If she knew he’d been in love with her, and not Patricia when she’d died, it would be like admitting his guilt. His weakness. Back then, he’d been a twenty-two-year-old man, only three years older than Patricia. Tiffany had been seventeen, far too young—and illegal to touch no matter how much he craved her.
Whether he loved Patricia the same way he did Tiffany or not, he would have married her and fathered their child—and been good at it.
Become a good man. Make me proud. His father’s motto during his childhood rang in Santiago’s ears. He’d tried to follow his late father’s honorable footsteps.
Which was why he had raced his car, the second someone at the party mentioned there had been an accident not far from the Hamptons property. So close, in fact, they saw smoke from the window. He’d arrived at the scene before anyone else, even emergency medical services.
The car had hydro planed, and rolled over to the side. He heard Tiffany’s voice, but couldn’t hear Patricia’s. He’d tried to climb to the side to check on his fiancée, but the car tipped over and he got caught under the frame. Pinned.
After the accident, he’d been deemed a hero for trying to save the two women from the smoking car. Little did the world know how twisted his mind actually was. Little did they know his heart skipped a beat when he’d imagined Tiffany could be hurt—and not Patricia. Maybe he’d deserved the outcome, for first praying for the life of his stepsister instead of the woman carrying his child.
The post-accident exposure had shifted his focus. Before, he’d been a journalist major starting to work within the wars and crisis segments. After the tragedy, he was done with bad news and death. Instead, he’d nailed a successful and critically acclaimed TV show in the U.S., where he visited off the beaten track destinations with his crew, and it finished its fourth season.
When he had scheduled the sessions with Amir La Sombra, he should have factored in the possibility of bad weather. In the last five years, he hadn’t skied. He worked out with a stellar personal trainer, inside his mansion in Barcelona or in his loft in Central Park. In Spain, he’d used his private swimming pool and done all the exercises doctors and physiotherapists recommended.
Which brings me here. He scanned the office. A sleek Apple computer and printer, along with a heavy oak desk and a back-friendly swivel chair occupied the space. Pastel colored, Monet type paintings adorned the pink wall. Leave it to his mother to create the perfect weekend retreat, which lacked reliable Wi-Fi, yet offered a modern oasis so she could work from home undisturbed.
Fishing his cell phone from his pocket, he looked at the pitiful 4G strength. Only two bars blinked, and he clicked on his weather app. A couple minutes went by without much change, until the page finally loaded and he saw an ugly black cloud covering the region. Mierda.
Headlines flashed at the bottom of the page, but whenever he tried to click one of them, the Internet went out. He kept at it, until the light from his phone shone brighter than anything else around him. What the hell?
He blinked, unable to see much. Great. No electricity.
“Santiago?” he heard the soft voice behind the heavy closed door.
Drawing in a breath, he strode to open it. Even though darkness didn’t fill the space completely, it was just a matter of time before the grayness of the room, the color outlining her fine figure, hid her. Maybe not seeing her was better. He twisted the handle, and found her with her hand in mid-air, as if she meant to knock on the door.
“Yeah?” he asked, and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Do you know where they keep flashlights or candles? I looked in the kitchen, but couldn’t find anything. Maybe here?”
“I don’t know where they keep them. You’re welcome to check it out.” He reared back and gestured for her to enter. She held onto her cell phone, using the flashlight function to guide her through the place.
She started to pat the shelves, then opened some drawers. He stayed as far from her as possible. When she left, if she hadn’t found them, he’d search for flashlights. For the time being he’d keep out of her way so their limbs wouldn’t accidentally touch. Or she wouldn’t peg him as this friendly guy helping her out.
She placed her iPhone on the desk, facing up so it brightened the room’s interior. When she leaned over the desk and bent to open the bottom drawers, he had the perfect view of her round ass. His body roared, and his cock twitched.
Without saying a word, he stepped out. Shower. He needed one of those, badly. Maybe water sliding down his body would offer him release from the sizzling sensation flaming through him anytime Tiffany and he shared the same space.
