My Billionaire Stepbrother (Lexi's Sexy Billionaire Romance #1) (15 page)

“No, but — ”

“That was a long time ago.”
 

It was. But it was also the first time we both realized how we felt — how, perhaps, we’d been feeling for months. It had taken me by surprise. After he’d seen me under that pier — after I’d known he’d wanted to see me, and after we’d both taken that uncomfortable walk along the beach — we’d found ourselves farther up on a deserted section of beach, somehow inconveniently alone. He’d apologized for staring, and I’d apologized for being awkward.
 

The tension between us was almost unbearable. He’d worn the duffel on his lap the entire time, and at one point I’d pretended to sleep, squeezing my thighs together to see if I could cum from pressure and fantasy. But I couldn’t, and the bubble didn’t pop. By the time we were driving home, I was ready to shatter every taboo at once. I wanted to unzip him while he drove then take his cock in my mouth. I wanted to pull over and invite him to take me.
 

It didn’t matter that it was wrong. There was only animal lust, no thought to consequence.
 

Somehow, we made it home, both of us intensely aware of exactly what had happened and what had been unsaid.
 

“Come in for a drink,” he says. “One drink.”
 

I probably shouldn’t agree, considering.
 

I do anyway.

PARKER

M
Y
TRI
-
LEVEL
PENTHOUSE
IS
LA’s best.
 

The building has a lounge, pool and spa, an outdoor kitchen and cabanas, a fitness center with massage and yoga rooms, and a business center. So does my penthouse.
 

The whole place looks like an
Architectural Digest
centerfold. Pierre Matte cabinetry; soaring, finished concrete ceilings; showroom lighting; a kitchen that would make Gordon Ramsay smile. Four of the six bathrooms have eggshell soaking tubs. Mine has a Hansgrohe Axor Starck brushed nickel shower head — it definitely cost more than my old Ford.
 

My place is a chick magnet. Samantha practically stained my PlumeBlanche sofa’s leather the first time she was here — and that’s Samantha, who’s as hard as they come. She practically grew up in champagne baths, and seems to have spent most of her adult life working to improve the vintage.
 

After we take the elevator down, two things occur to me: The first is that I suspect I’m wasting the property’s magnetism on Angela, seeing as she’s sort of decided we’re in too perilous a position to head in that direction. And the second is that I do still technically have a girlfriend, seeing as I forgot to break up with Samantha. Maybe I can do it by text. It’s a throbbing item on my to-do list, and although she’s bendy and hot, Duncan really missed the mark with her. Samantha’s dragging me down, turning me more jaded than I already am.
 

The space feels different with Angela by my side. She’s not immune to the charm. As we walk the floor plan, I find myself doing the opposite of what I normally do when giving the tour. I’m playing it down instead of playing it up. I show her the kitchen without pointing out the Sub-Zero refrigerators, the wine cooler, or the Viking six-burner stove with dual ovens. I’m sure she notices the matching dishwashers, the jaw-dropping woodwork, and the rich stone countertops with under-counter lighting.
 

I merely point into the master bedroom. She doesn’t need to see the Kluft bed, or hear about the premium English springs encased in calico cotton. We go nowhere near the master bath.
 

Something has changed between us. Angela’s still as plain as can be, still in the jeans and shirt that so offended Santa Monica’s finest diners. I’d been following her as a woman before, but now that she’s rejected our deeper relationship in advance, I’m following her more as a friend. For long moments, the pressure is gone and I feel comfortable. I’m usually trying to get laid. When you have money, fame, and power, you see pussy everywhere.
 

But Angela’s different. She says nothing can happen, and that hurts something inside me. But I believe her. We’re two people hanging out. I want to underwhelm her because the more she sees what I have that she doesn’t, the greater the chance she’ll resent me.
 

I’m realizing that Angela came with a set perception. I’m not dying to prove her right — especially since I think she might be.
 

Maybe I’ve changed.
 

Or conversely, maybe the worst parts of me — the nonredeemable parts of the damaged kid I used to be — haven’t changed at all. Maybe money’s devolved me with even worse vices.
 

I give plenty to charity but treat people like shit. I don’t mean to. It just comes out.
 

I’m an excellent businessman with a keen eye for talent. But where I once dabbled with drink and drugs, now I’ve unlimited access. I probably get messed up way more than I should.
 

My shrinks tell me I’ve matured. That I’m a better person than I used to be. They tell me I’m dealing with my issues, growing, getting better at facing my pain rather than numbing it. They tell me I’m less of a womanizer, that I’m improving at relationships.
 

But considering how much I pay them, what are they supposed to say?

I’m walking on polished wood and eggshells. Angela’s never been here. She knew me when I was penniless. She knew me when I was just a punk. She maybe even loved that punk, as awful as he was. Right now, she’s judge, jury, and executioner. I don’t like giving others control; that’s probably why Samantha’s sexual proclivities secretly turn me on.
 

I tell others what to do. I don’t let others tell me.
 

Yet right now, if Angela thinks I’m an asshole, it will bother me way more than I’m comfortable with. I wonder if I should have brought her here after all. Maybe I shouldn’t have opened this wound.
 

It’s late by the time we get to that drink. My penthouse has a professionally stocked bar, but Angela wants something cheap. Something classless and overly sweet. I have that too.
 

