A Taboo Desire: What if the one you want is the one you should stay away from?

by Stephanie Brother

  A Taboo Desire

  What if the one you want is the one you should stay away from?

  © 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

  "I really don’t think this is a good idea,” I say hesitantly, not certain what else to say or what to think. I know this is inappropriate but I'm also aware this is exactly what I've secretly longed for, for so long. Still, now it is happening, all I can think of is what my mother and his father would say if they saw their kids in bed together. Soon to be step-siblings who are supposed to interact as such, not like desperate lovers.

  I can just imagine what Dr. Phil would say. "What part of this strikes you as sane?" His eyes big and round, leaning in with that big bald head of his. The audience would nod their approval and my cheeks would burn scarlet. Mom would sit next to me, crying softy but loving the attention nonetheless. Steve, America’s most desirable bachelor according to the polls, would sit opposite me looking totally unashamed. He'd be there solely for his entertainment. The opposite of his father, who'd be working his jaw, staring straight ahead with barely-contained anger.

  But I'm not on the Dr. Phil show, thank God. But I'm not in my own bed either. I'm in Steve's bedroom, the largest I've ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling glass covers an entire wall, offering a billion dollar view of downtown NYC. Tastefully decorated, no doubt by the best interior decorator money can buy. Red is the dominant color – a deep passionate red. The same color of the dress that lies at my feet like an old rag, set with many diamonds that reflect the little light there is.Enough to make out the feline expression on his handsome face, eyes burning with a desire that mirrors my own. If only he wasn't going to be my stepbrother.

  Only moments ago that dress was still on. Shows how a single moment of weakness can make a world of difference. One moment you feel you are still in control, the next you look from the corner of your eye to catch your image in the mirror. What you see tells you that you aren't in control at all. Not so long as you are reduced to a pair of wet panties and red high heels, and in the arms of the man you told yourself you'd hate until the end of time. Not as long as your heart beats out of control, warmth exploding in your chest and belly with each beat.

  Painfully self-aware of my nakedness and the excited state I'm in, I try to fight it. Fight off the undiluted passion that burns its way through my body via a network of arteries and veins, infusing every cell with the last thing I need. Left in its wake the ruins of the pride that made me decide to look down on him and hate him even before we even had met. But it is one of those battles that you fight solely for form. Just so you can later tell yourself that you didn't go down without a good fight.

  That is all that is left for me: one final act of opposition before my inevitable surrender to the taboo desires for the man I love even though I don't want to. Not really—or maybe that too is just more of the self-denial I've used as a shield against the aching need that burns in his eyes as much as mine. The same passion that has been there since I first laid eyes on my now seriously inebriated hunk of a stepbrother.

  When he says my name it is with a richness of feeling that compliments his musky smell and the warmth that beats off his body, the intensity in his eyes. I sigh, deeply enough for my breasts to rise, stiff nipples tightening even more when they rub against the fabric of his suit, and for the first time in my life I want to tear a guy's clothes off. Not take them off. Tear them off and any bitch who gets near? She’d better be willing to fight for him. That's instinct. Not reason. Not social-conditioning that has me wanting to hate him for the womanizer he is. That's instinct, and it makes a woman temporarily insane. That would be me and I'm trying to fight it.

  A shiver runs down my spine when I think of the moment of surrender ahead of me. But not yet. You surrender too soon and it'll cost you in terms of pride. A fight like this? No matter how hopeless it is, you have to drag it out until every fiber of your body and soul is spent. Then he can have me and do as he pleases. In the morning, my pride will rise from its ashes like a Phoenix reborn, and I'll feel ashamed and weak. But one night in the arms I need will be worth the price.

  He kisses me again. Hard. Like a conquering warrior, determined to leave his mark on the new ground ahead of him. His blood engorged member presses equally hard against my soft flesh through his pants, while our tongues find each other shamelessly.

  Part of me wants to blame him for the sorry state I am in, but it isn't as if I'm entirely innocent. I wish. Driven by jealousy and heartache, I'd taken a page from Mother's handbook and thrown my inner seducer at him as if life itself depended on it. That is why I came here tonight, ignoring my pride as much as my reason. Instinct led the way to where I'm fast approaching—the point of total surrender to 180lbs of clean muscle and bones, and the face of a Hugo Boss model, and judging from what I feel pressed against me, something hard that is sized way above average. God, I'm hopeless.

  Thinking of the alternative, returning home—defeated by pride—for another lonely night alone in a bed that feels too spacious, I wrap my arms around him even more tightly.

  The press would have a field day if they got the smell of this. The son of billionaire steel magnate Senator MacCarty seduces the daughter of billionaire socialite Belle Trisky on the eve of the wedding between their parents that will turn them into stepbrother and stepsister. Kinky. Just what the networks need to boost the ratings, alright. The press would have a field day if they ever caught wind of this. Also the last thing I need. Being my mother's daughter is enough of a challenge as is; no need to make it extra exciting. But that is reason talking, and I'm running on instinct. Primal instinct, triggered by a primal need that I can't escape. Not that I haven't tried.

