My Billionaire Stepbrother

by Sterling, Jillian

  By Jillian Sterling

  Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

  Other books by Jillian Sterling:

  Billionaire Bait

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  MY BILLIONAIRE STEPBROTHER

  By

  Jillian Sterling

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  Veronique LaRoux

  Philadelphia, PA

  This day could not get any more surreal. Yesterday I was at school in Philadelphia, minding my own business, and today…

  Remington Wilde is standing in front of me. The Remington Wilde.

  Yes, that one – the Remington Wilde that was on the cover of Vogue and named People’s Sexiest Man Alive just last month.

  The Remington Wilde featured in Men’s Health as the Hottest Bod in the Universe.

  The Remington Wilde considered the World’s Most Eligible Bachelor after Prince William got married.

  The Remington Wilde that has famously broken the most glamorous hearts in the world and sexed up the most exclusive clubs and resorts.

  That one.

  The famous one.

  The dangerous one.

  The rich, sexy, powerful one.

  The HOT one.

  He needs no introduction, I know it’s him and feel the flash of white-hot recognition and desire fire through my body with the velocity of an explosion as soon as our eyes meet. He’s looking right at me, and I can see in his face what he wants. It turns my insides hot. He’s a six-foot tall billionaire sex god with an enormous bulge in his pants and a dangerous gleam in his eyes. God, I can’t look away from it no matter how red my face gets – I can’t stop trying to picture him naked. That cock must be huge!

  No, Veronique. Don’t stare at it. Look away.

  He’s the kind of guy that women throw their panties at. He’s the kind of guy women throw away their pride for. He’s the kind of guy I’d throw away both my panties and pride for, but he is completely off limits.

  Did you hear that, self? OFF. LIMITS.

  Because as of this moment, he is officially my stepbrother: a total stranger, yes, but also my stepbrother. Because that is how my weird little life works. My weird little life has just taken a completely shocking, completely bizarre, completely unfathomable turn to the surreal and sexy and complicated. My weird little life has just put me in the path of the most infamous billionaire bachelor in the world, while at the same time taking him off the table.

  Well, one good long look can’t hurt, right?

  Sweet Jesus H. Christ. That body. That face. That…bulge. I really want to know if his last name is also an accurate description of his bedroom talents: wild. Because Remington Wilde seems like he could drive me…wild.

  I haven’t felt wild in so, so damn long. And I want it so bad.

  Look away, Veronique. Look away now. Run away. Do not pass go. Do not fantasize about your stepbrother. Do not think about his cock. Do not think about his…fuck.

  He’s got a rockstar’s charisma and a movie star’s charm, with an enormous dash of serious cash and all the alpha-male entitled cockiness and sexy confidence that implies. Just standing near him makes your breath catch. Damn, he even smells insanely expensive and sexy. I can catch the scent of his cologne on the breeze – probably something custom made, definitely something that makes me think of long, naked nights. Maybe it’s not cologne.

  Maybe it’s just him.

  Maybe I need to lick his neck to find out. Maybe I need to lick my way all down from his neck to his washboard abs to his cock and…

  Jesus. Down, girl. Get a grip.

  No wonder Esperanza Grant, the biggest movie star in the world, chose him over all her other boyfriends. Aren’t they still together? Yeah Veronique, remember that juicy tidbit? Just another reason he’s off limits: he’s not only your new stepbrother, he is dating a woman a million times hotter and richer and more appropriate than you.

  Still, a girl can fantasize right?

  No. Bad idea. Terrible idea. No fantasies. No fun.

  But ohhhh myyyy godddd.

  He looks like the kind of man who knows how to satisfy any woman, anywhere, any time - and who isn’t afraid to do it. He looks like my fucking wettest dream in the flesh – flesh, I might add, that is perfectly sculpted, rock hard, and delicious. Is that a 6-pack I see through his tight white shirt?

  Oh god, how I want to find out.

  He’s oozing sex. He’s oozing cool.

  He’s oozing douchbaggery, too. Maybe I can focus on that? Maybe that will make him less hot? Maybe if I realize he’s a love-em-and-leave-em, wet and dirty, callous and rough…nope. That’s just turning me on more.

  That face. That suit. That BODY.

  Why, god? Why me?

  I know the second we meet that he wants me and worse – I want him back, bad. So bad. Toe-curling, sweaty bodies rubbing, up-against-a-wall, no-first-names-necessary bad.

  I’m only human! What would it be like to spend a wild night (or seven) with Remington Wilde, playboy of the Western and Eastern world? To have those big, experienced hands on my body, showing me the dirtiest moves he’s got? What would it be like to be naked with him, to feel him hard for me – someone so powerful, someone so…hot.

  Someone that’s fucked an Oscar winner.

  Someone that’s fucked a fucking princess.

  I want him to fuck me, too.

  Fuck.

