Little Brats: Olivia: Forbidden Taboo Erotica (3 page)

“Thanks.” He reached for the little sticky note. “I’ll let you know when the food gets here.”

She gasped when his fingers touched hers, a shock of static electricity sparking between them, along with something more, something hotter, more primal. He turned and walked out, leaving her there, shaking, hot, wanting.

Olivia didn’t know what to do. She sat on the edge of her bed for twenty minutes, holding her sketch book and trying to talk herself out of jumping out the window. He’d seen her drawings. He’d seen everything. It was like he’d opened her robe and stared at her stark naked. Worse, it was like he’d peeked inside her most secret places, into her deepest, darkest fantasies. And the worst part was he hadn’t said a word. His indifference hurt more than anything else she could have imagined. She would have welcomed his curiosity, his interest, those things, of course—she would have even understood his anger or disappointment. But this?

How could she ever face him?

So when the knock came on her bedroom door and Randall called her name, “Livvie,” she actually hid her face in her hands, shaking her head. She couldn’t do this. It was just too awful.

“Hey, Liv, Chinese is here,” he said, rapping gently again. “It’s in my office, if you want to come eat with me. Or, you know, you could bring it back here. Whatever you want.”

Whatever she wanted.
I wish.
If she could have whatever she wanted, she would take him. Over Chinese, or cookies, or anything. She’d take him. But he was her stepfather and she couldn’t have him. Even if her mother didn’t want him anymore.

“Okay. Be there in a minute,” she offered, then took to chewing on her thumbnail as she listened to his footfalls down the stairs.

Now what?

She was actually kind of hungry. She had eaten her cookies, but that was after she’d changed out of the torture device her mother made her wear. Before that, she could hardly breathe, let alone eat anything. So Chinese sounded good.

But she couldn’t face him. Could she? Maybe she could just run in, grab her food, and go? Would she dare? Would he say anything?

But no. He was indifferent. He didn’t care if she loved him, one way or the other. Maybe her mother had rubbed off on him more than she realized.

Olivia made her way the back stairs. She went through the kitchen, quiet now after the party was over. The help had cleaned up, put away the dishes and the food. She stopped at the refrigerator, pulling it open. Lots of leftovers. Funny that they had all this food in the house and they were ordering Chinese. But Randall loved Chinese. They’d shared many a take-out meal in his office, having long talks about art and literature and life.

Would those come to an end now, she wondered, as she made her way toward her stepfather’s office. The door was ajar and the air was heavy with the redolent smell or take-out grease. She pushed the door open, seeing the food containers lined up on his desk, her father’s Lo Mein in a paper box, her combination meal in a large Styrofoam rectangle with her eggroll in a grease-stained bag on the top. He knew her so well, he’d already laid out the two soy and duck sauces she’d use.

The room was dim, the only light coming from the small desk lamp, but he wasn’t here.

So he was avoiding her then. As much as she’d dreaded seeing him, she was disappointed. She’d just take her food back to her room and eat by herself and let him hide. She was as much a coward as he was, she supposed.

“Olivia.” His voice was low and gentle but it startled her anyway.

Her spine straightened and she felt his hands move to her shoulders as he stepped out from where he’d been standing in the shadows behind the door. Her mouth opened but she couldn’t say anything. There weren’t words.

“You know, Olivia, we all keep parts of ourselves hidden.” His thumb moved over the side of her neck, making her shiver. “We wear masks for the rest of the world, and even the people closest to us often don’t know who we really are.”

She knew he was talking about her, about her drawings, her secret fantasy life.

“Randall, I’m sorry,” she whispered, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “I was—”

What? Silly? Stupid? A fool, to think a man like you could want a girl like me?

“Shhh.” His lips brushed the top of her head. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

His hand moved down her arm. She felt the heat of him, even through the silky material of her robe. Then he put something in her hand.

“What’s this?” She lifted the book to look at it. Even in the dimness she could see it was a journal, like the one he’d been holding upstairs on the bed. This one had a purple rose on it, but again, the letter “O” on the front.

“I saw yours,” he whispered, his fingers closing over hers on the book. “Now I’m going to show you mine.”

She trembled as he guided her hands, opening the book for her, with her.

It was his handwriting, that much she recognized. She stared at his words. At her name.
Olivia. Livvie. Liv. My love. My desperate hope. My bright light. Mine. Mine. Mine.

“Me?” she whispered, but it was there, in black and white, just like her drawings.

“Yes.” His other hand moved around her waist and she shrank against him, as if she might make herself smaller—more perfect and beautiful, like the woman he married.

“Oh Livvie, don’t run from me.” His breath was warm in her ear. “My sweet, beautiful girl.”

“Me?” she whispered again, incredulous.

“She came into my office today wearing one of my shirts,” he read softly over her shoulder. “She thinks I don’t know how she steals them. Her mother says it’s to cover up her fat. My wife is a fool, in so many ways. She is a goddess come to life, my Olivia. She is sweet fire and I want to burn with her.”

“Oh Randall…” Olivia felt tears stinging her eyes, a small flame of bright hope beginning to burn at her core.

“Are you shocked?”

She shook her head slowly. Surprised, maybe. But not shocked.

“Are you repulsed?” His lips moved against her ear. “Do you think less of me?”

“No,” she denied it, shaking her head more vehemently now. Oh the irony. “I thought… you would be repulsed by me. That you wouldn’t… want…”

“Oh Livvie.” His mouth moved to her neck, his breath so hot it gave her goosebumps.

Her eyes still scanned the page of the book in their hands, reading his erotic words, pictures brought to life, channeled through the mind of the man who held her in his arms. She felt a blush heat her cheeks, her neck, her chest, as she continued reading, worrying her lip. The man could write—far better than she could sketch. The images he brought to life made her knees feel weak. These were his fantasies, laid bare. This was Randall, unmasked.

