Stepbrother Tormentor 2 of 2

by Brother, Stephanie

  Stepbrother Tormentor

  A Steamy Romance

  2 of 2

  © 2015 Stephanie Brother

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

  Kindle Edition

  Cassandra

  Entering the kitchen, lit only by the cabinet lightning, my heart skips a beat when his cool blue eyes focus on me, his shades on the kitchen island. It has been ages since I last saw those brilliant eyes, and they take me by surprise. Thrown off balance, I feel he can see straight through me, my little secret an open book. But I know that can't be true, or at least I can hope it isn't.

  With shaky knees and weakening confidence, I walk over to the island, pretending showing myself off in my underwear is perfectly normal. The cool marble stands in stark contrast to my sweaty palms, a reminder of the sorry state I'm in, and I look down to avoid his penetrating gaze.

  Feeling his eyes still on me, I feel stupid for coming down here. What was I thinking? Taking a deep breath, my breasts swell and Stephan draws in his breath sharp and fast. Looking up, blood collecting in my cheeks, our eyes lock. Just like they did in that embarrassing dream that left me so wet. His eyes burn intensely, and together with the set square jaw and stubble, it’s all that is needed for heat to build and spread between my legs. Pressing my thighs together, I try to act cool, aware that the sweat that breaks through my forehead is a clear sign of what I'm experiencing.

  "Hey," he says, in a total anti-climax. Not waiting for a reply, he lifts the carton of OJ to the lips that I want to kiss, and drinks hungrily. Standing straight, his head thrown back, it is impossible not to admire his physique. I feel intimidated and so… plain Jane. Where there was a spark of hope before, there is none now. Not now he stands there in front of me, too handsome and sexy to be true.

  "Are you alright?" I ask after a pause, only to avoid the painful silence I knew would follow.

  "Sure," he says casually, wiping his mouth on his forearm.

  Sad but not ready to retreat in defeat, painfully aware of my lack of clothing now,I walk over to the fridge, my heart rate going up when I walk past him. He smells of booze and sweat and cigarettes. And sex. Stupid tears find their way to the surface when I think of him with another woman, anger in its wake. Enough anger to overcome my timidity. With my back to him, safe from those eyes, I open the fridge for a drink I don't need, certain he is checking out my ass. Hoping he likes what he sees.

  "Glad you didn't kill them," I say, more sharply than I intended.

  "Shouldn't have harassed you," Stephan says defensively. Butterflies break free at the thought he actually cares enough to be bothered by some guy bothering me.

  "You could have gotten hurt."

  "Nah," he says. I don't have to look to know the expression on his handsome face. Smug. Confident. Proud. Cool.

  "Didn't know you cared about me," I finally say. Holding my breath, I wait like an idiot for a reply that I already know won't come. Like a confirmation. Just to do something, I pour myself a soda that remains untouched on the counter.To my disgrace, I'm wet, the smell of my sex penetrating the air. Why do I do this to myself? Why can't I just get him out of my head? Out of my heart. Out my panties.

  Sensing him moving closer, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when his hands come to rest on my shoulders. I instinctively push my ass back, lust shooting through my pussy when I make contact with his crotch. I'm so lost in my taboo desires that I'd welcome it if he'd tear my panties away and just take me right here. Mr. Bad Boy, banging the shit out of me,his breath hot on my skin and musky scent intoxicating.

  When I feel his lips next to my ear, almost brushing the skin, my legs are ready to give out and I draw my breath and hold it. Why? A bitter little voice at the back of my head asks. Nothing will ever happen. I already know that. But, like a foolish girl, I can't help but hope. Hope against hope, and suffer the consequences. Besides, it wouldn't change the impossibility of what I want. He is my stepbrother, after all. But it wouldn't hurt as badly if I knew he cared about me.

  His breathing is hard and deep, and I feel I could get drunk just on his breath. He is far more drunk than I suspected he was. Drunk enough to press his crotch firmly against my ass, his cock growing hard fast until it feels there's a lead pipe pressed against me.

