Forbidden: Ultimate Stepbrother Collection

FORBIDDEN

ultimate stepbrother collection

Anna Hart

FORBIDDEN: Ultimate Stepbrother Collection

Copyright© 2016 by Anna Hart

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All Rights are Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Contains:

BUCKED

Copyright© 2015 by Anna Hart

STEPBROTHER FIGHTER

Copyright© 2015 by Anna Hart

STEPBROTHER PLAYBOY

Copyright© 2015 by Anna Hart

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BUCKED (STEPBROTHER COWBOY)

STEPBROTHER FIGHTER

STEPBROTHER PLAYBOY

BUCKED

A stepbrother romance

Anna Hart

Chapter 1

Luke

My knees slipped forward, and I readjusted them for the tenth time. “Who the hell ever thought silk sheets would be good for sex?” I grunted. One hand held firmly onto Chloe’s hip, while the other teased her clit. “Shit, but you are tight.” A groan followed. I thought it had been mine, but the room was so fucking cavernous, the sound echoed and it was hard to tell. And, aside from being incredibly hot, and loving to be tied up while being fucked, Chloe tended to make a lot of noise. Some of it made me hornier. Some of it was a tad irritating.

“Yes, Luke.” Her small fists were turning white from the scarf binding them. “Harder, damn it.”

“Slippery damn sheets,” I growled. “Can’t get any traction.” I slammed my hips against her, giving her pussy a hearty spanking with my balls, while my fingers dug into her flesh. She liked it rough, and I wasn’t going to deny her that pleasure. I was all about giving when it came to fucking, I thought wryly.

A loud door slammed downstairs but I continued the onslaught. It would take a fucking cannon to my head to make me to stop now.

“Chloe!”

“Shit, Mike is home,” I hissed between clenched teeth. Still, I continued jamming my cock into her.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop,” she said. “That dried up old bastard never makes me come. You’re the only one who can finish me right, Luke Maverick.” The ornate wrought iron headboard drummed a beat on the gold flecked wallpaper as I ground into her.

“Maybe if he laid you down on a bed of his money, you’d be screaming out his name,” I muttered through a tight jaw. My hand tightened on her hip and my fingers wildly massaged her clit. She was dripping wet with moisture. The woman bent in front of me might not make it to the end, but I was getting fucking close.

“Chloe!” her husband yelled up the vast double staircase.

“He hates climbing those stairs,” she said between ragged breaths. “Takes him forever on that bad knee.” Chloe was a great multi-tasker. She could just about recite her entire day’s agenda while being fucked. Again, sometimes it was irritating. Especially when her husband was coming up the stairs.

“Concentrate, Chloe. I don’t want to get shot in the back.”

She clenched her thighs shut, making her pussy even tighter around my cock. “Yes, yes that’s it, Luke. Fuck yeah.” She bucked her naked ass against me as I drove into her. “Fuck yes!” she screamed.

Between her lack of sound control, the iron headboard slamming the wall and the fact that her decrepit old husband never went anywhere without one hand on his gun, I figured I was going to be a dead man at the end of this. But I rocked hard against her. If I was going to get a bullet in my head, I at least wanted my cock to have one last good time.

I pulled my hand out from between her legs and held both her hips tightly as I pushed into her one last time. “Fuck, I love your pussy,” I groaned as I came.

Mike’s uneven footsteps were slowly ascending the massive staircase.

“Here he comes.” I hopped off the bed and pulled on my jeans.

“It takes him forever to get up here.” Chloe’s ass wriggled in the air. “Untie me.”

“I don’t know, you look pretty fucking hot all bound up to the bed like that.” I pulled my phone out and snapped a picture.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked.

“It’s not blackmail, sweetheart. It’s evidence. If they ever find me with my brains splattered, they’ll know to come after your husband.” I leaned my mouth down next to her ear. “And when you’re lying next to the old prune tonight, you can think about me looking at this picture and it making me hard enough that my dick can cut glass.”

Her eyes drifted shut, and a soft mewl fell from her lips. “God, all you have to do is talk dirty in my ear, Luke Maverick, and I get wet again.”

