He's So Fine (A BBW Stepbrother Romance)
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Authors: Marie Mason
HE’S SO FINE
Copyright 2015
MARIE MASON
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The book contains Mature Content.
Cage knew he was bad. Bad to the bone. A cheesy description, but one that fit the underground fighter perfectly. He loved to fight, he loved to fuck. Despite his reputation, he tried to stay away from trouble. He usually succeeded. Until the day, trouble found him in the form of a curvy stepsister.
Abby Snow was a good girl. Straight A student, attending college on a scholarship and…a virgin. When her stepbrother is invited to the Hamptons for a true family vacation, Abby knew she was in for a summer of heartache. He was big and strong with a cocky attitude…
he was so fine.
But could he ever be hers?
CAGE
I’m a bad boy. Bad to the bone. At least that’s what the women I fuck tell me. Nothing I’ve done so far in life would make me anything else, so I guess it’s true.
Orphaned when I was ten, I bounced around the foster system like a rubber ball, no one quite knowing what to do with me. Except the dumb shits who thought they could handle me with a slap upside the head. That never worked and stopped when I was twelve and had my first growth spurt, ending that summer at almost six feet. That was the last time any of my foster
dads
ever thought about disciplining me.
I had two more growth spurts after that until I stood six-foot-five and weighed closer to three hundred pounds than two hundred. That kind of height and weight should have gotten me a football scholarship to any of the top ten colleges.
If
I’d ever played football. Or even attended high school.
I dropped out before I really ever started, going just one semester. Of course, I might have stayed longer if there’d been any good pussy around. The high school I landed in had bars on the windows and the girls turned more tricks in the boys’ bathroom than the professionals on the street corner.
I got my GED in the mail. Which was just as well. If I had graduated the traditional way, there was no way in hell I would have worn one of those fake satin robes and goofy hats. No one would have been standing in the aisle taking snapshots as I walked across the stage.
So, okay, every now and then I had a moment of bitterness at the crappy hand life had dealt me. A mother who had OD’d and a father who probably didn’t even know I existed.
I’d skipped out of the foster care system when I was fifteen. I simply didn’t go back ‘home’ one day after school. No one came looking for me, surprise, surprise, and I learned fast how to stay under the radar.
I wasn’t exactly proud of the way I’d put food in my stomach and a roof over my head those first few years on my own. Violence and sex. At that age, I’d easily passed for eighteen or twenty and loved pussy. I used my looks to get pussy with benefits and put my size to work making a name for myself in the fight world. I was ready and willing to take on any contender—for a price. I’d been pounding out my living—in between pounding pussy—since I was sixteen.
Aah, beating the crap out of someone and fucking. My two favorite things in the world.
It never amazed me what a woman would do for a good piece of meat—and I wasn’t talking about a fourteen ounce New York strip steak. I was talking about a solid eleven inches of... well, you get the picture.
I have the whole package that drives women—especially the rich ones—wild Bad rep, bad attitude, and big cock. I especially liked to get my Joneses on with girls who pretended to be good girls. ‘Cause they were the dirtiest. Those bitches really know how to take a cock—in their pussies, down their throats, and up their asses.
I wasn’t sure which way I liked sex best. I’d done it all, and then some. What could I say? I liked to get my Joneses on with girls who pretended to be good girls. ‘Cause they were the dirtiest. But back to my story. Sex had a way of making my mind wander, know what I mean?
Some deity must have heard my whiny ass because all that changed about six months ago when a man in a suit showed up at the gym where I trained for the underground fight ring.
Fighting was all I knew. All I ever wanted to know… until that day.
CAGE
“Horace, get your ass over here. Someone wants to see you.” Frank Sullivan’s deep baritone carried over the clank of weights and the wet pop of flesh hitting flesh. He’d had enough practice over the decades to grab the attention of any one of the gym rats when something—or someone—important walked through the door.
A man in a suit usually meant some shit had or was about to go down. Some past crime finally catching up with one of the boys. Or it better be something in the past. Frank didn’t take to criminal activity anywhere near his gym. Anyone seen using or abusing found themselves out on the street. Sometimes when a suit came to call, it was because a long lost uncle had died and left some unsuspecting sap with a mountain of debt. Usually, it was to serve a deadbeat dad with paternity papers and a warrant for back child support.
I didn’t know why Frank was bellowing my name. I sure as shit didn’t have any ankle biter out there that I didn’t know about. I always wrapped my boy up tight. My one unbreakable rule. No coat, no pussy.
Oh, I’d been tempted a time or two, especially when I’d gotten the sweet job of popping some young thing’s cherry. But those were the types of girls that trapped you. I wasn’t about to be trapped.
So, why was a man here to see me?
“Thanks, bro.” I tapped my sparring partner’s gloves before I took off my headgear. Another of Frank’s hard and fast rules. Protection. I grinned as I took out my mouthpiece. Frank and I were more alike than I thought. He didn’t want some bumbling idiot who had taken one too many blows to the head running around his gym causing trouble, and I didn’t want some snot-nosed kid whose mother I’d boffed once calling me daddy.
