by Lindsey Hart
“Thanks,” Raiden mutters. “For the flashlight.” He suddenly seems to remember he has a phone too, and he pulls something large and expensive-looking (what’s new?) out of his back pocket.
I literally feel my eyebrows shoot up because I have no idea how he jammed a device that size into his ass pocket and then sat on it. He gets his flashlight up and running, and then we both sit there, bathed in twin beams of artificially golden light. It’s not the same aura as a candle, and it’s also far less romantic when using a flashlight.
Not that I’m going for romance here.
Romance and I don’t get along, which is all Raiden’s fault. Or mostly. It’s mostly his fault, perhaps at least 78.3554% his fault.
“I’m quitting,” I state flatly. “Rock, paper, scissors isn’t a real contract, and I’m pretty sure you cheated.”
“I didn’t cheat. How does one even cheat at something like that?”
I don’t know if it’s my imagination, the whisky, just my crazy stupid hormones acting up, or the fact that my old bat cave hasn’t exactly seen a lot of action lately, but Raiden’s already handsome face looks even more chiseled and angular in the glow of the flashlight. Let me just say shadows are definitely this guy’s friend. They up his attractive edginess by like a thousand points. I’m not exactly sure what the rating system is because I don’t like to think of my ex-stepbrother in those terms, or really anyone, because I’ve never been someone who gives people points based on looks as personality seriously does count with me (obviously, which is why I think Raiden is such an anus hole). If I had one, though, a rating system that is, I think it would have just straight-up broken in the most epic, glass-shattering, showers of sparks, and dying sigh kind of fashion.
“You…uh…” Why am I suddenly finding it so hard to form words?
Why is there some serious throbbing going on in zones that have been anything but erogenous for a very long time? I might as well have reverted back to being a virgin since I haven’t gotten any action in so long. My va-jay is suddenly fisting—I mean fist-pumping the air and screaming at me—because in this light, in any light, in all light, Raiden looks good. I mean really good—fiddle diddle.
His insanely gorgeous and sensuous lips part, and his eyes, which have darkened to a shade that is almost purple, flash with amusement. Or something else. His pupils are definitely larger. Is that a trick of the light? Is it caused by the light? Maybe it’s a trick by my ovaries. How much whisky did I drink? It’s been a long time since I had any, and I was too nervous to eat dinner before I came—a bad, bad combination.
Suddenly my head is swimming, and I know I’m most definitely buzzed. I might even be a little beyond buzzed. How strong was that whisky? It was aged. Expensive. I could tell from what little I tasted on its way down. And now, it’s burning in my belly and in some other spots too. Or maybe they’re just burning in general. My gosh, what is happening to me?
“How could one cheat exactly?” Raiden goes on.
I’m clearly incapable of making coherent words, so I just sit there. Maybe even drooling a little. Yup, my mouth is hanging slightly open. I snap it shut so hard that my teeth clink together loudly. Raiden’s lips twitch at the corners.
“You…y–y–you…” Cactus prickles, why the hangers can I not farging get a single word out? What am I really trying to say? Come early. That’s it. Come. Early. No, not that! What the actual flying figs? Not come early. Now I’m thinking about Raiden’s…erm…member. I’m even glancing straight at the crotch region of his jeans.
I rip my eyes up just in time to see that he noticed.
And his eyes are definitely darker. Are those shadows a trick of the light?
He sets his phone down, and now he’s moving closer, shifting on the couch and eating up the distance. He’s so athletic. He was always so athletic. How can anyone cover up the distance so quickly?
He’s now so close to me that I’m the one having an internal meltdown and doing some heavy breathing. My nostrils are probably flaring in and out like I just smelled the most delicious freshly baked cupcakes and am trying to locate it.
