by J. L. Beck
“Please,” she begged. He reached in front of her thighs and brought his hand up to her clit. The second his index finger touched the aching bud her orgasm began to build. Finally. He didn’t move it, simply put pressure there, as their bodies moved his finger found a rhythm all its own. It took seconds for her to spiral down and one more to break apart, her face pressed against her giant white desk calendar.
“Is that how you like it?” he whispered, but he wasn’t even talking to her now. He was as lost to it as she was.
He let out another curse and pumped into her once more pinning her hard between him and the desk. His body shuddered over hers and she held on the aftermath of her own climax slowly receding.
Seconds felt like minutes as he lifted his weight and adjusted his pants. She fixed her own clothing but there was nothing to be done about the red mark on her cheek from laying it flat on hard surface.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, running a thumb across the tender spot.
She shook her head. “No, it’ll go away shortly.”
They stood together, the sounds of the rough sex replaced by a weighted silence.
“What happens now?” he finally asked.
She walked around her desk and lifted a small square box. “Now you put those muscles to good use and help me pack.”
He blinked, uncertainty replaced with shock. “What?”
She put the box on top the desk and shrugged. “I’d decided to quit days ago. You were my goodbye present to myself.”
Now confusion. “Thanks?”
She laughed and pointed to the books on the coffee table. “Grab those will you. They are coming home with me.”
With a shake of the head he picked up the two books and placed them in the brown box. “And me, Ma’am?”
“Oh, you can come too if you like.”
He packed her office faster than she could.
About the Author
Lindsay Avalon is a wife, owner of a devious mini Schnauzer, programmer, and now an author. An avid reader, her amazing husband never seems to mind the multitude of books scattered around the house. However, after listening to the words “I have nothing to read” one too many times, he suggested Lindsay try her hand at writing her own books.
Since she’d never liked writing in school, she balked at the idea until her sister pestered her to participate in NaNoWriMo. It was then Lindsay realized that it was never writing she hated; it was writing boring essays. Creating worlds of magic, mystery, adventure, and romance became her true calling. In 2012, she embarked on the journey to become a self-published author and to bring her crazy ideas to life.
In 2013, Lindsay decided to ask a fellow author about her publishing company, Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly. It was a spur of the moment, impulsive decision, and one which Lindsay is eternally grateful she made. Though self-publishing was exhilarating, being a part of her amazing publishing family gives her a bit of structure in her chaotic existence.
When she’s not writing or spending time with her husband, she’s hiding out from devious bears seeking to thwart her writing efforts, pestering her amazing friends and personal assistant, creating works of art in resin, and a multitude of other things that capture her attention at the moment. You can find Lindsay online spreading insanity across Facebook and interacting with her many lovelies. She loves hearing from her readers and fellow writers!
Stay tuned for more of the Mythrian Realm, including the continuation of Brenna and Ian’s story!
Connect with Lindsay
www.lindsayavalon.com
About the Author
Monica Corwin is a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author. She is an outspoken writer attempting to make romance accessible to everyone, no matter their preferences. As a Northern Ohioian, Monica enjoys snow drifts, three seasons of weather, and a dislike of Michigan football. Monica owns more books about King Arthur than should be strictly necessary. Also typewriters...lots and lots of typewriters.
You can join her newsletter list by going here:
http://madmimi.com/signups/267423/join
Monica can be found on the web at:
www.monicacorwin.com
[email protected]
Stepbrother’s Stowaway
Amber Bardan and Eden Summers
Stepbrother’s Stowaway © Amber Bardan & Eden Summers
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Stepbrother’s Stowaway
Billionaire, Nathan Hendrick, might have private jets and powerful cars, but the one thing he wants most is forbidden—his innocent and completely irresistible stepsister, Aria.
He’s kept his desires hidden. He’s stayed strong in the face of temptation.
But now Aria isn’t so little anymore, and she can’t be resisted.
She’d teased out his darkest needs, and if he doesn’t get away fast, there will be nothing capable of stopping him from screwing his stepsister within an inch of her sheltered, twenty-one-year-old life.
The last thing he expects while fleeing town is an unexpected stowaway on his private jet. Or the consequences that follow…
1
Nathan Hendricks tore off his seatbelt the instant the ding sounded inside the cabin. The confines of his luxury jet may as well have been a prison. Only moments after takeoff and he was ready to make a break for it.
“May I get you something, Mr. Hendricks?”
He glanced at the uniformed hostess. With a five-hour flight ahead, not even an entire bottle of his best vintage would be enough to drown his thoughts.
“I’ll have scotch.” Wouldn’t stop him from giving it a red-hot go. He focused on her nametag. “Actually, Stacey, why not give me and the bottle some alone time.”
Today called for a serious amount of drinking.