“You’re so beautiful.” His hands, both of them, around her waist now, moving over the fullness of her hips. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Her gaze flicked up to the date at the top of the page. It was over a year ago. They’d both been hiding this secret, afraid to tell each other how they felt, afraid to cross the line. But now they were at the threshold. They could go forward, but there was no going back. Whatever happened, everything had changed now.

“I hoped…” He swallowed and she held her breath, feeling his hands move under her robe, parting the material. “I did hope. But I didn’t know, not for sure, not until tonight…”

So he had told her, had revealed himself to her. She could barely contain her excitement.

“I know it’s wrong.” His voice was low, hoarse, but his hands didn’t stop moving, working the top buttons of the men’s shirt she wore. “But I can’t help it…”

“Wait…” She turned in his arms, pressing the journal to her chest, covering her fast-beating heart. Her robe was fully open now. She wore only his shirt underneath. “I have to tell you something.”

His chocolate-brown eyes gazed into hers, quizzical. She didn’t want to tell him, but he had to know. This betrayal, this thing they were about to do, was far less a crime than he seemed to believe.

“My mother.” It was the first she’d thought of her since seeing her in the library. “She… Randall, she’s cheating on you.”

His expression didn’t change. Not hint of surprise or shock.

“I saw her with my own eyes. Tonight. She was with… two men.” She swallowed, worrying her lip again, watching his face for a reaction. Would he demand to know who? Would he go into a rage?

“I know.” Randall shrugged one shoulder, shaking his dark, curly head. His glasses made his brown eyes appear even bigger behind them. “She thinks she’s fooling me, of course. But I was that young writer once, hoping to land a book deal, hoping to become the next bestseller. I remember it well.”

Olivia nodded. So her guess about how they’d met had been spot on. “Well, she is a beautiful woman.”

“She’s hideous.” Randall’s eyes hardened. “I’ve never known a woman uglier than your mother. My only regret is that I let my own greed and ambition blind me to it.”

“
My
mother Are we talking about the same person?” Olivia blinked at him in surprise. “Catherine Comstock is… like… perfect! I mean… have you looked at her?”

“Have you?” He slipped a hand through her hair, down now, long and flowing auburn over her back. “Sometimes I think fate threw me together with her just so I could discover what I really love. I hated myself when I was writing bestsellers and hobnobbing with your mother’s friends.”

“But—”

“I love writing, but I sold my soul when I started writing that thriller crap.” He made a face. “I sold my soul to her. But you, my sweet Olivia. You’re my redemption.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” His hands moved to her lower back, pulling her even closer, the journal between them. He looked at it, then at her. “What more do you need to convince you?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

That’s when he kissed her. His mouth captured hers, soft at first, a sweet reassurance, but it soon grew urgent. Her hands gripped the journal until she was white-knuckled, feeling his fingers moving through her hair, over her back, her hips, sliding down her ass. They kneaded her flesh, mouths slanted and exploring, lost in the moment.

She was breathless, panting, when they parted, staring up at him in wonder. She’d been with a couple guys before—there were men who found her curves appealing, in spite of her mother’s objections—but she’d never been kissed like that.

“You still hungry?” he asked, glancing at the desk where their food was getting cold.

“No,” she breathed. Not for food, anyway. She glanced down at the book, pressing it more firmly against his chest. “Read to me.”

He looked at his journal in her hands and smiled. “You want me to read you a bedtime story?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He took the book from her, moving to sit on the leather sofa behind them. She watched him open the journal, flipping through the pages, listening to her heart beat, fast as a bird’s under her heavy breasts. Her thighs tightened over the pulsing there and she tried not to sway as a wave of lightheadedness hit her.

“Come sit by me.” He patted the sofa beside him and she went, curling up and putting her cheek against his chest. His arm went around her and he held the book with one hand.

“She tempts me. Like ripe fruit, hanging low. So luscious. I want to devour her. Sometimes I think she knows how much I want her. We sit in my office, sharing lo mein and moo shoo out of little cartons, and we talk for hours. I love her laugh. She’s the brightest light I’ve ever known.”

Olivia smiled to herself, listening to his words, letting them warm her from the inside out. It was a little like listening to the “happy birthday” song—embarrassing to have all that attention and focus on you, but secretly pleasing too.

“I’m a wicked man, but just watching her walk makes my cock hard. It’s like the whole world swings on that girl’s hips. Her pussy would be so delicious, to juicy and sweet in my mouth. Fuck. I’m doomed.”

“Doomed.” Olivia giggled, glancing up at him. “Are you doomed?”

“Indubitably.” He took his glassed off, putting them on the table beside him. It was dark in this little corner and must be hard to read the words, she thought. “I will join a long line of stepfather villains who lusted after their young stepdaughters…”

“I don’t think you’re the villain in this tale,” she mused, her hand moving down the opening in his button-down shirt, feeling the hair on his chest curling around her fingers.

“No?” He smiled, closing his journal and setting it aside.

“I think you’re the hero.” Olivia put her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. She wanted him to know how much she wanted him too. His words had moved her, had given her courage, the confidence to slide her thigh over his and straddle him on the sofa.

“Oh sweetheart,” he breathed as she wiggled in his lap. His hands moved over the generous spread of her thighs, sliding up under the shirt she wore to grab onto her hips. “Am I dreaming?”

“I hope not.” She worked the buttons from the top, smiling as he starting working them from the bottom, eager to see her. And she was eager to show him

“Fuck,” he whispered when she slid the shirt from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her.