My heart is beating as if I’ve just been chased for miles by a rabid spider. Hey, we all have our fears. Eight legged animals are not natural, and neither is producing strange silky, sticky stuff out of your ass. I know they’re amazing creatures, but just…ewwww. I can’t take it. I don’t kill spiders when they cross my path if I can help it. Instead, I try and trap them so I can set them back outside to live their spidery lives and have their spidery babies and spin more creepy spidery webs. There might have been a few occasions where one got on me, though, and the panic resulted in an epic amount of self-slapping, causing a casualty along the way.
Raiden stares at me like a creepy spider. Not that I see eight legs or a poop pile of eyes, but he has that you’re a fly in my web look, which sends chills racing up and down my spine. And also straight to my pussy. Pussy chills are a new thing for me, and it turns out they produce a sort of awakening that makes the rest of my body heat up.
Who knew?
“Y–you…come…no…produce…er…yes, come…no! You…” Why am I still trying to explain this?
“I produce first? That’s not true.” Raiden slowly shakes his head. “We did it at the same time. Technically, if I went first, you’d be able to see what I was making, and you would have changed your mind to beat me. So, no. That’s not possible.”
“After then.” Amazingly enough, I find my tongue. It feels as thick and hot as the rest of me.
“No. We did it at the exact same time.” Raiden’s eyes narrow. “Tell me. Why are you so absolutely sure you need to quit? I won’t even be around. I have other things I need to be doing.”
“Of course you do. That’s part of the whole conquering process.”
“So, you’re just pissed that it’s me? If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t even think of quitting.”
“Yes.” Why am I telling him this? Why is he sitting so close to me? Why are the hairs on the backs of my arms standing on end? And why do my eyes keep tracking back to his groin region?
I swear on my freaking life that I never found Raiden hot before. I might have noticed he was good looking when I saw his photos start surfacing a few years ago, around the time he started making a name for himself, but it was never before that. I’m not a pervert. I never had designs on my stepbrother back when our parents were married. He truly was just like my best friend.
Not like a brother.
The realization slams into me like a dang bus I didn’t see coming down the street before I decided to scurry across the crosswalk, and yes, I know. Sometimes, I make very bad, risky decisions.
I never saw Raiden like a brother. He was a friend. A very good friend, a confidant, and a companion, but he was never a brother.
That tattoo on my hip starts burning furiously like it’s a brand, and like the skin remembers the fiery hot iron that emblazed it onto my body.
“Yes, you would, or no, you wouldn’t?”
What was the question again? Maybe I’m not buzzed on the whisky. Maybe I’m actually buzzed on Raiden. Is that a thing? Can pheromones be that strong?
“What’s the real reason you hate me? You didn’t before. We made a promise to each other through blood and ink.”
“You didn’t keep it.”
“Neither did you. I think we’ve already established that. Time passes, shit happens, blah, blah, blah. We could blame each other for not keeping contact, or we could be adults now. You could work for my company, do well, and take the extra training. You could be a great manager because you care. I can see that. You’re passionate, and you want people to be treated fairly. You’ve always been a good person. The best person.”
“And you’ve always been a shithead.”
Raiden’s lips twitch again, and my mouth goes completely dry. I tell myself it’s because I just swore, and even though shit is pretty mild and some might not even consider it a vulgar word, I’m not pro
ud that I went there, but really, I think it’s because there’s so much moisture gathering in my lady bits. Moist. I hate that word. Seriously, I think everyone does. But it’s what’s happening to my lady cave. It’s getting moist. And so are my panties, by default.
“We both know that’s partly true, but not true enough.”
“Now you’re playing mind games? Have you gone to some expensive therapy over the years?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, you should. You clearly need it.”
“Now, that’s just unkind.” Raiden’s eyes trace down my body in a way that isn’t at all sexual but feels like the most sensual caress. His gaze stops at my hip, and my stomach does a barrel roll.
He knows. He knows I never got it removed.
“You’re unkind, and I’m done. I’m quitting.”
“No, you lost. You were never a bad sport before, and you never went back on your word.”