Thirty years old and he’d just run away from home like a surly teen. Obviously, it wasn’t his finest hour. The next five wouldn’t be any better. He had too many images to burn from his mind and even more thoughts to smother.
Stacey set the glass and decanter on the side table by his recliner, the liquid gold making him salivate.
He knocked back the first glass, letting the drink burn its way down his throat. He didn’t take a breath before chasing it with a second.
When he’d run away as a twelve year old in an attempt to track down his father, there’d been no private jets or expensive, liquid solace. Just a bus ticket purchased mostly with change found under the sofa cushions.
This time was different.
This time he was an adult.
He should know what he was doing.
Holy fuck. What had he gone and done? He’d been an idiot when he’d run away as a child. Worried the living shit out of his mother, not to mention his sperm donor of a father who had zero desire to be found.
This time, he’d been a colossal moron. He’d sold his company, moved back to his hometown of Greenpea, South Carolina, and even purchased one of the town’s most iconic houses…
Only to hightail it back to Washington before the ink could dry on the deed.
Mom wouldn’t understand. She’d been so excited to have him home.
He tugged at his shirt collar. The top button popped from the fabric and flicked across the cabin, skittering off a fiberglass wall.
Shit, shit, shit.
Of all the things his angelic mother would not understand, leaving without a word ranked a crap-ton lower than the cause of his decision.
He opened
the scotch and poured himself a third, this time being plenty generous with the pricey amber liquid.
The truth was, if he’d stayed another day—another fucking minute—he’d have screwed his mother’s beloved stepdaughter within an inch of her sheltered, twenty-one-year-old life.
You know who else wouldn’t understand?
His stepfather. Retired sheriff and now Greenpea’s own mayor, Jeremiah Morgan. The proud firearm owner would polish a bullet for each one of Nathan’s vital organs if the man had half a clue.
Nathan inhaled the scotch. Sobriety wasn’t necessary now he was out of Greenpea and returning to Seattle. He was leaving the place where he’d cruised around town in the classic car he’d hired his stepbrothers to restore. Was heading back to his penthouse with no yard and a car someone else drove for him.
An enviable life that wasn’t lived.
“Are you happy, Nathan?” He almost covered his ears to block out the sound of the gentle voice in his head.
When Aria Morgan asked him that question on one of his regular Tuesday night phone calls home, it had changed his entire life.
He hadn’t been able to deny the answer—no.
Maybe he’d done well for himself. He’d achieved more than anyone anticipated by purchasing companies and selling them off piece by piece at an insane profit. But he hadn’t been happy since the day his mom wished him well as he went off to an Ivy-League college on a scholarship.
Hadn’t been happy since the last time he’d called Greenpea home.
The cabin shuddered. A jolt of turbulence tore through the aircraft. He grabbed on to the decanter before it could hit the floor, gripping the armrest with his other hand.
The cabin evened. He put the decanter down, and his head swirled with a drunken rush.
He’d fucked up everything.
When he’d returned to Greenpea on his first college break, it wasn’t to the quaint cottage he’d shared with his single mom. It was to Jeremiah’s stately home and to Nathan’s mother’s new instant family. A family he hadn’t been sure held a place for him. He’d been too old to think of Jeremiah’s teenage boys or eleven-year-old daughter as siblings. Far too independent to see his mother’s new husband as a father figure.
Didn’t mean he didn’t respect the man. His mom had never been so happy, and that meant he was happy. For her. And he had Jeremiah to thank for that.
The problem in more recent years was Aria.
His cock twitched at the way her name whispered through his mind. He dragged his hands over his face and groaned. Somewhere over the last four years, she went from a freckle-faced, Pippi Longstocking to an irresistible throwback of a ‘50s pin-up girl. Her beautiful body was designed to drive a man to insanity.
She had no idea how special she was. Humbly gorgeous. Sweetly innocent. Savvily wise. The most perfect girl in the world, and the moment he realized exactly how perfect, his thoughts hadn’t strayed from her.
Oh, fuck.
He scrubbed his face again. Harder. He’d messed up everything by making his feelings obvious. Three weeks he’d been home, staying at Jeremiah’s house until his was ready. Twenty-one days, during which he’d watched Aria shamelessly walk around the place in ass-hugging yoga pants, too-big sweaters that fell off her shoulders, her fiery hair a riot in something she called a “messy bun” but what he’d call “just been fucked”. And that was all he could think of doing to her.
Fucking.
His erection throbbed. He guzzled another drink. Now everything was ruined—his family life, their friendship. All because he must’ve given himself away.
Given her a push that drove her to do something they’d never recover from.
A wash of agony, that managed to somehow still be compatible with his raging hard-on, tore through him. He pushed from the recliner and stumbled to the door of the private bedroom. He needed to kill some of this god-forsaken, five-hour flight.
And the only thing worthy of stealing his drinking time was to jerk off like a bandit.
