The Good Sister: Part One

by London Saint James

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2012 London Saint James

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-131-2

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: Marie Medina

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  For my beloved friend, who never knew how beautiful she truly was. You are missed.

  London

  THE GOOD SISTER: PART ONE

  London Saint James

  Copyright © 2012

  We always long for the forbidden things, and desire what is denied us.

  —Francois Rabelais

  Chapter One

  July 1st

  My breath came hard.

  And my chest heaved with the effort as I ran around the house to the back entrance. I stopped at the door, took in a deep gulp of air, brushed some damp curls from my face, and turned the shiny knob. With careful precision I opened the door, making sure to be quiet, and stepped inside. Quickly, I scanned the hall. I didn’t see anyone. I’d beat him home. Closing the door behind me, I snuck down the back hallway. I had to be careful. Reid could never know I watched him. I backed up slowly, controlled my breath, and hid within the shadowed corner of the downstairs hall. He always stopped in the kitchen before making his way upstairs so he would walk right past me.

  For the past two years I had observed him. Dreamed of him. Longed to touch him. But today was different. Reid would leave soon. I’d burn his image into my mind, and fuse it with the desire I felt, the love I felt, the need for him that I knew would go unattained. Even within my fantasy, deep down inside, I always knew the truth. All I ever had was my wanting of him, yet I wished for the impossible. To be the kind of woman to turn his head. I wanted to be the woman who would make him burn.

  Footfalls echoed off the tiles of the kitchen floor, followed by the recognizable suctioned groan of the refrigerator door opening then closing. Next, came the sound of him lobbing something into the trash.

  “Score!” he yelled.

  I held my breath. He’s coming closer. As I figured, he walked right past me, his black hair tousled and wet with sweat. He’d been jogging. Something he did every day. I envied Reid’s freedom, his strength. I admired his sense of adventure, his boldness, and as always I admired his body.

  Hungrily, I scrutinized him as he scaled the impressive staircase. He took two steps at a time until he reached the top of the stairs where he slowed. In a fluid forward motion he ripped off his dark blue Adidas T-shirt from over his head. My breath hitched.

  Light sparkled out in the color of a kaleidoscope from the stained-glass window on the landing of the second floor. As he passed, the colors shimmered over the curve and cut of his muscular back. Brilliant, bright, illuminated, these facets of colors fell across the side of his face. Blue-green hues danced off the sweat glistening on his forehead, and framed Reid’s features like artwork.

  I momentarily closed my eyes. I knew the lines of his face, having memorized them. The sharp slash of his cheekbones. That perfectly straight line of his nose. The square strength to his jaw. The jet of his Adam’s apple. And those tempting lips. Lips I wanted to feel upon my body, on my mouth, caressing my secret places. I shuddered with thought of those lips.

  I opened my eyes, reminiscent of waking. He shrugged up his shoulders. Muscles, too numerous to count, flared with the movement. I stood in the shadow, completely taken in by him. He bowed his head to wipe the sweat from his face into the crook of his arm before he combed his hand through the moist strands of his hair. One piece, coal-black, fell over his right brow, teasing me. I wanted to scold myself for being teased. I should not be doing this, watching him, but I found it impossible to look away.

  Desire flashed, wound into a tight coil within my stomach. He stood still for a moment, and twisted his T-shirt into a ball. With a quick flip of his wrist, he whipped it out in front of him before lashing the garment over his glistening bare shoulder. After that, he moved from view.

  Was he mad, tense, anxious? He’s usually so calm, so controlled, so devastatingly smooth. Curious, I waited. Listened. In silence, I crept up the stairs on the balls of my feet. My hand rode the handrail. Polished rich mahogany slid beneath my palm until coming to the landing at the top. I stopped. Worried my lip with my teeth. Heard nothing except for the quickened beat of my own heart.

  I made my way down the hall. The door to his room remained open. I paused before peeking around the oak encased doorjamb. I didn’t see him; however, I heard the sounds of the shower. A thousand thoughts skipped through my mind. I could be caught. But my need to see him outweighed all the conflict.

  Don’t do it, Trinity.

  My hands twisted into the hem of my shirt. My heart sped with the thought of doing it, of walking in, of seeing him. The beat pounded in my ears, a deep drum-like throbbing. I froze, only to realize my breathing was harsh, as if I’d run a marathon. Small beads of perspiration formed on my forehead.

  The sound of the grandfather clock made me jump when it began the call of four. The late afternoon sun beamed onto the floor in front of me, as though calling me, as if to say follow. I let loose of my shirt, stood straight, sucked in a large breath, and placed one unsteady foot in front of me. Two steps later, I was inside of his private space. Inside the room that I once witnessed my older sister enter.

  The metallic tone of the last strike echoed within my ears and lingered. DONG...

  A breath. A step. A pause.

  I recalled how I felt that night, the night he loved my sister. How I wished it were me. I wanted him to love me, kiss me, touch me, not my sister. Those feelings were overwhelming as I heard the moans of pleasure emanate from behind the closed door. I remembered how I touched my breasts, feeling them swell and heave. How my nipples hardened while I listened to him pleasure my sister. I brought to mind the slow burn across my skin. I thought about the moans, those shouts of pleasured bliss. The banging of the headboard when it hit the wall in rhythmic taps. And when he called out my sister’s name in a gruff, hungry shout, I pretended it was my name instead.