Going to the suite for a shower was out of the question since she’d moved in there.
Entering the full bathroom across from the hall, he closed the door and sighed. He took off his prosthetic limb and placed it on the stool, keeping it dry as usual. Then, he removed the socket around his leg. He took off his clothes and tossed them on the floor. All he needed now was to get rid of the senseless heat claiming his body.
He patted the wall until he found the tap, then rotated it until it heated his skin. Clouds of vapor quickly swirled around him, and he sat back on a metal stool and closed his eyes. Even in the darkness, her image materialized. His cock hardened, and he palmed it. Throwing his head back, he imagined her kissable lips taking his length inside her, her tongue swirling around his shaft. She would lick his underside. A rush of blood surged through him, and he started to stroke himself, feeling his hard-on grow as the fantasy continued in his head.
He moved his hand up and down on his length, mimicking what he wished she’d do. Her soft hand caressing him, squeezing his balls, instead of his rough palm. Oh how he’d love to fuck her mouth. A grunt he didn’t expect parted his lips, and he intensified the rhythm, searching for temporary release.
The sound of a metal object hitting the floor yanked him from the brink of coming. He jerked back, and his eyes opened with a start. A large flashlight rolled on the floor and lightened the entire bathroom.
He raised his gaze, and his heart slammed against his ribcage.
Tiffany stood inches from him, with parted lips and widened eyes. “I-I found a flashlight.”
Chapter 3
Her trembling lips struggled to utter another word. She should have fled the shameless scene several seconds ago when she opened the door to find Santiago naked, water sliding down his perfect body, stroking his large cock with abandon. Vigorously.
In her defense, she’d meant well. She heard a strange noise, muffled by the sound of the water, and she thought she had better check on him. Why did you stay?
If she’d had any ounce of decency, she would have left immediately. Instead, she had licked her lips, entranced, drooling over his hard muscles. A dragon tattoo swirled around his strong biceps. Just enough hair dusted his pectorals, and his rather large hand enveloped his mouth-watering rod—which caused her to clench the flashlight in her hands so hard she ended up cramping her sweaty palm and dropping the flashlight to the floor.
A warm wave of embarrassment spread through her cheeks and neck.
“Get out,” he hissed.
Tiffany blinked, as the flashlight rolled away from her and beamed on Santiago’s very naked body. She opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t manage a simple sound. Her eyes searched his, and she recognized the fire burning deep in his chestnut irises.
Taking a step back, she nodded—not sure if at herself or at him.
“Get! Out!” he shouted.
She did, and closed the door behind her. For a moment, her trembling hand wrapped around the cold handle.
Until then she’d never seen him without the prosthetic leg. Not that it mattered. But, Santiago was a ridiculously proud man. Maybe he didn’t want her to see him so vulnerable or punishing his dick meat like it’d done something wrong.
Darkness filled the space, and she touched the furniture and walls to find her way back to the office. She’d found candles and matches at
least, inside an old credenza.
On her way to the office, she bumped into a console table. Rubbing her knee, she breathed in. I saw him naked.
She gathered the stuff, and headed for the kitchen again. At least, it was further from the bathroom. God. How freaking embarrassing.
Tiffany lit a cherry scented candle, and relief filled her for a moment. At least she didn’t have to worry about her insomnia in the dark. She could get a book from the dozens on the office shelves, go to her room, and read all night long. By the time morning came, she’d be a sleepless intellectual.
She leaned over the granite island, her eyes focused on the growing flicker. Tracing along the wax with the tip of her finger, she smiled. Yes. She’d seen him naked. Of course it was wrong. He had loved her friend, and probably still did. They would always have Patricia’s death between them, even if he didn’t act like a first grade prick whenever she was around. So why even fantasize?