  "What? Again?" I don't know if I should laugh or cry when Mother announces she is getting married again. "That'll be what? Your third marriage, in how many years?"I know exactly how many but I want her to say it. Predictably, Mother doesn't answer. Smiling gently, she turns her doe-eyes on me, as if genuinely non-plusses her why her one and only child could possibly be upset. "Six years," I say. "Three marriages in six years! Don't you think it is time to give it a rest?"

  Saying the words, I realize something I never thought of before: it means my forty-two year old mother—the serial-divorcer—probably gets more action than I do. Shit. I blame Mother for my reluctance to date. I’m scared that I may become like her or discover I already am like her. When I marry, it'll be forever. That's the gameplan.

  "And ten months," Mother is kind enough to point out, now pretending she is studying her perfectly manicured nails.

  That's my mother for you. She's like the Spider Woman; trapping rich men in a web of artificial charm that no doubt she feels is real. Not that she kills. No, she just drives men crazy with her big blue eyes and the girly voice that to me sounds ridiculous for a woman her age, and curves that are part natural and part plastic surgery. The best money can buy.

  Porny kind of curves that a certain kind of man go crazy over. Crazy enough to marry her
, after a few months of dating—if that. The kind of crazy that convinces perfectly sane and successful men that marrying her is the smartest decision ever, despite a track record that would make any sane guy run for the hills. Instead, they fall at her feet with a love-struck look in their eyes.

  Three marriages in six years and ten months. That made for a grand total of five marriages in twenty-three years. I have no idea why she lasted so long in her second marriage; her first was a short lived one when she was nineteen, but those were the only stable years of my life. After Dad decided that enough was enough, the court assigned me to Mother and I still hold that against them.

  "So, who is it this time?" I ask exasperatedly, not certain I want to know but I know it is the question she wants to hear and I've grown used to indulging my mother. Plus, I am curious who she managed to ensnare in her web this time.

  Dad showed up four years after Mother's first marriage went on the rocks. Their marriage lasted sixteen years, and he deserves sainthood for lasting that long. They divorced two months before I turned sixteen, and it felt like it was the end of the world. Little did I know that the worst had yet to come. With a hefty alimony to sponsor her new project, Total Make Over, Mother moved us to Houston for breast implants and to ingratiate herself with the posh community, to which she took like a fish to water.

  She managed to stay single for exactly seven months before marriage number three was marked on the agenda. The guy was old enough to be my grandfather, and there was no way I was going to call him Dad. At first, I thought Mother had finally come to her senses, when I learned she was filling for divorce. "The age gap makes it so much harder than I'd imagined, dear." Sure, you couldn't have figured that one out sooner? She walked away with a fortune. So I guess she got something out of it after all.

  Thirteen months later, I was introduced to my next stepfather to be. At least the guy was age appropriate, but that was as far as the good news went. A self-made billionaire, and a total control freak, who thought he could take my life over. Dad had one talk with Mr. Control Freak over Skype, and I don't know what Dad said to him, but he left me to myself soon after. Thanks, Dad!

  Marriage number four lasted almost three years. Just long enough for mother to throw a gossip rag dramatically on the breakfast table one morning, all crocodile tears. "How could you do this to me, John? How?" The front page showed John leaving a 'gentleman's club' in the company of two daringly dressed ladies who looked barely legal. The look of horror on John's face more than made up having to put up with his unbearable presence for three years—I guess he could already see his net worth being slashed. According to the prenuptial, agreement, Mother was entitle to half his estate in case of a divorce if he cheated on her.

  Mother didn't seem particularly upset by it; if anything, she was positively beaming. Figuring she had learned her lesson, I didn't think she'd go through the motions again. Not this soon, at least.

  "Oh, sweetheart," Mom squeals, in that little girl voice of hers. I cringe and almost tell her to talk like a grown woman. "He's so..." For a moment, I betted against myself: was I going to puke on the spot or not? But I managed to push the nausea down. "Just perfect, dear." Hand on her chest, her eyes glazed over and focused on the ceiling. The Oxford Street prime real estate courtesy of marriage number four. Together with the other loot, Mother had sure come a long way. Don't remind her of where she came from, though. Kansas. Not the rich part of town, or even the suburban middle-class area—she wishes.

  These days, Mother acts like she was born in the shadows of kings and queens, not run down trailers and littered yards where she stood a better chance of tripping over empty beer cans than spotting a blooming flower. At least she acquired the means to live like royalty; a shame that fat ass American accent kinda ruins the act. I, of course, am always good enough to lay my accent on thick and fat when I have the misfortune of being confronted her friends—the ones who appear to have broom sticks permanently installed up their asses.Of course, inserted only by the best plastic surgeon money can buy.

  Half an hour in their presence is enough to make me wish for a case of the bubonic plague to sweep through town. So I stay as far away from them as I can and leave it to Mother to play the role of the socialite, a tabloid favorite. Busying myself with my studies, I'm perfectly happy in the shell I’ve created for myself. I guess that's why I didn't see the latest disaster coming.

  "Perfect? Like the others, you mean?" I say, unable to resist.

