by Abby Angel
“This was fucking insane,” he tells me, blurting it out as his cock gives its dying spasms against my fingers.
“It was so much more than just fucking insane,” I admit, peeling my fingers off his cock and closing my eyes for a whole second, exhaustion finally taking over my body. When I open my eyes again, he’s already kneeling by my side, an easy smile dawning on his lips.
“You know,” he whispers, gently brushing my hair to the side and looking at my cum-coated face with a hard-to-read expression, “you look so hot right now.”
Without even waiting for a reply, he leans into me and brushes his lips against mine. I place both my hands on his face and kiss him back, parting my lips and sliding my tongue inside his mouth. We kiss in complete abandonment and, at the same time, he squeezes my breasts, smearing his cum all over my naked skin.
“Now I can say the same about you,” I tell him, pulling back from his kiss and glancing at his lips, drops of his own cum making them glisten.
Using two fingers, I run them up from my waist to the valley between my breasts, scooping whatever cum I can on the way. Then, I take my fingers to his mouth and brush them over his lips, painting them in white.
Moving gently, I kiss him once more, this time taking it slow and really savoring him. He does the same, our tongues dancing around one another over a blanket of semen.
“This is so fucked up,” he finally says, his words sounding genuine and candid.
“It is,” I admit, remembering that the man in front of me—the man who fucked me almost to the point of passing out—is actually my stepdad. Yeah, I guess that ‘fucked up’ covers it.
But then I look into his eyes and smile, my heart beating steadily and a warm pleasant feeling washing over me. Right now, I should feel guilt, or shame, or whatever it is the prudes would like me to feel; I should regret the fact that I’ve broken one of society’s most sacred taboos. I should do and feel all these things, but the truth is that I can’t.
Screw what society says; screw what people think. Hell, screw what that little voice inside my head keeps on whispering (this is wrong, this is wrong, he’s your stepdad!). To hell with all of that.
I’m a grown woman and, fucked up or not, this was the best sex of my life.
8
Drake
I lean back in my leather chair, my feet propped on top of my desk. From the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, I can see the entire New York City skyline, like a glittering necklace draped across the city. To me, there isn't much that's more beautiful than this. It signifies power, progress, and best of all—money.
It's a testament to what man can accomplish. When the first man figured out how to put a building in the sky, that's when cities became real—when they had their individual fucking fingerprints. They had an identity.
St. Louis can have its Gateway Arch; San Francisco can have its Golden Gate Bridge; Las Vegas can have its golden lion and Pyramid that spears a beam of light into outer space; Washington DC can have its Lincoln Memorial; and Seattle can have its Space Needle; but New York City … well, nothing fucking compares to Gotham. Sure, we've got the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, but this city's got something more; it's got guts because you know what? It's been reaching for the sky since the fucking beginning.
Just then, my mid-day reverie is cut short, and my office door flies open. I look over to see Sloane bursting in. My secretary is running after him, her necklace bouncing up and down on her chest, and she's flashing me an apologetic and flustered look.
"I'm sorry, sir, he wouldn't take no for an answer. He insisted on seeing you."
"You!" Sloane shouts, pointing a stiff finger in my direction, "You should be ashamed!"
I look back at my secretary and give her a nod. "It's okay, CJ. I'll handle it from here."
"So, what do I owe the honor?" I ask, casually removing my feet from my desk and sitting up straight in my chair.
"Cut the crap," he growls. "Natalie is your daughter."
"Stepdaughter," I correct. "And technically, even that's a stretch after Linda and I divorced."
"I'm asking you to stay away from her."
"Careful, Sloane," I smile. "You're starting to sound like a jealous boyfriend."
"Ha, that's where you're wrong. I'm here on business, Drake. Plain and simple."
"You can't be serious?" I laugh. "Don't think I haven't seen the way you look at Natalie. Now tell me why you're really here."
I can see the pulse in his temple quicken. I don't think I've ever seen him this worked up before. Maybe once … after his mother died, but that was a lifetime ago. There is a strength and power in his anger—the way his nostrils flare and the chords in his neck spasms. The way his chest and biceps quiver.
Why am I noticing these things?
"You're fucking impossible, you know that?" he growls again. "Always have been. Just like a real shark—cold and emotionless. It's fitting, isn't it? Your name?"
"So that's why you're here? To tell me that I look like a living, breathing shark? Bravo. Well executed. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get on with my day."
"See what I fucking mean?" he barks.
There's something in his eyes that tells me this is about more than just Natalie. This is about the past.
"If this is about your mom, I—" I begin to say, but he cuts me off.
"Don't fucking go there," he says, his eyes flashing a mixture of anger and pain.
"I just meant that I—"
"Stop."
He says the word with such finality that I honor his request. For an extended moment, we both hold each other's gaze. I can still see flashes of the impulsive, childish side of Sloane, but with him standing here in front of me, I see that above all, he's a grown, chiseled man with the power of youth.
He blinks and turns his head, walking over to the windows. "I mean it. Just stay away from her. It's not right."
