by Savannah May
Club ILLICIT 2
(A BILLIONAIRE Stepbrother Romance)
by
Savannah May
www.DirtySexyRomance.com
[email protected]
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2015 Savannah May. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
Version 2015.05.27
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Also check out the Billionaire Encounter Series of bondage novellas Book ONE available HERE
Chapter ONE
I was living in Cole's slick condo feeling like I had a split personality disorder from every emotion being cracked right down the middle.
Being around him I was sliced in half, bouncing like a Chinese ping pong between my opposing characters- one normal person, trying to do the right thing and get through life hurting as few others as possible, including myself.
And one very abnormal girl lurking beneath the familiar mask, a sleepy monster that broke loose every few days, ripping the buttons off her blouse as her breasts exploded forth in a rage of lascivious desire for the man who had been her first lover and later became her first brother- that woman scares the shit out of me.
Cole persuaded me with the full force of his power to stay with him at his penthouse, until I could find no reasons left to get away. Except that the torment of seeing him every day was even worse than the pain of missing him the six years he was gone. Because now he was an arm's length across the table and I couldn't reach out my hand and graze a trail across those golden hemispheres of solid pectorals.
I was now forbidden to draw one finger along the outline of the inked sleeve that curved over those bulging muscles, outlining and enhancing the mountain range. I had to eat dinner as his little sister, in agony of hunger that had nothing to do with the food I pushed around my plate and it was my own fault.
Cole told me over and over that we had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. The fact that he had taken my virginity what seemed like a lifetime ago and then come close to fucking me in the washroom of a packed stockbroker bar bore no relation to the fact that our parents had gotten married between those two events without us even knowing. That is, we each knew my mom and his father hitched up their wagons, we just didn't know that those two people were our respective parents.
Cole had been gone from his father's roof for years already by the time the happy nuptials came to pass. By the time we met I ha no idea he was the evil son my step-daddy spoke of with enough venom that anyone listening to him required antidote.
Still, I couldn't get past the fact that Cole and I were family and the constant salacious hunger to tear the clothes from our bodies and ravage each other was somehow depraved. My subconscious however, was completely in tune with my mixed up lust, which was why the dream kept returning almost nightly. Some nights I woke up howling in terror.
“Harley, it's okay. Wake up, my angel girl.”
I'd come around to find Cole sitting on the floor by the bed, stroking the sodden tendrils of dark hair back from my forehead. The urge to cry like a frightened little girl was overwhelming and I was pathetically grateful for the gentle caress of his solid fingers and how he thought not to sit on the bed in case I found it intimidating.
“No one can get you. You’re safe here with me now,” he said.
Safe in the light- but not in sleep where the memory of being trussed up while a man-men-groped and delved into the secret areas of my body. The unforgettable musky, thick aroma of Illicit clung to his clothes and I knew he'd just returned from his exclusive club that catered to the dangerous passions of the most elite members of our society.
Cole was aware without me having to say a word, that my nightmares were founded in the punishment his father had inflicted on me in the basement of my mother's house. And I was grateful again that he didn't force me to open up about the night he pulled me out of there because I couldn't bear to tell him the extended truth- that every time my fantastical tormentor removed his black leather mask, it was his face that loomed before me, contorted with such cruel enjoyment of my suffering,
I cowered away from him hard in those dreams. The pain of being mixed up with his detested father in my unconscious would have wounded him too deeply. I couldn't bear to see that precious face stricken with any more grief than he was already loaded with.
He blamed himself totally for my ordeal in the basement with my stepfather, positive that it was only because his dad had discovered his son's weakness for me that he'd tried to turn it to his advantage and use it to hurt him. I had a different theory but Cole was quite adamant that his reading of the situation was correct.
“There are things about the old man you don't know,” he'd told me. “Stuff that happened years before he got together with your mom. But a wild animal never changes its camouflage, it's so certain of complete security behind the trusty old disguise.”
When my breathing had returned to quasi-normal, the short pants of avid need to be taken into his powerful embrace disguised by the residue of night terror, Cole got up to return to his own suite downstairs in the two-story penthouse.
“Don't go,” I whispered.
And his head whipped around, his face a question.
“Will you just – hold me?” I begged, needing to feel the taut strength coursing through his perfect hard body pressed against the length of mine, working its way under my skin to soothe my troubled mind. His arms encircling my body would drive away the vile images pounding through my head.
“Please.”
Was it possible that him lying on top of the covers, one thick solid bicep a curved pillow supporting my head, the other pulling me close and crushing me into his warm chest wall, was just as erotic as having his fingers push deep inside me? My heart hammering under my swollen breasts certainly thought so.