‘Cause that was rule number two of my guide to a better existence. No coming back for seconds.
I jumped from the ring and made my way to the front of the gym where an anxious looking man was waiting. “What’s up?”
The man cleared his throat. “Are you Horace Cage Montgomery, the third?”
“Who wants to know?” I knew better than to offer up information. Last time I’d done that, before I skipped out on my foster family, I’d ended up in juvie for two days. Lesson learned.
“Don’t give the man any lip, boy.” Frank frowned at me and I sighed. I respected Frank. Respected what he did for those, like me, who had trouble fitting into society and its overwhelming layers of bullshit.
“You got the names right, but the rest is a load of crap.” I had to send off for my birth certificate when I was sixteen. Not to get my learner’s permit—hell, I’d been hot wiring and joy riding in cars since I was twelve—but to buy myself a fake ID so I could fight. I knew two things for sure. My name didn’t have no Roman numerals behind it and there was a big blank space where my father’s name should have been. It didn’t take a genius to figure out his name was Horace Montgomery.
At my answer, the man tugged on his tie as though it was choking him. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here. I couldn’t say I blamed him. The gym smelled like dirty feet and cooked cabbage. “I’m from Turner, Turner, and Lawson, a law firm in North Carolina.”
My eyebrows shot up at that. I’d never been to North Carolina in my life. I frowned, wondering why the man was here. I knew it wasn’t for any criminal activity. I never said I didn’t have a criminal past, just that I didn’t have one in North Carolina. I held firm to the belief that this wasn’t some shakedown for money to buy a couple boxes of diapers and a few cans of formula. Again, no coat, no pussy, so no court ordered paternity testing or bench warrant for not supporting my kid. If I ever had a kid—and that was a big if—I’d take care of it. Besides, what woman in her right mind would want me as the father of her child?
“My client would like to meet with you, Mr. Montgomery.”
“My name’s not Montgomery and who the hell is your client?” I bit through the tape holding on my gloves and stretched my arms out for Frank to help unwind the sticky shit.
“Horace Miller Montgomery, the second, sir.”
For a moment, I thought I’d been hit on the head a little too hard during practice. I could have sworn the sweaty little man had said Horace Miller Montgomery, II. Which with the new knowledge that my name might have three Roman numerals behind it, meant—
Well, well, well. I guess my momma had hooked up with some blue-blooded prick. Maybe the bastard had kicked the bucket and left me a little something. ‘Bout damn time fate threw something my way.
“So how’d the old shit die?”
Frank frowned at me. I knew he didn’t like my irreverence concerning the dead. Frank was a devout Catholic. Well, as devout as you could get running an underground fight club, drinking until your liver was pickled, and sticking your wick in giggling, bubble-gum popping girls whenever the opportunity presented itself. Thanks to the fighters he trained, there was always an overflow of juicy cunt coming his way.
Another throat clear. “Mr. Montgomery isn’t dead, sir. In fact, he would like to extend an invitation for you to join him this summer in the Hamptons.”
I threw back my head and laughed. I didn’t know what was more hilarious. The fact that my father had finally shown up after all these years or the fact that I had a father who had invited me to spend the summer with him. In the Hamptons, of all the fucking places.
I looked down at the ink winding from my right wrist to my shoulder. It extended down my back, ending well below the waistband of my boxing shorts. It had taken four years to complete since I wasn’t exactly flush with cash most days. I liked my tats but didn’t think I’d ever get any more. It was damn costly and hurt like hell.
I saw the bulge of my biceps, all pumped up from my practice round. They matched the rest of my physique. I was a big, hard wall of muscle. A fighter’s fighter. In my mind, I saw the scar that ran from the corner of my eye into my hairline, courtesy of foster dad number twelve, I think. My nose had been broken more than once, but without any conceit, I could say those blemishes hadn’t ruined my good looks. Women had called me a handsome prick on more than one occasion.
But I knew I wasn’t the type of son the no doubt prissy-assed man had been looking for. I was no one’s idea of an ideal son.
“No thanks.” I turned and walked away. I had to train. There was a chance I’d get to fight Big Saul if I won my next two fights. He was some freak of nature who was even bigger than me and had shown up about a year ago. He was moving up the ranks fast and was slated for the big leagues. I wasn’t ashamed to ride along on his coattails. I’d proven my worth this last year and was waiting for ‘the call.’ I needed that call. I had plans and those plans included large amounts of cash.
I was confident I could take Saul. I was undefeated if you didn’t count some of those first fights. I’d lost them because the pay was better to take a dive than to win.
Hey, a man’s got to eat and pay his rent.
Fighting Saul—and beating the shit out of him—was my chance to move up in the unofficial standings, maybe even give me that boost from unofficial to official.
A decision to walk away from whatever my so-called dad was offering was easy for me. I stayed away from trouble if I could. And this small man, holding out a thick white envelope, looked like trouble.