"I'm afraid that's not going to be possible."
I watch as he balls one hand into a fist and shoves it into his pocket. He's pacing my office like a caged tiger, unsure where to channel his frustration.
Would he dare come at me?
That would be a stupid and impulsive decision on his part, but I wonder … and if he did, how would I respond? A scene unfolds in my mind. I fantasize that I counter his rage, and wrestle him to the ground—pinning his wrists to the ground with my bare hands, feeling his muscles flex and strain against mine, his chest heaving in and out, perspiration beading on his upper lip.
"I know what you two have done," he says, bringing me back to the present.
"I never took you for a voyeur," I smile, further pissing him off.
"Is this some kind of game to you?"
I deliberately ignore his question and continue, "Back at the Yale Club, were you watching her deep throat those oysters? Or maybe you saw her shove my hand between her thighs?"
Sloane flares his nostrils and he steps closer to my desk. Go ahead, I think to myself. Come at me. Try it. I dare you. But he doesn't. Instead he says, "You better stay away from her."
"Sloane, now you're really starting to sound like a broken fucking record," I say. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a fucking warning," he replies with seriousness. "If you want to stay out of the papers and avoid a media shit storm bigger than anything you've ever seen, you'll remove yourself from her life, and you'll do it now."
He doesn't wait for me to reply and instead, I watch him storm out of my office, slamming the door behind him. He slams it so hard, a framed picture rattles on the wall.
As soon as he's gone, CJ opens the door and peeks her head in. "Is everything okay?"
"It's fine, thank you."
Hearing this, she gives me a weak smile and shuts the door again.
Honestly, I'm more than just fine.
My entire body is buzzing with an electric jolt that I haven't felt in a long time.
I should be mad—Sloane barging in here like a toddler hav
ing a tantrum, making impetuous demands and threats.
But instead, all of this has just made my fucking cock hard.
9
Sloane
After what happened this afternoon, fuck the Yale Club. I need to stay away from anyplace that Drake is part of. Otherwise I can't speak to what my actions will be.
Drake isn't part of the New York Athletic Club. I know that. Because when he tried to join, I was already a member and I blackballed his membership. He never got in. I told him about it afterward, how I fucked his ability to join one of the premier New York City clubs.
So this is the place on Central Park South that I come to today.
To work out.
Have dinner.
Get my thoughts together over Natalie and Drake.
Fuck, to just get the fuck over Natalie.
I mean, I'm Sloane fucking Hardman. I don't fucking get broken up over women. I don't pine away. I don't have a broken fucking heart.
That's not who I am. That's not what I fucking do.
I fuck women. I make them cum. I give them the best fucking sex they've ever had in their lives. I change their world. I shoot them into orbit and take them to paradise. And when their feet finally touch the fucking ground, I'm gone. I've moved on to the next girl.
So then what the fuck am I doing here, all by myself? Retreating into the NYAC?
You think I got the answer to that, don't you? That I'm going to have some deep explanation of what's going on that'll fucking put everything into perspective, won't it?
Sorry darlin'. Life doesn't work like that. You can't break it into chapters to read in your spare time.
Instead, the most I can tell you is that I'm sitting here, enjoying my steak. It feels good to cut the meat with my knife. I just want to cut something. Destroy it.
I've been drinking my scotch like there's no fucking tomorrow.
Why am I so frustrated?
It makes no fucking sense.
"You're acting like an animal," a voice says from beyond my vision. I should probably explain that even if I'm sitting here in the dining room, my head's been bowed and I've been looking at my plate. My entire vision has been this New York Strip and the creamed spinach I had with the Macallan 12-year single malt to the side.
That's all I was staring at as I was cutting the meat to eat.
Now I stare up.
And fuck.
She's sitting right there.
Tight, shimmering, glittering silver dress. Natalie Vanderhill. That dress may not be translucent, but fuck, it leaves almost nothing to the imagination by being so tight.
I see those delicate, round, pert, juicy tits showcased right in front of my eyes.
Her hair is done up.
Her wide set eyes are looking at me.
"What's wrong with you?" she asks me again.
"I needed to get away," I tell her. "Be by myself."
"I need to know what's going on with you, Sloane," Natalie says to me. "You're acting crazy."
"Crazy?" I say, gripping my knife. "It's crazy the way I'm acting?"
"You can't go down to people's offices and tell them to stay away from me!" she says with anger lilting her voice.
I pause.
"So you fucking heard about that," I say quietly.
She nods. "Drake told me afterward when I went to visit him," she tells me, looking down. "Told me to stay away from you."
"You're fucking him, aren't you?" I ask, putting my knife and fork down. "Tell me the truth."
This time real anger flashes through her eyes.
"What do you care?" she asks. "What does it matter what I'm doing?"
"He's your stepdad," I snarl out loud. I look around, making sure no one hears me.
"I know," she says, and smiles. Fuck. That's when my cock literally comes to life. Because she's smiling with one of the most lascivious and sinful smiles that any human has ever given me. "It's so fucking hot, knowing he's my Daddy."