  "You’re family, Cassandra," he says, with a slight slur and a sigh. The last words I wanted to hear. Family? Yeah, thanks for reminding me.

  If he were sober, he'd already be off to his room. But he isn't. So he stays. Right behind me and with his hard bulge pressed against me, and I can't help but push back as hard as he weighs in on me. Sweat runs down my temples and I ball my hands into fists as the seconds tick by, my body temperature in the danger zone and the heat that is laying my pussy to waste volcanic.

  But as much as I'm suffering, a smile breaks through when his hands slide down to my hips to slide to the front. A smile born from the thought that maybe he isn't indifferent to me at all, not with the way he's diamond hard. My nipples tighten when he rests his hands on my tummy, the heat that breaks free pulsates and washes over me, and I allow myself to sink in the warmth that stands in stark contrast to the heartache that has been my life since he made his entrance into it. Closing my eyes, my smile grows.

  He's been faking it and I fell for it. I'm certain of it. Not wanting to ruin the moment, I remain frozen in place, racking my mind on what to do. My conscience is ignored when it reminds me who it is that is holding me: not just a hot guy who just does it for me. Family. But I can't afford the luxury of morality now—my heart would break.

  "Cassandra," Stephan says with a warmth that makes my heart leap in my chest, and I respond without thinking. Acting on instinct, feeling more alive than ever, I turn around fast, overjoyed to feel Stephan grab me tight as if afraid just might escape. I have no intention of that, though. I'm exactly where I want to be: in his arms.

  Wrapping my arms around him, I pull him close with all my strength, growing even wetter when he presses his bulge against me. Whatever he is packing, it is big, and I feel naughty and willing to do anything to lay my hands on it. At the same time, I've never gone beyond a shared kiss. I'm as inexperienced at this as it gets, and I feel insecurity hit me when I turn my face up, closing my eyes and praying he will claim my lips.

  The wait that follows is excruciating. Filled with a thumping heart and nipples that tighten even more when I feel his chest muscles tense, the ticking of the kitchen clock in my ears. Each second an eternity as I wait for what fate has in store for me: heaven or hell.

  What I get is a snort that breaks my heart. His hands and arms leave my body as if burned and I'm left standing with tears pooling, only to spill over freely. Silly girl, I call myself inwardly. Stupid girl. So, he's hard? He's a guy. At nineteen, he's probably hard over nothing, just because. I feel so stupid standing there in my underwear. Stupid and embarrassed. Instead of making things better, I've just made it so much worse.

  "You think you want this?" Stephan says with a slur. I open my eyes just in time to see him grab his hard on through his pants. I don't even have the strength to turn my back and save myself from the humiliation of him seeing me breaking up right in front of him, over him. My secret no longer a secret but o
penly revealed by the tears that I hate myself for, all just for the hope for a damn kiss. "You couldn't handle it even if I wanted you," Stephan says, driving the stake in a little deeper.

  "Fuck you!" I snap. His face crashes, and there is the fake concern again. The look that gives me hope that he instantly squashes with a snort and a handful of sharp words.Dashing past him, I rush up the stairs to hide out in my room. He doesn't even bother to call after me for another one of his fake apologies. Figures.

  Stephan

  My damn head is killing me, and the first thing on my mind is the certainty that I screwed up somehow. But I can't for the life of me recall exactly how I screwed up this time. After yesterday's fiasco, I called Rob to pick me up and the rest is history. Booze is my choice of medicine, and a girl whose name I’ve forgotten. If I ever knew it to begin with.

  It only makes me feel that much more pathetic.

  Dad calls me from the living room, just when I think I'm in the clear and can sneak past. If he's going to tear me a new one, I wouldn't blame him, but one look tells me all I need to know. It isn't anger I see, it is far worse; it is the look of a disappointed father.