Frank had been watching my back for years. Ever since that cold November day when I’d snuck into his gym to get warm. My last, um, job-slash-relationship, had ended rather abruptly and I’d found myself with very little money and no place to stay. The husband of the older woman I’d been fucking on a regular basis had come home early. I’d barely managed to slip out the first story window before he was calling the cops. I should have stuck around. It would have been his wife’s ass they’d have hauled off to jail, not mine. But she’d been kind to me—and one hell of a lay.
That day, I’d been broke and hungry and about ready to call my bid for freedom from the foster system a bombing failure.
Stumbling upon Frank and his gym had probably saved my life. Hell, there was no probably about it. If I had continued on the path I’d started…
This time, however, I think Frank had steered me wrong. Throwing a fifty at the taxi driver, I got out of the cab that had brought me from the bus station to here. It hadn’t been a long trip from Philly to the Hamptons. It would have been even shorter if I’d used the plane ticket that the lawyer had given me instead of taking the bus. I’d sent the ticket, along with the cash, back to the law firm. I paid my own way. Always had, always would.
Looking up at the two-story house—who the fuck was I kidding, looking up at the freaking mansion—I knew Frank had let me down this time. Two weeks ago when that sniffling, throat-clearing yes-man had shown up at the gym and I’d walked away without a backward glance, Frank had taken the fat envelope over the man’s protest and assured him that I would be in touch.
The envelope had contained more money than I’d made in the last two months and a plane ticket to the Hamptons. Frank had given it to me with a smile and a lecture and told me to get my ass down here.
Well, I was here.
I grabbed my backpack from the backseat of the cab and made my way up the steps leading to a wide porch painted white and loaded with more blooming plants than the florist down the street from Frank’s gym.
As I walked up the steps, I realized I’d been wrong calling it a mansion. Its structure was more beachy cottage than the full-blown Southern plantation style that I had always associated with the term. It wasn’t as large as some of the houses the cab had passed on the way from the nearby airport, but it still looked pretty damn big and expensive to me.
I stood at the door, debating whether I should ring the bell or turn around and walk back down the road, no one ever the wiser that I had been here. A boisterous group of men and women rounded the corner of the wide porch, taking the decision out of my hands.
Hell, had the cabbie gotten the address wrong? Was I at some country club resort? Cause, sure as shit, I didn’t have the money to pay for even one night’s stay. My cash reserves were low until my next fight.
I watched as they rounded the porch. They dressed and acted as I’d always pictured people who lived in the Hamptons would dress and act. Preppie and stuck up as shit.
Except for the girls. A girl’s reaction to me was the same no matter where I went. Big cities, small towns. Airports, bus stations, it didn’t matter. I had numbers from four women who’d been on the bus with me stuck in the front pocket of my jeans.
I knew how I looked. Every girl over the age of eighteen thought I was their walking, fucking wet dream come to life. Big and strong. They could sense I’d fuck them hard and fast. No matter what a woman tells you, they want it a little rough. They want the man to take control. Dominate them. Use them.
Don’t go labeling me a prick now. I said
use
them. Not abuse them. I tried to give the women who warmed my bed the satisfaction they craved. Women are givers and they want to give men pleasure. They also have egos, something men tend to forget. What woman wouldn’t want to know she made a man so hot that he had to fuck her, hard and fast, before he popped a nut?
I waited a few minutes for everyone to get over their shock of seeing someone who looked like they should be at a MC clubhouse instead of standing on a porch in the Hamptons.
As usual, it was a girl who stepped forward. “Who are you, gorgeous?”
I had to smother a laugh at her obvious flirtation. If she batted her eyelashes any faster, I was afraid she’d take off.
You noticed I referred to myself as a man and these females as girls. I became a man the first time I stuck my dick into a willing pussy and made the woman come so hard she screamed my name.
These girls wouldn’t be women until one of the nice boys they were hanging with slipped something into their drinks and raped them while they lay unconscious on his parents’ five thousand dollar designer couch. Then they would know the shit that made life real.
Pain and betrayal.
“I could ask you the same.” I didn’t move from my position by the door. I’d taken a relaxed stance, hands in my front pockets, shoulders hunched forward to look less intimidating. I wanted to learn all I could about the man who was my so-called father. I gave the girl my patented killer smile, guaranteed to get me a piece of pussy. I might be a bad assed fighter in the ring, but I knew how to work the ladies.
I could almost smell her cunt getting wet. I smiled again, knowing I could be balls deep in that before the night was over.
“I’m looking for the Doc,” I said. Who would have thought I’d have a nationally known cardiac surgeon for a dad? I’d done a little research on the man who had finally crawled out of the woodwork to claim me. By all accounts, he appeared to be a standup kind of guy and not a deadbeat. If I had learned nothing else in my short life, it was to trust no one.
Good character references aside, it didn’t explain why it had taken him twenty-five years to acknowledge that he had a child. I was too jaded to think he might have just now found out about me.
“Oh, are you going to be working for him this summer?” The girl’s eyes lit up like a kid seeing her first Christmas tree. Or her first oversized cock. I wasn’t offended that she thought I could only be the hired help and not a part of the family who owned the big assed house behind me. I liked it that way. I wanted to know the women I took to bed were there for one reason and one reason only—to get fucked and get fucked hard.