  It’s not going to be easy ride, figuratively or literally. Because, damn – when was the last time I imagined riding a guy I JUST met?

  How about never!

  I’m not that girl. I am the responsible girl. I am the hard-working, nose to the grindstone, keep-everybody’s-lives-together-because-no-one-else-will-do-it-if-I-don’t girl. I’m not the lust-at-first-sight, wild-night-of-no-consequences girl. I’m not the sexy girl. I’m not the tabloid cover girl.

  I’m not Remington Wilde’s girl.

  I have too much at stake to get involved with anybody, especially someone like Remington Wilde.

  But something about me is driving me wild, propelling me toward him, making me hungry like a sex-crazed maniac – I can sense it in the way his rippling muscles tense, the way his eyes track all down my body. I can feel something, like a tangible pool of heat between our bodies. In the air: actual chemistry.

  And it’s scaring the shit out of me.

  It’s not just the fact that I know all about his girlfriends and sexploits from gossip rags. The man is a l
egend, but it’s not that I’m star struck. It’s not that I’m stupid. And it’s not just the fact that the moment we meet I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck of hormones screaming for wild, animal passion.

  It’s not even that he’s my brand new surprise stepbrother.

  All of these things I could deal with. I could deal with his relentlessly hot body, his smoldering eyes, his mocking grin, and the chills that shoot down my spine when he stands just-barely too close to me. Worse things have happened to me that Remington Wilde’s raw sexual magnetism. Worse things have happened to me than this searing lust, this tongue-tied intimidation.

  Like the fact that Remington Wilde already hates my guts.

  Or the fact that my family’s entire future suddenly depends on his acceptance.

  And that his acceptance hinges entirely on my ability to smooth things out.

  …all without tumbling into his bed.

  Yup.

  It’s going to be a rough ride.

  Let me back up to the beginning because, look: if I were Remington Wilde, I’d probably hate me too. And if I were me, I’d probably hate Remington Wilde. Which I do, by the way! He’s not the only one who gets to be a hater. I hate him as much as I want to fuck him.

  This is the problem.

  It all started, like I said, with me minding my own business.

  It’s finals week, so minding my own business involved a very delicate tightrope walk of stress, rehearsal, sleeplessness, and coffee. Finals are no joke at the Curtis Institute of Music.

  Nothing is a joke at the Curtis Institute of Music.

  Getting in to this amazing school was the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life, or so I thought – then classes began. It’s been nothing but work, work, work; perfection, perfection, perfection. I know you might not think that becoming a classical musician isn’t exactly a stable career choice, but if I can survive Curtis I can definitely have a strong career. It’s all a part of my master plan to be the provider, to gain respect from the world and independence from my family’s bumpy financial past.

  The cello was one of the last things my Mom gave to me before she died in a car accident when I was 10. She thought of music – classical music – as the only art form that was honorable and safe for a girl to work in. Back in Japan, where she was from, classical musicians were very highly regarded and very well treated. She was a cellist herself but gave it up to marry my crazy charming, erratic, and irresponsible Dad. My mom really never had the chance to succeed – she, in fact, purposefully gave up her chance at success to try her hand at love. I think part of her secretly wished she’d found a way to do both.

  I know I want both, but mostly success – after a life of having little to live on but my family’s famous “love,” I know the price of everything. I always thought that if I could use my mom’s musical legacy to succeed, it would heal a lot of the past. I know she would have loved to see me try.

  That is why I worked my ass off to apply and get into the only top music conservatory with free tuition. That is why I’ve staked my life on this crazy dream – a job that gives me passion and stability, respect and independence; a career that will allow me to finally be my own person while also still supporting and helping my Dad.

  A girl can dream.

  Don’t get me wrong: I love every second of school, but it hasn’t been exactly conducive to having a sane personal life. Especially because I am one of those students who desperately need to succeed, every waking moment since I started my course has been about the Curtis Institute of Music and the cello. Curtis and cello. All day, every day. I need to be perfect. I need to excel. Because at the end of this I need to have an excellent job.

  If I don’t succeed, no one else will do it for me. There’s no trust fund, no safety net. I am overworked and tired and cranky but on track to achieve my goals.

  Last night I worked a double at Paddy’s, the college bar where I earn my rent money. I’ve mostly supported myself – and my Dad – since I was old enough to get my first job at 15. I work about 8 shifts a week at the bar and practice cello about 40 hours a week on top of my classes. Yeah, there’s no sleeping. And this fateful morning I am on edge and running late for rehearsal when my phone starts buzzing.

  I had just swung my cello case onto my back – no easy feat – and was delicately propping myself against the wall to lock my apartment door when my pocket vibrated and scared the bejeezus out of me. But I instantly knew who was calling.

  There’s only one person who calls me.