  Not even feeling the need to talk back or put up a defense, I tell myself to just shut the fuck up and take the lecture I'm in for. A lecture from my older self; if I live to be that old, that is. And with the way I'm insisting on living life in the fast lane, there is reason to believe that retirement isn't something I need to concern myself with.

  Dad throws me a long, hard look. Judging from the way his jaw is set, and the furrow between his eyebrows, there is nothing in his view that provides an apology for my pathetic behavior. I can't say I disagree.

  After I ran off yesterday, the only thing I could think about was what a worthless guy I've been to my family. Cool to those who don't matter, but a sad fuck to those who do. Mom was already disappointed, and now Dad is too. And Cassandra's mother deserves better than me too. But most of all, it is Cassandra who was on my mind, and regret over the way I've been dealing with her.

  "Sit," Dad says with a tone that invites no discussion, pointing to the couch. I don't object.

  When I first entered the living room, two months ago—but it already feels like forever—I was struck by the warmth of the place. Mom is all about design and the latest rave in fashion, and she has the house set up in an almost clinically aesthetic way, but here it is the opposite. Stylish but with a warmth that tells you this is a place where people live, not a place to showcase the perfect living room according to the fashion of the day. And it is exactly that warmth that reminds me how I've been acting: like one cold-hearted son of a bitch. Selfish and egoistical is the norm in the world where Mom raised me.

  But things are different here. A difference that is like a whole new world. The decoration of the living room reflects exactly the way Cassandra's mother is. Warm-hearted and all about family, and I can tell the effect she's had on my father. He is a different guy to the one I remember. Relaxed and more outgoing. But there is nothing relaxed about him as he watches me sink down on the plush couch. Belle, the families' golden retriever, walks over to press her wet nose against my hand. She's probably the only one here who likes me, now. Serves me right. She'd no doubt ignore me if she was aware of my behavior.

  Sighing, Dad sits down too opposite me. Leaning over, he rests his arms on his legs. "This has to stop, son," he says without preamble, and we both know I'd be playing stupid if I were to ask him what he is talking about. So, I don't. No need to make things any worse.

  "I know," I say, my eyes on the carpet. For all my muscles and tattoos, Dad is making me feel like a damn kid, not the man that I should be. The one I want to be.

  "She is a sweet girl," Dad says with real hurt that has me look up. There's steel in his eyes and his mouth is set when our eyes bore into each other. Pale blue like mine. "I won't allow you to hurt her anymore."

  Nodding, anger and sadness compete for room in my chest as the meaning sinks in: either I clean up my act or Dad wants me gone. For him to talk to me like that, means things are even worse than I've realized, and I want to smack the asshole that I am in the face, just like I smacked the ones yesterday for being rude to the woman I love. Compared to me, they were kind, and there is nothing I can do to change that.

  "I—" I say, only to fall silent. What could I possibly say now that could explain my behavior? Nothing. I could say that I'll make up for it, but I already know that isn't possible either.

  "Now you go and talk to her and apologize," Dad says, in a way that tells me he isn't putting in a request. He's putting his foot down.

  Rising, I nod again.

  "And son?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Lose the shades," he says, a small but sad smile breaking through. "Mr. James Dean." Relieved that he hasn't totally written me off, I smile back, a bit relieved.

  "Right."

  Cassandra

  I just know it's him the moment his shadow hits my body, and predictably my body responds with a will of its own. Thinking about what happened in the kitchen last night, perspiration breaks to the surface and my heart starts pounding like crazy.

  "Hey," he says, and I wish I could do that contemptuous snort that he is so good at. But my voice is stuck in my throat and my throat is dry. So I just silently wish he wasn't there and wonder what I did to deserve him invading my favorite spot, all the while ignoring him.

  This has been my favorite place ever since we moved here, a narrow path leading to it from the backyard, usually hidden from view by the tree in front. I discovered it while exploring and knew I'd hit the jackpot the moment I followed it to the open space at the river. My personal safe haven. Well, so much for that.