But then, just having Cole in the same room had that effect on the fluttering in my chest. No matter how many firm repetitions regarding our relationship my brain sent out, my body was a traitor ignoring every last one like the naughty puppy at training school.
When his hand trailed up my upper arm and cupped around my bare shoulder, gently flipping the shoestring strap down and curling his wide palm back and forth across the curve where my shoulder fell away, my heart leapt and trilled toward his touch as though he'd been cupping the breast rising keenly toward him.
“Your skin is so soft,” he whispered, his lips brushing my forehead.
I'd managed to bury my hand between us when he'd pulled me into his arms, not as a barrier but so as to connect my fingertips to the mounds of muscle under his shirt and feel the heat emanating from his core. Surreptitiously I was able to touch the man I was desperately disguising my desire for, even from myself.
We lay there in the dark depths of the night listening to the breath es
caping our lungs rasp harder and faster. I felt tiny under the undulating iron curves of his arms and without pausing to stop myself, my finger began to trail along the indigenous tribal design inking his bicep, rising and falling along the flexing sinew.
I fervently begged that every quickening breath would edge his hand over the couple of inches from the curve of my shoulder to the softer more malleable one of the mound. The gauzy thin top of my Pjs did nothing to cover the nipple protruding fiercely, demanded to be flicked under his rough thumb. My breasts were pumping up and down so quickly against the shield of his chest, if he squeezed one into his hard grasp, there would be no turning back.
He'd be inside me in moments, penetrating and opening me all the way to the hilt and I wouldn't resist. He could take me tonight and come to me every night despite our illicit relationship. Who cared what anyone thought about our so-called relationship? If Michael hadn't found me at the club and then imprisoned me, we would have had no idea that we woke up one morning magically made siblings.
Cole was right- you couldn’t make a family by signing a piece of paper. Because then when my mother discovered who Michael really was, as she was sure to do before long, then another scrawl on a document would make us un-family.
Desire ravaged me so thoroughly, decimating my resistance like wildfire wipes out everything in its path. I cared nothing for what was proper. The she-monster was let loose, hungry to be plundered by the strongest, roughest and most caring man I'd ever known.
If only he would cup both my aching breasts into his hard grip and push them into his divine mouth, mounding them under his palms while his tongue lapped across the straining pellets. From thighs to swollen breasts, my torso was racked with burning need and the only thing that would feed my craving was having Cole inside me, filling me, stretching the walls until the pleasure trapped there turned molten and flowed through every last nerve ending. He was on fire as well, his skin stinging with heat under my fingertips, filling the air between us with the burn craving, drawing us closer.
Closer.
The shift of his rock hard shaft against my thigh made me tug breath and forget to let it go. He resettled his hips, pulling back, embarrassed and trying to hide his savage need to shove inside my temptation.
“Cole, wait,” I said, wishing I hadn't the instant the words came off my lips.
With a sharp inhale, Cole pulled his arm smoothly out from beneath me and was gone in a moment, pulling the door tight shut on my cavernous loneliness.
Fuck. Why had I wrecked the most exhilarating feeling ever by speaking? Just to lie in his arms, feeling the solid shield of his chest. Of course he assumed I meant stop. After all the resistance, the straight-laced, uptight rebuttal of all my childhood programming, his only possible interpretation was 'get the hell out of here'.
Having issued so many miss-proper denials of that sort of feeling for him now that we were family, how could I expect him to mind-meld the fact that I wanted him to raid my body, plunge all the way to the hilt and take me hard with every pore of his rebellious masculinity.
My body refused to accept his departure with every tingling nerve and my hands meandered down to my bare thighs and roamed into the side of the PJ shorts, discovering the dripping slick folds. I gasped as electric shocks quivered beneath the fingertips sliding across my hard aching nub.
“Cole,” I moaned his name over and over, praying he'd realize the misunderstanding and storm through the door. If only I could take back that one word, along with all the others I'd primly uttered since he dragged me back to the apartment after my stupid middle of the night defection. I was a fake. Why couldn't he tell? He was an expert at reading the desire coursing through the bodies of other people so why were we completely lost in translation?
I yanked my hands away from my slick folds and rolled onto my stomach in misery. The confusion that crashed like a tidal pool inside my body, the currents tossing me one way then the next was driving me completely deranged. This was wrong, we were family members now and I had no right to be pulling him into my bed willing him to touch me, to bury his tongue in my mouth, to penetrate my deepest cavern.
But I wanted him like a junkie wants, no needs, a fix. Everything else in existence could go to hell if I could only make Cole mine one more time. It was completely impossible, a situation with no solution. There was no option but to leave the luxurious comfort of my step-brother's protection and find my own place to live where this agony would be even a tiny bit less torturous.