My cock has a heartbeat, even though I want to stab Drake.
"But who I fuck isn't your business, brother," she tells me leaning over. "Just like I told Drake it wasn't his business who I see."
"He didn't want you to come talk to me?" I ask, taking comfort in the small victory that she's defying him.
She shakes her head. "But I had to see you," she says softly looking down. I stay silent as her eyes come up to meet mine. "I had to find out why you stormed into Drake's office. Is it about my company?"
I wanna fucking laugh. Natalie's line of sex toys are revolutionary, but I'm not going to go tangle with Drake Carlton over an investment decision.
But I will fucking get in his face about something more important. About Natalie.
"Sloane," Natalie says to me one more time. "Why did you go get in an argument with Drake this morning?"
I look up at her.
How am I supposed to tell this woman that the only reason I went down to Drake's office on Wall Street was because I fucking hated the fact that she was fucking that man. That every fiber of my body wants her in my arms.
"Because you shouldn't be with Drake Carlton," I say to her instead. She draws in a sharp breath but I quickly add. "You should be with me."
Boom.
Now there's silence. She has nothing to say and I can tell by her eyes that she's not surprised.
She knew from the moment she met me that there was something between the two of us. When Linda and her joined our family, I knew the way we talked to each other, and the way we looked at one another, that we were hungering for each other's bodies.
"Sloane..." Natalie says, a bit unbalanced. You can tell she wasn't expecting me to come out and say anything like this. "We've known each other for so long."
"We have," I agree with her, taking a sip of my scotch and pushing my plate aside.
The time for eating steak is over.
I might be eating something else instead tonight. We'll see. The ball's in her court now. And you can tell just by sitting here that she's struggling with this concept.
Sure, she might've looked at me with lust and desire at the Yale Club when I crashed into her date. But looking and fantasizing are totally different from actually having.
And now she has the opportunity to actually have it. It's a bit disconcerting.
"All these years, Sloane," she tells me. "All these years and now you're finally telling me this. Is this because of me and Drake?"
Fuck that asshole cocksucker. This is about me and her. No one else.
"This is about you, babe," I tell her and reach over to take her hand. It's like an electric shock goes through her body when I make contact. She doesn't pull away, but she looks at me with wide fucking eyes. "You just being open to Drake made it all clear to me."
"Made what clear?" she asks.
"That I fucking want you, Natalie," I tell her, directly, straight up. "And I think you want me too. I think we both know that you're dying to have me just as much as I'm fucking dying to bang you."
"So romantic, Jesus," Natalie says, rolling her eyes and I smile. She's joking. Which is a good sign. "How do I know this isn't some alpha male bullshit just wanting what Drake has had?" she asks me.
"Oh it's totally wanting what Drake has had, don't doubt that for a second," I tell Natalie and her eyes go big and my admission. "Only, I've fucking wanted you since the first day I saw you and Linda and Drake introduced you. Every day since then I've wanted to rip those clothes off and devour you. Fucking make you cum and make you scream. With pleasure. That I know I can bring."
Natalie takes a deep breath. Her cheeks are flushed.
"But you were my stepsister," I say to her. "So I didn't do shit. I let it all go. And I imagined it instead when I was alone."
"You fantasized about me?" she asks, her eyes twinkling. "About having sex with me?"
I nod.
The time for hiding the truth is over. It's time to put it on the table.
Natalie finally pulls her hand away and le
ans back on the chair across from me. There's a long pause.
Finally, she looks at me.
"How far away is your apartment from here?" she asks me.
I smile.
"One57 is two blocks from here," I tell Natalie as I take a sip of my scotch. "Would you like to come over?"
I stand up and extend my arm to her.
She stands up and takes it.
"Yes, please," she tells me and smiles sweetly. "We have some lost time to make up for."
10
Natalie
I thought that my Fifth Avenue apartment was impressive, but it’s a dump compared to Sloane’s apartment. But what did I expect? He freaking lives at One57, the billionaire building. You simply can’t compete with that.
I mean, just look at the fancy decor. Minimalist and expensive, a black and white combination of good taste. Jesus, just hiring the decorator must've cost a fortune; although, no, Sloane probably hand picked every single piece of furniture and art inside of his apartment. Although he’d say he doesn’t give a fuck about decoration, he’s the kind of guy who loves to exert control—even if that means picking the rugs for his multimillion dollar apartment.
“You have nice taste,” I tell him, genuinely complimenting him. Of course, just like in court, everything I say can be used against me when I’m dealing with a man like him.
“Of course I have good taste,” he replies, closing the door to his apartment and closing the distance between us. He takes one hand to my hair and, tangling his fingers there, he yanks on it and forces me to throw my head back. I look into his eyes, surprised, but he just grins. “That’s why you’re here.”
I don’t even know what to say, but I guess it doesn’t even matter. We’ve said everything that needed to be said; the time for words is over. And I realize that when he takes his free hand and places it on my knee, sliding it under the hemline of my dress and flattening it against my thong.