  “Hi Dad,” I grunt, balancing the phone between my shoulder so I can twist my keys in the lock. “I’m running late for rehearsal, but I haven’t heard from you in a while. How are you?”

  There’s a distant clicking sound in the connection, like he’s calling from a payphone in the 1940s. Which, knowing my Dad, is slightly possible.

  “Kiki baby! I’ve missed you! Your Daddy loves you. How is your taking-over-the-world plan going?”

  He calls me Kiki. I’m 21 years old and I still don’t have any idea why.

  “It’s going great Dad, I’m in the middle of finals. Pretty crazy busy –”

  “I know, I know baby. You work so hard. Listen, something has come up and it’s terribly, terribly important. It’s life and death serious. I need you to believe me, drop everything you’re doing, hop on the plane and come out here.”

  It feels like the breath gets knocked out of me as the familiar anxiety and helplessness descends. My Dad loves me more than anything else in the world but has no idea of his effect on my emotional wellbeing, and it’s this kind of shit that has made me the paranoid type-A control freak that I am.

  I don’t even know where he is. How could I possibly drop everything? Doesn’t he realize how important my work is? My Dad is a poker player, and whenever he calls me it’s from a different time zone, asking for some very serious favor. His emergencies are as commonplace as the electricity bill.

  “Dad, we’ve talked about this before. I can’t just leave school. School is my priority right now. I’m doing it for both of us and I can’t just drop everything, especially not during finals.”

  But his voice is grave in a way I’ve never heard before.

  “I’m not asking you for money and I’m not asking you to do something risky. I am asking you, as your father, to listen to me and obey me this once. This is like nothing that has ever happened before, this is not a joke, and I am extremely serious. I need you to get to Philadelphia International Airport by 10am, terminal B. When you go to check in they will point you in the right direction. I need you to do this for me, Kiki. I need you to believe me, not over-think it, and just do what I ask.”

  My stomach goes cold as my mind tries to tally up the possible causes of his cryptic request. Is he in trouble? Is he dying?

  “Dad, are you ok? Should I be calling an Embassy somewhere? Are you in jail?”

  But the line is hissing and fizzing, garbling like a message from deep space. Is he in deep space? I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Already arranged…go to the airport…10am…important…”

  Then the line goes dead.

  “Dad?”

  Seriously, in 2015, when does the line garble and go dead? What the hell is going on?

  I stare at my phone, adrenaline spiking through my veins. What could possibly have happened that my father would have already arranged a plane for me for 10am? That’s really soon, isn’t it? I check the time.

  It’s 9:13am.

  “Fuck!”

  The way I see it, I have two choices. I can listen to my practical side that says that I have a very important rehearsal for which I am already ten minutes late. My practical side is telling me I need to keep my eyes on the prize and let nothing, not even a terrifying request from my Dad, derail my focus during finals.

  But then there’s the second possibility that my Dad is telling the truth and something legitimately life shattering is happening. There’s the possibility that he actuall
y needs me. That it’s an actual emergency that requires my presence.

  That if I don’t take him seriously, I might regret it for the rest of my life.

  Then again, if I don’t take my finals seriously, I might regret that for the rest of my life.

  What if he’s in a hospital? What if he’s hurt?

  I debate with myself for precisely ten more seconds before I unlock my tiny studio apartment and stumble back inside. With the complex gymnastics that I have down to an art, I swing my enormous cello case off my back and set it carefully in its place by the bed while simultaneously unzipping the compartments that contain my vital essentials: wallet, study materials, secret cash stash. Last night I made $300 in tips. I need it for next month’s rent, but whatever is going on with Dad sounds like it could potentially be expensive, so I need to be prepared.

  I spread it all on the bed, tossing a few pairs of underwear and a change of pants and shirt on top. It hits me that he didn’t even tell me where he was before the phone cut out. How do I pack? It’s early May, but where am I going? Will it be hot? Cold? I throw in a sweater just in case. Hiking boots. Sandals? I have no fucking idea.

  In five minutes I have a backpack put together, a baseball cap on my head, and I am sprinting down the steps hailing a taxi.

  God help me, I know I am going to regret this one way or another. But this is literally a case of fucked if I do, and fucked if I don’t.

  I just wish there was a way to know exactly how fucked I am.

  Chapter Two

  It’s almost 9:43am when I finally make it to Terminal B at the Philadelphia International Airport, and at this point I am in a near panic. It’s only seventeen minutes before the deadline and I’m thinking I am probably too late to check in for a 10am flight.

  Is that what Dad said? Was the flight 10am or was it just that he said to be there by 10am? Goodness, I can’t even remember. Was it even Terminal B?

  Deep breath. Calm down.

  I pay the taxi, losing $60 of my precious tip dollars and mentally calculating how much I have left in cash and the bank. I dash out and run-walk into the airport, checking as I go to make sure I have my wallet, keys, and phone in my backpack.