Because you’re a fool. In her teenage years, she had longed for the summer vacations so she had the opportunity to spend time with Marisa’s son. He ignored her most of the time, naturally, but she still treasured seeing him at dinner, and the short amount of time she exchanged snarky comments with him.
“Tiffany,” he called her, and she jumped.
Her heart raced like she had been caught shoplifting. Get it together, Tiffany. She worked at one of the best graphic design companies in the country. She owned a studio apartment in lower Manhattan. She had a good network of friends. So why did her blood go on a low simmer whenever he came near her?
“You scared me,” she said.
She saw him over the shade of the flickering candle light, and he handed her the flashlight. Her fingers brushed his, and she jerked back, awareness shooting up her arm. She swallowed hard. “Thanks.”
“What happened?”
“I found the flashlight, then I heard a noise from the bathroom. I thought you hurt yourself, so I went to check.” And found you punishing your meat.
He narrowed his eyes. “Hurt myself? Why? Because of my leg?”
She lifted her hands in disagreement. “Because we’re in a cottage in the dark. I stumble and walk into things trying to find stuff.”
“Of course. How long were you standing there?”
“I wasn’t there for long,” she said, her voice losing energy in the end. She had been there long enough to have the lusty image imprinted in her memory for years to come.
“You acted scared when the flashlight dropped and you’re acting guilty now,” he said.
Shit. She cleared her throat. How bad did he want to make this for her? “According to you, I’m guilty no matter what, right?”
He sighed. “You’re irresponsible and impulsive.”
“And you’re an idiot. You don’t get to talk to me like I’m eight years old. I’m sorry Patricia died. I loved her like a sister,” she said, remembering all the summers they spent in the Hamptons. With their fathers being best friends and both of them only children, a special bond had tied them together. Once, they had even carved their nicknames on a tree. Trish & Tiff. “I’ll die with that knowledge. But you don’t have the right to treat me like crap every chance you get.”
“Your refusal to listen cost Patricia her life. She carried my child. A baby I will never get to hold,” he said, his voice bitter.
A baby that wasn’t yours. The words tingled at the tip of her tongue, but she bit the inside of her cheek. She had promised over Patricia’s grave that she wouldn’t say anything to him. After all, he had lost his fiancée, the baby, and part of his leg. No way would she take away his warm memories about Patricia, even if they were based on a lie. But she seriously wondered what kind of father he would have made.
“Maybe not being a dad isn’t such a bad thing. You’re a unpleasant, self-involved bastard—hardly father material,” she said, even though she regretted the acidity of her words a second after she heard herself. Shit. Why did she lose all common sense when he came into sight? I guess he’s right on one thing—I am impulsive.
He stepped back, and thrust his fingers into his hair. Through the flicking light, she saw his facial expressions hardening. Acid churned in her stomach. The man seemed pissed.
Santiago shifted his weight from one side to another, and his back bumped into the counter. A couple dishes on the surface fell to the ground. He growled. “Sometimes I want to bend you over one knee and spank your snarky little ass,” he said under his breath, his Spanish accent so thick it became hard to understand.
My ass, little? A tremor surged through her, and she rose to her feet before she changed her mind. “Do it. If that’ll make you feel better about everything you lost. Do it, Santiago,” she said, her voice unwavering. “Spank me,” she heard herself saying and questioned her own state of mind. She cleared her throat.
I hate myself for wanting him. Maybe she deserved a spanking, in more ways than one. She could act altruistic and say she’d do it to bring an end to the war between them. The impeding punishment also gave her a clean slate. She would no longer experience guilt. She would no longer try to fill her time with all kinds of activities known to man… because a part of her was still a teenager with a silly crush on her stepbrother.
His jaw clenched and he tilted his head, probably entertaining the idea. “That wouldn’t erase what’s happened.”
“Nothing ever will. But if it’ll help you release the pent up anger you feel toward me, I’m in. I’d rather a few slaps on my ass than this toxic vibe between us.”