“It’s a gift,” I whispered and then dragged my tongue around her ear for good measure. She flinched as I gave her one sharp slap on her naked ass. I went to slide my phone into my pocket and noticed the time. “Fuck, I’m late. I have to pick up my stepsister from the airport. She’s flying in for the funeral.”

The plodding footsteps drew closer. I reached forward and yanked free the satin ribbon around Chloe’s wrists. She yanked it from the headboard and jammed it into the nightstand for safe keeping.

“Stepsister?” She walked over and pulled on her silk bathrobe. “What’s she like?”

“Hell if I know. I only know her as stepsister number four who belongs to stepmother number five. And now that wife number five is dead, I suppose my dad will be looking for wife number six. Although I have to admit, he’s pretty broken up about losing this one.” I yanked on my boots and plucked my Stetson off the foot of the bed. Chloe always liked to start off our night’s activity with me wearing only my black hat and a rock solid hard-on. But the hat usually fell off somewhere between her being spanked by the ruthless outlaw gunslinger and being tied up by the dirty, no-good sheriff.

“Good lord, your dad is going to set a record. So, you’ve never met stepsister number four?”

“At the wedding. I just remember round cheeks and a mouthful of braces. She was sixteen or something like that. She stayed with her dad in California. Didn’t get along with her mom.” I really didn’t remember McKenna. She was the daughter of Linda, my dad’s most recent wife. She’d lived with her dad, and Linda rarely saw her. At first, I’d thought McKenna had just been getting back at her mom by staying with her father in California. But a month after Linda moved into my Dad’s house on Maverick Ranch, with her two hundred pairs of shoes and constant demands for attention, I’d concluded that McKenna had stayed with her dad because her mom was a pain in the ass.

The footsteps stopped for a second, most likely for ole Mike to catch his breath. “Here’s an important question. How the hell do I get out of here? I’m assuming the old man’s cataracts aren’t bad enough that I can just waltz right past him on the stairs without him noticing.”

Chloe bit her lip in thought as she glanced around the room. “You have no choice but to jump from the balcony.”

I raised a brow at her. “We’re two and a half stories up. I don’t think I’ll be winning any bull riding contests with a broken leg.” Mike’s heavy steps started again. I swept my gaze around the room, and an idea pushed into my head. I yanked the sheet off Chloe’s bed.

“Luke, those are three hundred dollar sheets,” Chloe protested as I dragged the sheet out onto the balcony. The vast green lawn and pool area were empty. I plotted out my escape route. I’d at least put in enough forethought to park outside the grounds.

“Then I’ll leave it to you to explain to your cranky, crouched over husband why your three hundred dollar silk sheet is tied around the balustrade of your balcony.” The doorknob turned. Chloe motioned me to go.

I grabbed her for a kiss before throwing my leg over the balcony railing and shimmying myself down on the silk sheet. The slippery material made it an easy slide down. What do you fucking know? Silk sheets and sex did go together, after all.

Chapter 2

McKenna

The airport was coming into view. Damn, Texas was big. Just lots and lots of big. The pressure in my ears built as the plane descended, and I frantically chewed my fruity gum.

I’d spent the entire flight nibbling the tiny bag of stale trail mix and downing rum and coke, all the while, wallowing in guilt. The woman was in her coffin, no doubt a designer casket with gold leaf befitting a noble queen and dressed in one of her Chanel suits with that content smile that only comes with death, but she was still haunting me with guilt. The trauma of my birth had pushed my mom into cardiac arrest, and even though the doctors had explained to her that she’d had an undiagnosed heart condition, she had never forgiven me. It wasn’t that I hadn’t cried when I heard that she’d died. I had. I’d cried right into a pint of ice cream as I sat and watched Pride and Prejudice through blurry eyes. A love for Jane Austen was one of the few things my mom and I’d had in common. And while Mr. Darcy was espousing his love for Elizabeth, I was sobbing and shoveling in scoops of mint chip ice cream to the point where my head had ached from crying and from brain freeze. Once the tears had stopped, I’d felt a sort of calmness. My mom was gone, but sadly she had been a small, unimportant part of my life. My dad had raised me. When he’d died two years ago of cancer, I’d been lost and overwhelmed with grief. My dad had been my best friend. I’d always just been an inconvenience to my mom, even starting with my first breath.