Great. Now he’s guilting me again. He knows me. He knows me too well. He knows that just the thought of breaking a promise or going back on my word makes me want to break out in hives like I’m allergic to it. If there’s anything I hate in life, it’s people who go back on stuff like that, even if it’s just tiny things they think won’t really matter.
“You’re squirming.”
“Only because I really want to get away from you.”
“No.”
“Fine, it’s because I have to pee.”
“Also a no. You always were a terrible liar.”
“Shut up,” I grouch with a pout. Clearly, I’m the mature one here. I hate it too. That Raiden has the ability to reduce me to this.
“You don’t really want to quit, and you don’t really hate me. This is just you throwing a tantrum because you’re pissed about something. You used to do the same thing when we were kids, so we’ll talk it out, and you’ll get over it.
I have to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from blurting that being used over and over again by people who just want to get close to someone who is famous and has a ton of money isn’t something we can just talk out and get over. I want to blame it on him even though I know it’s not his fault. He’s also right. He might never have got in touch with me, but I never contacted him either, for a ton of reasons. And he probably has his own reasons too.
I hate that my more rational side is trying to make me see the logic in this. I don’t want to see the logic. I just want to stay mad. Staying mad keeps the other sensations at bay. No, it most definitely does not, my mind rebuts.
“I need to leave.” Even though I say it, I make no move to stand up.
“I’ll call you a cab. There’s no way you’re driving.”
I press my lips into a thin line. Raiden doesn’t call, I don’t call, and I don’t get up. I most definitely don’t walk out the door. Instead, we stare at each other. Whatever it is fizzling between us erupts suddenly into a full-on explosion of sparks and flames and other hot, melty stuff that I feel straight in the center of my core. I’m not sure what it is, but if I have a core somewhere near my center that encompasses a lot of things, then it’s feeling a lot of stuff at the moment.
“I want to kiss you,” Raiden says, as smoothly as if he just stated that kittens are indeed fuzzy and cute, which no one can debate.
“W-why?” I stammer. Not my smoothest moment, I know. What I really should say is no, but I can’t seem to get that little word out. I can’t seem to make myself believe I want to refuse. Maybe because all the blood just surged to my now moist lady cave. “I’m not a model.” Great. Such a great protest there.
“I know. You’re you.” Raiden’s big, smooth, warm, and strong hand cups my face, right along my cheek and jaw. Probably a little of my neck, nose, and near my eyes as well since his hands are freaking huge.
If a guy has big hands, aren’t they also supposed to have big…Stop. That’s quite enough.
I refuse to think about Raiden’s dingleberry. Great, now I’m thinking about it again.
“Me?” I squeak.
“Yes, you.”
Raiden’s eyes flutter shut, and I literally watch them close. I watch his thick lashes come into contact with his cheeks, and I watch him lean in. My stomach does a thousand cartwheels, and I know the bus is speeding toward me because I wasn’t smart enough to look both ways. And I’m about to be turned into overcooked spaghetti all over the street. But I’m all about the frantic, searing, and slightly angry clash of lips, teeth, and tongue that accompanies it.
Regret is always guaranteed. I’m just not sure which I’ll regret more though. Doing this or not doing this.
CHAPTER 7
Raiden
I thought I knew a lot about a few things. At least, my track record says that’s the case, but right now, I feel like I know a shit ton about nothing at all. Or maybe just one thing. I’m pretty sure even though I’ve dated models and actresses, Zoe is out of my league. She’s not in the same zip code as I am. She’s not even in the same universe. She’s gorgeous, confident, and not afraid to tell me to go fuck myself, even if she’d never use those words. She’d probably be polite and tell me to kindly remove myself out of her presence and take a hike to a secluded place before stimulating myself with my own hand, I guess.
But when she makes no such protests, I lean in and as soon as her soft, rose petal lips meet mine, the world starts spinning. I’m pretty sure I’m now drunk on Zoe and that the whisky doesn’t have anything to do with the way my blood is suddenly boiling.
I bury my fingers in Zoe’s soft hair. I can’t remember the last time I touched her hair. Have I ever touched her hair? Why have I not made a hobby out of touching her hair? It’s incredible. Smooth, silky, and luscious.