Chapter TWO
Cole
With Harley living here in my condo I'm the fucking Incredible Hulk, riding the same violent mood swings. In the morning I get out of bed, head into my gym and feel all calm and collected about this whole ridiculous step-brother shit. But then I see her, all tousled and downy straight from sleep and I have to watch her smile, the curious turn of those luscious lips when she's trying to wrap her mind around something new and she gets a little frown followed by a huge lift of sunshine across her beautiful face.
When all that shit goes down and my groin gets a clench from wanting to throw her down and smother her face, her neck, those beautiful breasts that have blossomed into perfect firm peaches, the anger blows hard enough to rip my shirt from my chest like that old cartoon character.
My dick is a fucking lightning rod about to go nuclear and I went from her bedroom straight down to my gym to pound my body into an exhaustion that satiates my carnal hunger. I lift more weight than my regular routine, ramming it harder and faster like I want to ram into her delicious pussy. I want her so bad I could run howling through the woods all night.
The violence racketing around inside me is so ferocious, that when I arrive at the club, the satiation of my work out is already numbed by the hunger rising again and I have to go straight to my office- and stay there. Who knows what I might do with the options available to me in the play rooms? The tempting flesh would turn me into a rabid slathering wolf and I'm sure I'd pull my roaring dick out of my pants and ram it into one of the compliant pleasure maidens.
They'd be happy to receive my plundering shaft as usual but it would do me no good. Because she's always in my mind. She lives in my senses. Her aroma of violets and strawberries in my nose, the taste of her skin, her luscious mouth in mine. Fuck, just stop this shit. Maybe I should go out there, order one of the slaves into my office and fuck her, then another and another until I've fucked all the clamoring for Harlow out of my body.
But I know it would only be a fleeting relief. Maybe not even that. And there's a very real chance I could hurt some poor woman beyond her expectations with the rage pummeling at me every minute - At the stupid situation we're in, compounded by the furious need to do some nasty shit to the man who calls himself my father and mostly by my voracious desire to have that one girl whimpering, begging and blissful underneath me.
With no way to relieve this insane need to take her, to wrap my arms around her and make her safe from all the shit that goes on in this world- yeah, it's easy to think it's all out there in some desert or anywhere else but right in your own yard.
But she and I know that sometimes your own family is the biggest terror and there's no way to get away from that. I want her in the other kind of way too, but that's never going to happen now, she's made it quite clear that our fake family connection now makes it forbidden and just like that I'm supposed to switch off all the feelings I had stored for her that came raging back in the instant I saw her again.
I could take one of the women in the club to alleviate that insistent need but what's the point when it would only be temporary, the briefest relief before it came back even worse like a plague that won't leave.
I can't tell whether she really doesn’t remember the extent of what happened that night in our parent's basement or whether she's trying to protect me – and him, scared of telling me the truth because of the retribution I'd take out on him. And I would. Anyone who so much as hurts her feelings is going to have to deal with me
from now on.
That bastard should not have gotten away with what he did to her. I should have taught him the lesson that was due him years ago, the one I ran out on too scared to deliver because he was my old man and I was a kid. You can run to the other side of the world and take all the substitute retribution you like but you can't outrun your family. That genetic inheritance is hanging out in your DNA waiting to kick you in the gut when you have the least strength to fight back.
I didn't take proper care of her and our father took full advantage of another young girl, maybe ruining her life permanently. It seems to me that she's less concerned about the step relationship between us than about becoming deeply attached to a man with an abuser's cells in his bloodstream. Does she worry whether I'm the same as him?
All I know is I can't take the force of my longing for Harlow, it's gonna rip me up in bits knowing she’s there but not there. Now I've got to play the big brother role taking care, making sure she's safe, eating her greens and getting her life on track but where am I gonna put the raging desire to plunge into her sweet mouth, feel those lips press back into mine with that urgent yearn she communicates absolutely perfectly with them.
There's no one I can even talk to about this. Isn't sharing supposed to halve a problem? I've always had Strike at my back for that shit but this isn't something I can chat about casually like we used to rap about the other women who gave me grief. And there were enough of those always complaining I wasn't available, I had to open up more.
I could talk to Harley about anything but this.
Suck it up and deal, Sargent. You're acting like a little girl. That's my option out of this critical situation and I'm gonna go into it guns blazing, live or die. I'm gonna slap on a smile for her and grin my way through this fucked up set of circumstances until I come out the other side or get shot down trying.
Never again will she get intel that I'm going insane with my need to possess her and ensure her safety. That I want to keep her in permanent lockdown so I can see her beautiful face every moment the need arises and know that no asshole will ever lay one finger on that perfect body. She's my mission now, like any other objective. I'll make sure that little sister has the security of a perfect lifestyle but I will never, ever let her see me out-of-control deranged for her again.