To the mental image of his sweet little stepsister.
2
He opened the bedroom door, and a slight dip of turbulence had him stumbling against the bed. In seconds, he was horizontal. On his back. Pants zipper lowered.
Whoa…
Half-a-bottle-of-scotch imagination was the bomb. He was hallucinating. His fantasies appearing before him with vivid clarity.
A tumble of bright-red hair fell across delicate features, and unmistakable cornflower-blue eyes peered down at him.
Not even a belly full of liquor could match the warmth the image conjured. Aria. He’d bury his hands in her long hair while he fucked her senseless. Then, once he got the carnal need out of his system, he’d give it to her nice and slow. Treat her like the princess she was.
“You all right, Nate?”
He sat bolt upright. Fuck. No amount of imagination was this impressive.
She came to kneel on the mattress beside him, her seductively tight black dress nothing like his Aria would ever wear.
Her bright eyes, for once, were open wide, lacking the half-closed, daydream look that made him desperate to know what she was thinking.
“Aria?” He blinked. Then blinked again. “What the fuck are you doing on my plane?”
Her ginger brows arched. “Watch your language, Nathan Hendricks.”
He laughed and sagged back onto the bed. No, this couldn’t be real. His stepsister couldn’t have snuck onto his private jet, hidden in the bedroom, and then admonished his language more forcefully than his mother ever had.
Not after what she’d done.
“Your fly is down…” Her fingers moved to her lower lip while her gaze lingered on his crotch.
His erection intensified. Hard cock demanding attention against the flimsy material of his boxer briefs. A scarlet glow rose in her cheeks. One of his favorite things about this bashful little redhead.
He made no move to fix himself. This was his plane. His bed. His goddamn pants and his motherfucking hard-on.
She shouldn’t even be here.
Really, really shouldn’t be here.
His mother warned him years ago. When he’d taken the place of an unsuitable date and had escorted Aria to her senior prom. His stepsister had been a vision his cock couldn’t ignore. And, apparently, his inappropriate interest had been something his mother hadn’t been able to disregard, either.
He’d been old enough to know better. The implications of his feelings had been laid out in black and white.
His mother was happy in her new life.
His stepfather was Sheriff, and scandals stick in small towns like Greenpea. And that issue only became worse once Jeremiah became the mayor.
Then there was Aria, seventeen and too young for a man. Especially when that man was her stepbrother. Her reputation in the conservative town never would have recovered.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
“I heard you booking the jet and knew you were planning to leave.”
She raised her focus to his face, and his guts clenched. It was better when she wasn’t looking right at him. Inside him. He might be almost a decade older than she was, but she robbed him of those years, and more, when her gaze collided with his.
“So you stowed away?” He sat up again. The scotch buzzed through his system. He never thought he could be so furious at the stunning sight of her. “I asked what you’re doing here?”
“I…”
The scarlet traveled her neck, down her chest, and flared under her necklace. A mimicking heat curled in his veins. The gold and obsidian jewelry had been his gift for her twenty-first birthday. It looked as magnificent on her as he had imagined it would when he designed the piece.
Red and black. This necklace was literally made for her.
Only, she didn’t know that. He’d said he’d found it in a store.
“Why the hell are you all dressed up like this?”
The sleeveless dress clung to her, giv
ing him an outline of more temptation than he could withstand. He tried to breathe. Those gorgeous tits were full and high and capable of filling his hands just right. His deprived balls ached.
Her chin drew up with her frown. Shit. Had his tone been too insensitive?
He was such a damn bastard.
She leaped off the mattress and stood in the fraction of space between the foot of the bed and the door. “Because I’m going to Seattle, that’s why.”
He blinked. She thought she was going where?
“You are not going to Seattle.” He slid from the bed and planted his feet in front of her. “You’re staying right here, in Greenpea, where you belong.”
“Where I what now?” Her brows did the arch thing, and her fingers made air quotes. “You did not just try to tell me where my ‘place’ is, did you, Nathan Hendricks?”
He rubbed his mouth. Damn scotch. He wished he could hurl—might help him think straight.
She rolled her shoulders and jutted her chin. “Never mind, we need to talk.”
“Then bravo for trapping me on a five-hour flight.” His teeth snapped. That’s what she’d done, the little minx. Trapped him for five hours with her.
But if it was talking she wanted, she might be out of luck. She was too damn close. With the bed an inch behind them. He’d already envisioned five hundred ways to defile her on it.
Hell, he could defile her anywhere.
Against the wall. Or on the tiny patch of carpet below their feet.
“I had to.” Her shoulders sagged. “You can’t leave.”
He retreated a step. Fuck. No, she couldn’t start pleading.
“Please don’t go because of me.” She followed after him. “I made a horrible mistake, and I’m so sorry, but please don’t leave us again.”