For a moment, he scrutinized her. Her heart raced, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot. A part of her wanted to shrug it off and take back the words she’d just thrown at him. But the rest of her wanted that spanking in a bad way.
“Take off your pants and underwear,” he demanded.
She raised her gaze to him, and if it weren’t for his bossy tone, she’d double-check his request. He squared his shoulders, arms folded. Did he really think she wouldn’t do it? Maybe he wants me to remove my pants so I’ll change my mind.
A thrill of fear rippled through her. She touched her pants, fingers hovering over the zipper. She swallowed. Did he expect her to back away? Nope. Not this time.
She wondered if he’d laugh and turn away after she bared her ass. He didn’t strike her as the practical joke kind of guy, though. Her fingers trembled, but she needed to keep going. If he didn’t hold his end of the bargain, so be it. At least I gave him a shot to get even. Determined, she pulled down her slacks and underwear, and tossed them to the side. Her thighs trembled with anticipation.
“Bend over the island,” he said gravelly.
God. He wants me to be in a compromising position. Then he’ll turn away and leave. What if he did not? She glanced at the floor, biting her lower lip. She’d never done anything kinky like this before. Her boyfriends were congenial no-nonsense types, and she never pegged Santiago for a kinky one. Although… the man looked like a sex god, and maybe that was just his Monday night. Or maybe he loathed her.
Whatever. Getting this out of his system would set them both free. He would feel like somehow she’d been punished for the horrible night that had changed their lives forever. Payback might be hell, but it also might be a great deal of fun.
She splayed both hands on the granite counter, her palms glued to the slick surface. She shivered, and despite her elevated body temperature, the electricity was still off and with it the heater.
When he came behind her though, a different tremor surged through her. “You can—”
“Quiet,” he said.
Desire pooled between her thighs. This is really happening. He rubbed an invisible circle on her buttocks, and his touch warmed her skin. Little currents of awareness tingled her sex, electrifying her clit with every stroke. Such intimacy was wonderful.
She took a deep breath, drew in his scent. She had worked with perfume brands in the past, and had a glimpse of the fragrance-making process. Various scents fascina
ted her. Warm French bread straight from the oven. Fresh cut grass in the summer. But Santiago… his scent had no comparison. A dash of musky notes combined with bamboo and mint. Rich and sexy.
He swatted her ass, and she tensed up. His palm felt rough, large, and strong, and it gave her a searing sting. Her flesh came lusciously alive after the swat. Shamelessly alive. She squirmed a bit, finding it hard to continue to remain still.
“Uno,” he said in Spanish.
“Dos.” His palm spanked her again.
She inhaled, unsure if she should encourage him or protest. The sound of his heavy breathing sliced the awkward silence.
This was beyond weird, but she loved every second of it. What a formidable sensation, to let herself go and forget who they were for a moment. She lifted her hips, unsure if the bold move would irk him. But another swat to her ass proved her wrong.
“Tres.” This one stung her more, as if he really wanted to teach her a lesson. Don’t ask for it. I’ll do it my way.
Her sex clenched with need, and she curled and uncurled her toes. The pressure continued, and he counted in Spanish, one, two, three more slaps. By the time he stopped, her scent of arousal filled the air. She didn’t need to touch herself to know a pearly cream dripped from her pussy and slicked her thighs.
She heard the rustle of a stool being dragged. He pushed it closer, and she was about to turn her head, when he sat on it and took her with him. Over his knee.
Oh God. More? A rock hard erection poked her belly. The man was turned on.
He began massaging her buttocks, and she fought the need to glance over her shoulder. She didn’t want the moment to end; him fondling her ass, his fingers kneading her searing flesh, her squirming on his lap. It felt so good.
A soft moan escaped her parted lips, and she clamped them shut. He nudged her thighs apart, and she didn’t dare deny him. When he caressed her inner thigh, she moaned again. Did this count as spanking aftercare? Because in that case, she wanted to sign up for more.
Forbidden Stepbrother Page 2