The seatbelt lights went on, and the cute little white-haired lady next to me, Gretchen, who had spent the first hour of the flight worried that the plane would crash, the second showing me all the pictures of her grandchildren she had tucked in her wallet and the third hour of the trip snoring, looked nothing short of terrified as the plane headed for the runway. I reached over and held her hand. It seemed to comfort her. She gave me a sweet, grandmotherly smile. I’d probably made more of an emotional connection with wonderful, lilac smelling Gretchen on a short plane flight than I had with my mom in the entire last decade. And now my mom was gone and our relationship would never improve. That thought brought an ache to my throat.

Before I’d left this morning, my mom’s husband, John Maverick, had texted that something had come up and that his son, Luke, would be picking me up at the airport. I could hardly remember my stepbrother. I’d only seen Luke once, at the wedding, and I’d seen more of him than I needed to. I’d gone back into the bride’s dressing room to grab my mom’s flat shoes. I was only sixteen at the time and still ridiculously innocent, so I hadn’t realized that the wild giggling coming from inside the room had been something other than a really funny joke. Luke Maverick was rolling on the floor with a long-legged female wedding guest. It was a tangle of naked limbs that had shocked and embarrassed the hell out of me. And, after I’d gotten over the shock, which took several more minutes of open-mouthed gawking, I’d snuck back out without the shoes. Luke and his guest had been too busy to notice me. That had been my first and last true encounter with my new stepbrother. I’d spent the rest of the reception downing butter mints and stealing sips of champagne.

The pilot announced for the flight attendants to take their seats. I pressed an arm against my stomach to keep the growling at bay. It’d been one of those mornings. I’d overslept, toothpaste had splattered in my eye ruining my mascara and the toast had burnt to the point that after a severe, rushed scraping, I’d been left with a measly piece of toast not even worthy of a dab of jam. The perpetual tangle of traffic on the Los Angeles freeways had only added to the headache of the awful morning. Now, after all the rushing around and lack of breakfast, I was starved. The two rum and cokes were sloshing in my empty stomach and making me just a tiny bit tipsy and nauseous.

But I sort of needed to be tipsy today. I would be staying with a man whose only connection to me was the piece of paper he’d signed with my mom on their wedding day. Until now, when we were being connected again by her death. My mom sure knew how to do things in big style. No ‘why don’t you come out for a weekend, we’ll chat and have lunch’ with my mom. Nope. For her it was either an absurdly posh and almost revoltingly luxurious wedding or an equally elaborate funeral. The irony of it all was that for the first time ever I’d be staying at the Maverick Ranch, only now, my mom wouldn’t even be there.

As much as I dreaded having to stay at a house with John and his two sons, basically complete strangers, I was relieved to have a place to disappear to. Not that my mom had planned it, but her death had given me the perfect opportunity for an escape from California and from Joshua. I glanced down at the red bruising on my forearm, then quickly turned my hand so Gretchen wouldn’t see it. I’d mentioned to John that I needed to find a new place to stay and a new job. He’d insisted I give Texas a try. California, he claimed, had too much organic food and sunshine. Two things I hated leaving, of course. But I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Although I was looking forward to looking at a real horse, and John had plenty of them. 

It felt good to get up and stretch my legs after the plane ride. During the weird, slow ride on the people conveyor belt where I’d held tightly onto Gretchen, who looked even more terrified than during the landing, I decided a smoothie was a higher priority than my luggage. I was determined to have something cold and fruity. Maverick Ranch being a Texas ranch occupied solely by men, I could only assume that rare slabs of beef would be served for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

The humidity inside the terminal was horrid. I wondered if they’d made the place uncomfortable on purpose to keep people from lingering. A long blonde curl came down across my forehead to tickle my nose. With one hand on Gretchen’s carry-on and the other on Gretchen herself, I had to do an awkward shoulder to nose maneuver to rid myself of the curl.