  After a night of restless sleep, I woke up early without having to set the alarm. Just to avoid him, of course. Still hurt and embarrassed, not knowing what to say or do when I'd next see him, I ran from the house after grabbing some snacks and a bottle of spring water from the kitchen counter. Not that I should have bothered. The stepbrother from hell rarely wakes up before noon at the weekend, and after a quick shower he is quick to leave, returning in the middle of the night.

  After last night's debacle, the last thing I need is his eyes on me while I'm in my bikini; a modest one, but still. Trying to drive him out of my mind, I tried to lose myself in some reading. That didn't work. So the last few hours were spent lying on my blanket and sipping water, and trying hard to think about anything but him.

  Stacy messaged me to ask if I wanted to go to the mall and catch a movie. With my luck we'd probably run into one of his many conquests at the mall, and I’d already see enough of them at school, so I lied and told her that I was busy.

  Then, of course, instead of the universe having some mercy upon me, Stacy just had to bring him up. "I hear that stud of yours went off," her next message read, and my heart painfully contracted. My stud. That's how she started referring to him after she saw him at school for the first time. The remarks soon followed. "I'd bag him in a minute." She must have said that a dozen times or so.

  "How can you stand living in the same house with that much hotness under the same roof, girl?" she messaged next, and I felt like throwing my smartphone in the river.

  "He's my stepbrother." Not waiting for a reply, I sent another message. "Besides, he's not that hot." The biggest lie I'd ever told anyone. "And he smokes. Yuck!"

  "Cass, you're delusional."

  "Realistic."

  "Your stud is the hottest guy I've ever laid eyes on."

  "I think his hairline is already receding," I lied, blinking hard to hold back the tears that wanted to spill over.

  Totally ignoring me, Stacy forged on. "I hear he is hung." As if I need reminding of the feel of his blood engorged member pressed against me.

  "With the way he is partying, he'll probably be impotent soon enough."

  "What?"

  "Clogged up arteries and alcohol is a real erection killer, I hear."

  "Cass, from what I
hear, that's the last of his problems." Great. Thanks for rubbing it in! But I couldn't say anything. Could I? Whatever I do, I must always hide the feelings that are brewing just beneath the surface.

  "You can have him!" I shot back and turned off my phone without waiting a reply. The following hours were spent trying not to feel sorry for myself. That was until he showed up.

  The familiar feelings of lust rise as I hear him sit down next to me, too close for my body to relax, and I curse the way my nipples tighten when my body recalls the sensation of his body pressed against mine.

  "Nice spot," he says. As if I care, I tell myself, not falling for the lie. Yes, as miserable as it makes me, I care. Keeping my eyes tightly shut, I have to fight to keep my face in neutral. I will the corners of my lips not to turn down. "About yesterday—"

  "Forget it," I snap hastily, anything but to be reminded of that embarrassment. "I wasn't thinking," I add just as fast, just wanting the whole conversation to be over with. Play it cool. Play it down. So what if I have the hots for him? He could hardly be surprised by that. All the girls have it bad for him. Why should I be any different or be any less willing to throw myself at his feet? Just another horny teenager, as far as he is concerned. His perverted stepsister, who pressed her damn ass against his hard on, desperately offering her lips only to be rejected. "Just chalk it up to me sleepwalking, OK?" I say when he doesn't respond.

  "Sleepwalking?" he says, with surprise in his voice that makes me open my mouth. I instantly wish I hadn't when I see him look down at me, without his trademark shades, and his expression is nonplussed. Either he is a great actor or he really has no idea what I'm talking about. His eyes are puffy from sleep and quickly find mine. "What did you do?"

  "Nothing," I say, a little too loudly to sound convincing. Holding his eyes, I know that if I look away, he'll know for certain that I’m lying. He suspects as much already, but that's better than knowing. Could it be that he really has no recollection? It feels like forever before he turns away. Rubbing the three day old stubble on his cheeks, he stares out over the water while I hold my heart and try to not let my feelings get the better of me.