I kiss her so hard that our teeth knock together. It feels a little like getting my bell rung, but whatever. It’s kind of hot too, and it’s certainly not stopping her. Her hands are roving all over the place, working at my shirt and trying to get underneath to touch my skin. I want to get under her dress too, but I’m not sure that’s appropriate. I still haven’t figured out what exactly we’re doing right now.
I was still pretty sure she hated me.
Maybe hate sex really is a thing. I wouldn’t know. Out of all the things I’ve tried in the past, hate sex is not one of them.
Zoe makes a mewling sound low in her throat that has my cock standing at attention, and when I say standing at attention, I mean it nearly rips through my jeans in eager readiness, screaming ‘pick me, please, for the love of god, pick me.’
She then grabs my shoulders, sinks her nails in so deep that I feel the sting straight through my cotton t-shirt, and uses me to try to pull herself into my lap. I drop my hands to her narrow waist and the lush curve of her hip to give her some help, and I lift her while she tugs and claws at my shoulders. The second she spreads her legs, I feel the heat of her skin because her dress has ridden up really fucking high, and I swear, my dick nearly explodes.
I feel like a dam where the water keeps rising and rising in the middle of a flash flood until suddenly, it just releases, and all the water goes rushing along, flooding everything in its path.
I take a chance on getting punched straight in the face and run a hand over Zoe’s knee. God, she has beautiful, smooth knees. She lets out a groan and writhes forward a little, trying to grind herself over the prominent hard bulge in my pants. The bulge writhes forward a little too, trying to reach Zoe. It wants her sweet spot—the warm, panty-clad heat between her legs.
I start to see stars when I slide my hand up Zoe’s thigh. Her skin is smooth, creamy perfection. Yes, in the past, I have been with some women I thought were pretty smoking hot, but the second I saw Zoe walk into the conference room, I realized none of them could ever even come close to comparing because they’re not Zoe. They’ll never be Zoe. No one was ever Zoe, and no one will ever be Zoe.
I still have no idea what’s happening, and I’m not sure if I’ll get punched in the face or punched in the dick i
f she changes her mind, but for the moment, I’m rolling with it. I keep my hand moving slowly up her thigh, and Zoe keeps spreading her legs just a little bit further apart, letting me. She throws her head back when I finally reach the point of no return, and I trail my fingers along the edge of her lace panties.
She mewls and moans and thrusts her face against my neck, and I get treated to her warm breath, which might be the most ridiculously sexual thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. All of a sudden, she bites my earlobe, and my dick becomes more like a raging volcano.
I grind my teeth.
I nearly bite off my tongue.
And I can taste blood from biting down on something. I think it was my cheek.
Zoe’s pert breasts press up against my chest, and her sweet, sugary scent floods my nose when I inhale. On my next breath, I smell the deeper, spicier scent of her arousal.
Noooo. I should picture horrible things. Something guaranteed to deflate just about any disobedient dick, except neither my brain nor the bastard cooperates. All I can think of is Zoe. Me deep inside her. My ex-step sister.
It makes me wonder if I’ve turned into the most repulsive bastard on the face of the planet because I still have a raging erection, and not only do I have one, but I feel like it’s close to fucking bursting. I’m just about ready to come in my fucking jeans, which has never ever happened to me before.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Right. I just happen to be caressing my thumb near Zoe’s perfect and smooth lace panties, and I can smell her arousal, spicy and mouth-watering, and she keeps wiggling her hips like she wants my hand there. Right. There. So no, the usual shit doesn’t work, unfortunately.
My dick is still straining, still threatening. Still…
Zoe jerks her hips forward, and my thumb brushes up against her center. It comes away soaking wet. Deliciously wet. She moans, bites down on my neck, and shoves her core right back against my hand. The pad of my thumb brushes up against the hard, tight bud of her clit, and apparently, that’s the combination of the century because I’m done.