  "Oh, sweetie," Mother says. She makes a dismissive gesture, as if telling me to stop being silly. "This one is different." Mother sighs dramatically, as if to underline how seriously swept away she is by her latest conquest. Barf, barf, and barf again, Mother. But she is so far gone in her imaginary world that I doubt she'd notice if her daughter barfed all over the Persian carpet at her feet.

  His lips find mine again, and like a woman possessed I kiss back. A moan escapes from the back of my throat when I feel him hook his thumbs under my panties. The voice of my conscience doesn't stand a chance against the scorching heat between my legs, and I almost feel sorry for myself. Almost. But I'm too much in need to think about consequences and pride. Arching my back, I press myself even harder against him, my pussy spasming when his hard on stirs powerfully against me. In truth, I never stood a chance. All the time I resisted his draw, I was just fooling myself.

  "He is just perfect, dear. Nothing like the others," Mother says and sighs again. A stranger might think she's orgasming on the spot, but this is simply Mother's way of communicating. She communicates in sighs and simple hand gestures. Don't expect anything complex from Mother. She keeps it simple.

  Can you blame me for rolling my eyes?

  "This time it will be different," Mother muses, lost in the imaginary world where she is queen, lording over her latest billionaire prize-hubby like a benevolent dictator. Benevolent in her eyes, that is.

  That's the thing with Mother; she imagines she always knows best when it comes to men. I wonder if the reason she doesn't boss me around is because I wasn't born with a cock. Shivering at the thought of how she'd treat a son, I contemplate leaving for the safety of my room, calling Cathy, or indulging Mother dear and listening to whatever bullshit she's decided to confuse for reality. It is easy to opt for the privacy of my room.

  "Steve," I say, my voice husky like it’s never sounded before, when he pulls my panties down. I'm so wet that the material sticks to my swollen pussy and more blood rushes to my neck and face. I really need to put a stop to this now. I really do. What kind of woman is dying to spread her legs for a guy she knows will be family, soon enough?

  But that is reason, and even though I know that's what I should listen to, it goes against everything I instinctively crave.So I don't object when he pulls my panties down my hips. Nor do I step away from him to pick up my dress and cover myself when my panties fall to the floor. That's what a sane woman would do, and I'm no longer accountable for my actions. That's love and passion for you. So, instead of doing the smart and decent thing, I rejoice when his strong hands land on my skin and I look up to find his eyes.

  Those intense blue eyes, set in a stunningly handsome face, gave me pause when I first laid eyes on him; they were enough to stop me dead in my tracks. A face of perfect symmetry and masculine lines, framed by naturally waved blonde hair and eyes that would have been intimidatingly cool if it wasn't for the sparkle that seems to be a permanent fixture. Tall and with just the right amount of muscle, not buff like a guy high on steroids, but buff like a guy used to physical exertion. A guy who makes his tailor-made suit look good, not the other way around. A guy who you know looks even better naked, and one look is enough for your biology to send out all the signals that you really want to see him naked.

  That's the man I lost my heart to. The man who will be my stepbrother, soon enough. Steve MacCarty. The kind of guy who leaves you self-conscious of how you look and makes wish you'd spent at least an hour doing your hair and makeup instead of allowing
a minimum amount of face-time in front of the mirror.

  The kitchen is the best part of the house. Cozy, and with a colonial look about it, but massive. There are people in downtown Manhattan who have houses with less surface area. A long wooden table stands parallel the kitchen counter and massive stove, and the autumn sun streams in through the high windows, which offer a perfect view of the garden and the cherry trees that will bear fruit when the time is right.

  I don't think Mother ever set foot in the kitchen and I'm glad for it. The kitchen is the domain of Mrs. Elkins, our cook—and a hell of a great one she is, too. We have more in-house personnel, but Mrs. Elkins is my favorite by far. Over the years, she has become more of a surrogate mother than just another servant.

  She is a short stout woman in her sixties, with full and smooth cheeks and pleasant green eyes, and black hair that doesn't show any grey yet. Where Mother is high on a cloud by default, Mrs. Elkins feet never leave earth. Quick to laugh, and never shy to say whatever comes to mind, her kitchen is a bullshit-free zone that has been my refuge from Mother's craziness since she arrived. I believe I would revolt if Mother ever decided to fire her.

  Mrs. Elkins is working her magic while I nurse a cup of rooibos tea in my hands, and I sigh, certain that she will respond. I need to let off some steam and, as usual, Mrs. Elkins will be my soundboard.

  "It's that bad?" Mrs. Elkins says, not pausing from rolling dough or even looking up from her work. She doesn't share my sense of drama, and I know that is a huge part of her appeal. Mrs. Elkins breezes through life with a smile and an unbeatable sense of humor. It is also a daily reminder of the fact that I inherited more than just my looks from Mother.

  "You have no idea," I say and sigh again, not surprised when Mrs. Elkins' warm laughter washes over me. When she laughs, it is with her entire body. It always rubs off and I can't help but smile. Doesn't change the fact that I'm up to meet my future stepfather and whoever else he is dragging into this mess.