“Why on earth would they fill the terminal with hot steam? My hair is going to be an explosion of curls,” I complained.

Gretchen was stiff with fear as she held the railing, but she managed to peer sideways at me. “The curls look lovely, dear. And what steam are you talking about?”

“The air around us, it’s like the bathroom after a really long, hot shower.”

She smiled. “That’s not steam, dear. That’s Texas.”

“You’re kidding? Then I guess I dragged my flatiron along for nothing.”

Gretchen’s son was waiting for her. He looked like a nice man who’d grown up in a nice house with a wonderful mom. I handed him Gretchen’s carry-on bag and hugged her good-bye.

I elbowed my way through the crowded terminal toward the food court. I groaned in frustration as I reached the smoothie kiosk. Apparently I wasn’t the only one worried about scurvy in the land of beef steak. After a long line and a mind debate between strawberry or peach, I ended up with a neon orange mango smoothie. It felt cold and soothing going down my throat. And I quickly assured myself, it had been worth the wait.

A voice over the loudspeaker mentioned that the luggage was coming down the chute. Suddenly I had the terrifying thought that someone would grab my bags, and I’d be forced to wear jean cut-offs and sandals to my mom’s funeral. I raced toward the luggage carousel. No matter which direction I was going, I seemed to be traveling against traffic— story of my life.

A tall, handsome man was looking around at the crowd. As much as I’d tried to push that wedding day from my mind, I vaguely remembered that, along with being a man whore, my stepbrother was tall and handsome . . . in that cocky, despicable, rich asshole kind of way. I walked right up to him. “Luke?”

“No.” The man, obviously a complete stranger, took the time to rake his eyes brazenly over my body. “But I wish I were.”

“Excuse me, I thought you were somebody else.”

I spun around and smacked right into a man’s chest. My hard won mango smoothie splashed against his torso. It cascaded down his white t-shirt.

“Holy crap,” I gasped, and made a futile attempt to wipe it off. But the damage had been done, and it was quite bad.

The man stared straight down at the spreading orange stain. “Fucking hell, I hate airports.”

“I am soooo sorry.”

I stared at the dark hair on the top of his head as he pulled his shirt away from his skin and gave it a shake. He had to move his expensive but worn cowboy boots out of the way of the orange trickle. He took the black cowboy hat that he held in one hand and shoved it down low over his head. “Now I’m orange and I smell like fucking— what the hell is that anyhow?” He lifted his face.

I sucked in my bottom lip in an attempt to not show any reaction. However the lip biting might have been a noticeable reaction by itself. I had just covered the man with mango, and yet I was gawking at him. He was nothing short of breathtaking. The phrase
brutally handsome
came to mind. I wasn’t even completely sure what the hell the phrase meant, but something told me that to fall in love with a man like him would be brutal. He definitely looked like a ‘take no prisoners’ and ‘leave no heart unbroken’ type of man.

His pale green eyes assessed me from beneath the shade of his hat brim. Then Mr. Brutal, in the same manner as his predecessor, the man I’d accosted thinking he was my stepbrother, let his gaze drift boldly over my body. A glint of what I could only term as a slightly wicked smile turned up the corner of his mouth. Sure I’d covered the man with a sticky, cold drink, but it did not give him the right to be an asshole.

“Oh, great, you too,” I said. “What is it about the men in this airport thinking they can just openly check me out? Although, I do apologize about the shirt,” I added quickly.

His gaze held mine for a long, tense moment. I fidgeted on my sandals and wondered if I should just dash off and save myself any further torment.

“Well, sweetheart, if you don’t want men checking you out, then I suggest you hide those fantastic tits of yours under a sweater or something, cuz that tight tank top is just inviting guys to look.”

I balled my fingers in a fist, and my teeth ground together in anger. “If you weren’t standing here covered in my smoothie, I’d slap you for that rude comment. But I’ll just have to walk away satisfied in the notion that I’ve ruined what looked like a perfectly good shirt. It’s mango, by the way, and frankly, I think it suits you.” With that, I turned away and hoped to hell that that stupid stepbrother of mine would show up soon and get me out of this airport.