  Think about something else.

  I closed my eyes. No more remembering. No more pretending. I was in his room. One place I always longed to be. Tilting my head to the side, I listened. Ticking of a clock. The beep that emanated from his laptop indicated he had email. The sound of birds outside his window.

  I took a step forward, and tripped on something. I opened my eyes and stared down. At my feet were the clothes he’d been wearing. In the air, the lingering scent of his sweat mixed in with his cologne. Tempted to pick up his shirt, I held back. I shook my head, and balled my fists deeper into the hem of my shirt. Part of me wanted to run. Part of me wanted to stay. Part of me wanted to be snoopy.

  My gaze fell toward the large bed and roamed over the black steel bars of the headboard, the dark gray comforter, and all the puffy black pillows strewn across where he slept. His jeans along with a studded leather belt hung lopsided off the foot of Reid’s bed. I let loose of my shirt, extended out a shaky hand, picked up a pillow, placed it to my nose, and inhaled the scent of him.

  What are you doing?

  Along with the knowledge I was indeed crazy, and acutely aware I should not be doing this, I was unable t
o stop. Lightly, I skimmed my hand over the magazines lying on the bedside table, only to pick one up. This magazine was open to an article about a new art gallery. The New York artist D’Ante would open a second gallery in Hollywood. I studied the black and white photograph that accompanied the article.

  Upon the glossy page a light haired woman, probably blonde, with long spiraling curls lay sprawled out in a provocative pose on what looked like a mirrored floor. Her body curved sensually and appeared completely nude. However, most of her body was covered by a well-muscled black angel who knelt between her toned thighs. He wore black leather pants and nothing else. The buttons on the front of his pants were undone, showing off the side of his hip.

  I traced the photograph, outlining the woman’s hair, which splayed across her face, flowed along the mirrored floor, and sprawled over the dark angel’s shoulder. Her hair obscured the woman’s face, except for the tears. They flowed down her sculptured cheek. My attention went to the chains around the woman’s wrists, her arms above her head, body arched as within the throes of pleasure. The angel’s head bowed at the beautiful woman’s throat, so his face remained obscured. Waving thick black flaming tattoos spilled down his defined bicep, while his blackened wings arced overhead. One of the angel’s hands held the woman within the arch of her back. The other hand broke the chains that bound her. The word “FALLEN” indicated the title of the artwork.

  I placed the magazine back where I found it. Walked forward, and stopped at the dresser. There were condoms scattered about the top. Trojan Magnum Twisters. I picked one of the small square golden packages up, considering … my gaze went to a handwritten note. It looked like a travel list, places to see, and it sat next to Reid’s passport. I dropped the condom when I touched his black corded necklace. I twisted the metal barb charm. I liked this necklace. He’d been wearing it the day I saw him come out of the swimming pool.

  To be inside of his room was like learning portions of a long hidden secret, and I wanted to know so much more.

  I turned to check out his CD collection, and noticed the bathroom door ajar. My stomach did flips. My breath increased. My heart pounded with the knowledge of what I was about to do. I swallowed hard, moved to the bathroom door, slanted my head…

  Oh God.

  Reid Addison stood behind the clear glass enclosure of the shower, wet and glistening like a golden god. His chin tucked toward his strong, hard, chest. The water beat down onto the back of his neck and shoulders while hot steam wafted upward, around him. His left hand braced the strength of him and rested, fingers splayed, against the crisp white and blue tiles above his head. In all of my imagination I could not have come close to envisioning the splendor of him. My mind marveled, taking in the whole of his creation. His body, kissed by the sun, bronzed.

  I stared at him. Followed the lines of his wide shoulders to see the contour of his shoulder blades, curve of his spine, the dimples at the small of his back, the round smooth tightly muscled ass which sat atop his long muscular legs. I studied the strength of his hamstrings, the muscles in his calves. He shifted, rolled his head and neck along his shoulders. I held my breath, but I continued my vision quest until I saw the slash of his oblique muscles, and the trimness of his waistline, which narrowed into the line of his hip. His stomach hard, tight, and rippled in more than a six-pack, called to me. I visually traced the thin column of dark black hair that started at his navel and flowed down into his…

  Holy heaven. I stared, unblinking. An almost audible intake of breath eked from my lips. There was no choice. I bit down hard onto the curve of my thumb to stop the sound from escaping. His manhood hung semi-hard between his thighs. My gaze lingered for a moment before I tracked the lines of water that trickled down his body in multiple weaving shapes, tantalizing me. The way the water sparkled and glistened as it ran over the length of him was enticing. My nipples hardened beneath my sports bra and two cotton shirts.

  He reached for the body wash, squeezed some of the creamy soap into his large palm, and began to lather his body in bold swooping strokes over his shoulders, his neck, his broad hard chest, his arms, his stomach, his…. I found it hard to even think the word, cock. His hand lingered there and stroked almost involuntarily. I wanted to come unhinged. I bit even harder on the thumb wedged between my teeth. Was I really seeing this?