Whatever changed between us, it might be changing back. She’s still here, across from me, apparently not as disgusted with my excess and imagined billionaire’s cruelty as I’m afraid she will be. She looks out of place in her everyday clothes. And yet all I want is to sit beside her, to feel the warmth of her leg, even clad in jeans, beside mine.
 

I remember Santa Monica.
 

I remember that moment when everything changed.
 

In my head, that’s always been the beginning of our end. It got better before it got worse — or worse before it got better, depending on measurement — but when all was said and done, I had no choice but to go, to leave her in peace, and try to make my life bearable.
 

The lights dim. They’re on a timer because when it gets this late and I’m still awake, my penthouse helps me score. I can do it fine on my own, of course, but low lights and money have a way of loosening girls.
 

“I guess we should talk,” Angela says.
 

I’m still wearing my tux shirt and pants because going into the other room to change when she has nothing to swap seems rude. But at least I’ve ditched the jacket and tie. My sleeves are rolled up. She touches my forearm and gives me a chill I’ve not felt in forever.
 

“About what?” I ask.

“About us.”
 

I run a multibillion-dollar empire. I could buy and sell countries. People practically bow when I walk down the street. Still, those two words flutter my stomach.
 

“Okay. In what way?”
 

She doesn’t answer immediately. Angela’s hand makes firmer contact with my arm, her fingers soft and splayed. She’s already turned toward me, and as juvenile as it seems, I keep wanting to look at her cleavage. It’s so messed up. She’s my
stepsister
. Has been forever. And we’ve been through all this before, a thousand years ago.
 

“You know what way.”
 

I swallow.
 

“What happened,” she says, “I won’t lie. I wanted it.”
 

I nod. I wanted it too, but right now I can’t breathe a word and risk breaking the spell between us.
 

“But Parker … it was wrong. We grew up together.”
 

I think that’s stretching it. We spent two years in adjacent rooms, and I was gone most of the time. I never wanted to be there at all.
 

I say none of that.
 

“At the time, I was just a kid.”
 

“Me too.” I don’t like how I say it. Almost like begging, as if I’m waiting for Angela to see me as pathetic and feel sorry for me.
 

“I didn’t know
what
was going on back then. You remember how I was. Kind of in my shell. I guess you’d say I was a late bloomer. We happened to become … closer … right around the time I finally started to bloom.”
 

I don’t like this talk of blooming. I remember how she’d bloomed. I remember how she felt to the touch. I’ve seen countless tits since leaving home. I’ve licked whipped cream and snorted coke off an endless parade of nipples. Breasts are two blobs of fat capped with tiny hats, and still one of my most vivid, most sepia-tinged memories is of that day under the pier. There was something about the first time I saw her like that. She looked vulnerable — but at the same time, I could see her as a sexual being in a way I’d never before been able to before. At first, she’d seemed childish, and later she’d seemed full of herself, prudish, naive. That day she’d been …
Angela
. Someone new. Someone who’d bloomed open from a closed bud, and I was there when it happened, tempted by forbidden fruit.
 

“But it was just hormones. We’re smarter now. Older. Wiser.”
 

I try to smile. It probably comes off sideways, maybe obnoxious. The jaded grin I’m afraid will convince her I’m the asshole she’s always imagined I was. But it’s meant to soften the blow as I say, “Stop it. I already feel old at thirty, and you’re making me feel older.”
 

“You know what I mean, don’t you?” Her hand is still on my arm. If she’s trying to make a platonic point, her touch is driving me in the wrong direction.

“I guess.”
 

“Have you thought about me while you’ve been gone? You know … in that way?”
 

Which answer should I give her?

Yes.
 

Constantly.

Unceasingly.
 

In that nobody can ever quite compare, and I may have gone through an entire modeling agency like yanking tissues from a box searching for something that felt the same.
 

Instead, I keep my face neutral. “I guess. Sometimes.”
 

Angela looks like she’s blunting her reply. “Me too … sometimes.”
 

Our bodies have shifted. First, when I chose Santa Monica as our destination for fun and dinner, my mind betrayed me. Now my body’s the turncoat. Fortunately (or unfortunately), hers is too. We’re almost facing each other. Our spare hands have found their matches. I swear I can hear her heartbeat and feel her warmth in the space between us.
 

“But you know it’s not a good idea,” she says.
 

“Sure.”
 

I don’t know that at all.
 

“We both do,” she goes on. “My mom. Your dad. Hell, for you, Parker? Think of the press. If we … just saying, if we were … together? Well, the press would eat it up.”
 

“You act like I’m begging,” I say. It comes out defensive. Parker Altman doesn’t beg. I wonder if I’m shoving my foot into the door, applying pressure, forcing distance between us.
 

“No, just … we never talked this out.”
 

We didn’t have to. Our actions said it all. I remember how much it hurt. I remember how it was unlike anything I’d ever felt, with any other girl. I remember how I swore I’d never, ever hurt that much again.

“I guess we didn’t.”
 

“If we’re going to be friends now … ”
 

“Is that what we are?”
 

She laughed. “For now.”
 

That makes my heart skip a little. Then she adds,
“For now,
until I get used to you as a friend, it would feel kind of wrong to leap all the way to seeing you as a brother.”
 

But then, she never thought of me as a brother because I wasn’t one. A roommate, maybe. A tormentor. On our best day, a friend. Except for that brief, painful period when we’d been more.
 

“Sure.” I raise my glass, proud of my maturity. “Friends.” And we drink to it.