt so bad when you left.”
“I didn’t want to go. I had to go.”
“I didn’t want you to go. To leave me.”
“I left everything, Ang. There was no other way.”
My hand finds his chest, my fingers sliding between the buttons of his fine shirt.
“I don’t care about them. I only cared about me. You left me.”
“I was taking advantage. I couldn’t control myself.”
I’ve thought a lot about that — about how his abandonment, in a way, probably felt to Parker like a sense of grim duty. He’d always been self-effacing; he’d always hated himself; he’d always thought I was somehow better, that I was innocent and helpful, that I needed his protection. But I’m not a little girl anymore. I’ve grown stronger. I’m more than my mother’s daughter, and he’s more than his father’s son. We are our own people, and I don’t need protection from anything. Especially from Parker Altman.
“Then don’t control yourself,” I say.
He pulls back long enough to meet my eyes. I see lust, held too long at bay. I see desire. I see his haunted, hurting past. I see how much he wants me, and maybe even how much he loves me.
His hand is higher on my leg. I feel my dress riding too high on the limousine’s seat. There’s a draft from below, right up against the pretty little panties I made him turn away from when I purchased them on his tab. The panties that part of me secretly kind of hoped I was buying for him in the first place.
“You’re sure?” he says. But if I say no, it’ll kill him. I can feel his hardness as my hand brushes his crotch. I can feel the urgency, and see the need in his eyes.
I prove my certainty by unfastening his pants, freeing his cock, and bending at the waist to wrap my lips around it.
Parker moans. His head tips back. And at the same time, his hand crawls higher, now up under my dress, his fingers drawing intoxicating lines across the fabric of my moistening panties. I’m practically soaking them, I’m so wet. I yearn for him to pull the panties aside and properly touch me, but for now he’s just teasing, one finger under my dress and the other palming my left breast as it hangs behind my sucking mouth.
I stop for a second to look at his dick before swallowing it again, battling an intoxicating unreality as it hits me: I’m sucking my stepbrother’s hard cock. My legs want to spread wider at the thought, inviting him deeper, begging him for attention.
Soon, Parker will have my panties off and be sliding this big, thick shaft deep inside me.
All those nights spent with fingers on my clit, rubbing myself into one climax after another. All those nights spent wondering if Parker wanted me as badly as I wanted him. All those days I watched him, fighting emotions I knew we both felt, feeling his eyes on me. All those years with him running and me hating, with him hiding and me pretending I’d never cared. But now we’ve finally moved on.
He’s the Parker I always knew. The Parker I always wanted. The Parker I always secretly loved.
He pulls me up and pulls my d
ress down to expose my breasts. I wonder what he thinks of them now. He saw them once; I touched myself time after time imagining how that day beneath the pier might have unfolded differently. They’ve grown a little larger, changed with years gone by. I was eighteen then; I’m twenty-nine now. So many years lost between us.
“You’re beautiful, Angela,” he whispers.
I slide my dress higher around my hips then slip my panties over my heels, leaving the shoes on because I don’t feel like undoing the straps. He’s seen what’s there once, too, though he barely got a finger between my moistening lips. Things have changed; now I shave bare.
Parker’s eyes widen. His cock, still out with my hand idly stroking the glistening head, gives a little twitch. His hand moves to my sex with a sense of wonder, his finger tracing long between the lips and coming away wet. I shiver at his touch, feeling as if I’m opening like a flower, like something needful, wanting him inside me after all these forgotten and denying years.
He’s between my legs. I slouch down as he touches my nipples, touches my warming pussy. His eyes are on me, and I feel my desire burning with the need to feel him inside me.
My fingers find his hard shaft, wrapping it, its surface still slick with my spit. I use it like a leash to pull him toward me, pushing my hips up, my body wanting to writhe. I touch his hot tip to my lips, and Parker does the rest, pushing his cock inside me, filling me at long last.
“Oh, God, Parker. I’ve wanted this forever.”
“I’ve wanted it, too.”
He leans forward as he thrusts. He kisses my lips then my neck then my tits.
I watch his face. While he slides into me, I reach up to unbutton his shirt, watching his bare chest and sculpted midsection. My hands run the ridges of his hard body while he fills me.
I feel my climax building but never want it to end.
I come anyway, my back arching, my newly manicured nails raking red lines across his front. My orgasm touches every part of me, curling my toes, making me arch up and breathe against him. My pussy grips him harder. Contractions tear through me.
I’m delirious. I can’t stop watching him, seeing him, repeating that this is Parker inside me, that this is my stepbrother. The taboo no longer scares me. It thrills me. I will no longer live by their rules. This is between us. It’s always been between us.
My Billionaire Stepbrother (Lexi's Sexy Billionaire Romance #1) Page 12