  I willed him to move. He did. I studied his movements. They transitioned into long strokes. Reid twisted his wrist over the head of his dick before sliding his hand back down to the base of his erection where he gripped. He was hard, fully at mass, strong, and beautiful. I considered the wide head, the silky skin, the veins as they became more prominent when he became much more eager in his pleasure. His biceps flexed. The cords in his forearms moved. His fingers strained tighter as he stroked himself. His face turned serious, carving his chiseled good looks into a hard as granite pose of concentration. A crease formed on his usually smooth brow. It furrowed deeper when he stroked harder. His eyes closed. His jaw flexed. The line of his lips tightened.

  I stood, mesmerized by him, and watched him bring himself pleasure. I would commit this to memory. Burn his movements, each stoke, each flex, each sound into my heart. I would learn him, the reactions of his body, of his muscles. He pumped harder, faster, driving his fist over his massive cock. And surely it was massive, although I had no point of reference. He thrust his hips forward into his fist, groaning….

  He seemed driven. My gaze shot up to his face, the expression there hard and unyielding and the set of his jaw tight. I watched his respirations. His breath as it came hard. His need flaring higher. He made one last guttural growl.

  Release.

  Liquid shot from his body in three hard burst as his hand gave the final jerks to his cock. His head fell forward. His hand stopped. The water beat upon his body and washed the burning liquid of his essence away from him. I wondered what it felt like. Would it be creamy? Silky? But guessing his cum would be hot. It had to be hot. I pondered. What it would taste like? Unable to render a guess.

  Did all men do such things in the shower? And then I wondered…. Why? What was it that drove him to pleasure himself to completion in such a way? It was almost brutal. Why?

  “Trinity!” The call came floating up the staircase.

  Mother … drats.

  His head shot up. I backed away from my spectator’s spot. He turned, glaring at the bathroom door.

  “Trinity, are you up there?”

  I spun on my heels, breezed out of his room, and walked toward the stairs.

  “Yes,” I replied, and peered over the railing to see my mother halfway up the staircase, her expression clearly irritated. She held her hand on one hip, eyes blazing blue.

  “What are you doing? It shouldn’t take that long to strip the sheets off of Mr. and Mrs. Addison’s bed. You said you wanted to help out for some extra cash, so I expect the help, not dawdling or daydreaming.”

  “I know. I was looking at all the artwork in the corridor and got sidetracked. I’ll go right now. I promise.”

  “Make sure you pull all the coverings, not just the sheets. And do not throw the pillows onto the floor. After they are stripped place them back on the bed. I will come up later to fluff them.”

  “I know, mother.”

  “No attitude, Trinity Lane Winslow.”

  I rolled my eyes, being sure to do such with my head turned so she didn’t see.

  “And don’t roll those eyes at me young lady!”

  Jeez, does she have x-ray vision or what?

  It was time to buckle down, so I made my way into the master suite. Immediately my gaze fell to the gigantic bed with the carved wooden spindles, blending into the intricate rose pattern engraved into the enormous headboard. I glanced over to the antique dresser and saw a large crystal vase filled with fresh flowers. The smell was sweet, delicate, smelling of roses, gardenias, and lilac. I placed my nose above one unblemished crimson rose, and noticed a note card tucked inside the arrangement. I considered readin
g the note.

  What would it be like to be loved, adored, and desired? I laughed at how absurd I was being and broke the daydream to glance around the master suite, admiring all the lushness. The room looked like something from a magazine, elegant, but somehow sensual, inviting. Every piece within the room was eclectic, but looked as if it belonged nowhere else.

  My hands skimmed over the silken dove colored coverlet. I took in the richness of the fabric and the pattern of the design woven within the threads. I imagined the coverlet alone to be more money than I would make in a month’s time helping out my mother. I wondered…. What would it be like to live this life, experience how it felt to never worry about money? Stop it, Trinity, you’re being stupid again. You will never live a life like this, never.

  I heard a noise. I turned to see….

  “Cheese and Crackers!”

  Reid looked like the Cheshire cat with his wide toothy white grin. I took in his current half-dressed state. His jeans were unbuttoned, and gaped into territory that drew my eye. And he wasn’t wearing a shirt or shoes. I diverted my eyes only to watch my own hands twist into the bottom hem of my shirt. I knew his expressions well, so I knew Reid was going to toy with me.

  Reid possessed the ability to be soft, the aptitude to be harsh, to show moments of kindness as if he were my guardian angel, and flashes of meanness as if he were my own personal devil. This look upon his face leaned more toward the devil. Only a half dressed, completely tempting, scorching hot, muscle packed, devastatingly sexy devil.

  “Trinity,” Reid greeted in that low tempting tone he has. His voice always gave me an image of deep dark velvet in the color of chocolate.

  Without lifting my eyes to meet his I said, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he said, walking slowly toward me. He took two steps forward. I took two steps back. “Congratulations are in order.”