My Billionaire Stepbrother (Lexi's Sexy Billionaire Romance #1) (17 page)

Angela seemed to be feeling the same things. The rest of the Santa Monica trip was hard because I could no longer pretend I was the only pervy one. Something had passed between us, and both of us knew it. She hadn’t covered up; I’d known she
liked
me seeing her half-naked like that. And although I should have averted my eyes, I didn’t. And she knew I hadn’t wanted to.
 

We’d both wanted to do more than just looking, and easily could have. After the moment had passed, we’d both seemed to have realized it and danced toward trying to find another suitable spot … without making it obvious that we were looking. Then, when we ended up alone again, neither could make a move. Because even though we weren’t related by blood, we’d become related in our minds, used to thinking of each other as forbidden, and even as much of a shit as I was back then, I couldn’t do something that felt so utterly wrong.
 

We avoided one another more than usual. But I found myself wanting Angela more than ever. I tried to catch glimpses of her running to or from showers. I listened at our shared walls, wondering if she touched herself at night. Wondering if, when she did, she ever pictured that day on the beach like I did, imagining how things might have unfolded if we’d only had the nerve.
 

Eventually, things calmed between us, at least enough. Until one evening, we were both in the living room, holding bowls of popcorn for an ultra-rare family movie night. Only after we’d sat on the couch — right beside each other; we’d left the chairs for Dad and Maria — did we realize that the adults had made other plans. They were leaving us alone, on the couch, together.
 

It was too awkward to stay but far more awkward to leave. I couldn’t say, “I’m sorry; I lust for you far too much for a movie together.” We settled in for our two-hour game of chicken, and I could see the fear in her eyes. A desirous fear of me, same as the delicious terror I had for her.
 

We made it easily through the romcom’s first half, laughing and pretending that everything was cool. We stayed side-by-side on the couch because moving apart felt like admission of something neither of us was willing to admit. Her warmth was close. Funny parts made us forget.
 

But then there was the romance.
 

Then the first sex scene.
 

It was about a relationship that shouldn’t happen. Taboo, like ours.
 

Then the second sex scene.
 

It turned out all right in the end. The taboo stopped mattering, like ours shouldn’t matter. We were both legal adults; only our parents’ marriage made us family. In other circumstances, we’d have been two young adults, both breathing shallow, alone in the house, free to do whatever we wanted.
 

But a huge part of me tried to remember that I was the black sheep. Nobody liked or wanted me here. My dad tolerated me because he had to. Maria hated me. Angela hated me beneath her desire; I’d sensed that from the beginning. Maybe I could lean in, as the credits rolled, and make this happen. Maybe I could show her that taboos didn’t matter.
 

But then it would be my fault, and I’d only have proved everyone right.
 

The black sheep strikes again.
 

Angela raised the remote to kill the TV. But she fumbled, and it landed across my other side. We were too close; she’d dropped the thing because her inside arm had run along mine. Instead of asking me to grab the remote for her, I saw this terrified look on her face as if she’d done something horribly wrong but promised to fix it. She leaned. As she reached, her breasts brushed against me. Her hair draped my chest. Angela grabbed the remote and turned to me as she withdrew, but I could no longer take it.
 

We were boiling, and had been for weeks. The movie had stoked every bit of what we’d been trying to hide. The guilt remained, but it was somehow above us, looking down.
 

Lust was stronger.
 

I embraced her. One hand slithered around Angela’s back, pulling her face to mine. She easily came, wanting the same thing. One hand found her chest as her momentum rolled us, Angela’s back lying flat and me coming above her, my hand pawing her shirt, kneading her soft breasts. Our mouths were a frenzy; once the bubble had popped, there was no way to slow or stop or hesitate. No way to think.
 

No need to say anything.
 

What needed to be said had already been whispered a thousand times inside my mind and hers, late at night while our parents were sleeping.
 

I was instantly hard. Angela, despite her inexperience, didn’t hesitate; her hands found my erect cock and rubbed it through my jeans. Her mouth was alive, insatiable. Her breath was short and hot, gasping, almost desperate.
 

It couldn’t happen fast enough. I kissed her mouth, felt her tongue, ran my mouth along her long neck. Angela tipped her head back, exhaling, lifting her body toward me in a long wave.
 

My hand slid under her shirt. Along her flat, smooth belly. I felt the bottom of her bra then wrapped my hand around to her back. She arched to give me room, and I slipped the clasp one-handed. The hand circled back, lifted the front edge of her undergarment, finding the soft swell of flesh beneath.
 

I’d been wanting this. Imagining this. Picturing every moment. I’d thought of that day on the beach thousands of times, wondering what she’d feel like, how her nipples would respond to my touch. I’d imagined my mouth on hers, imagined the fingers of my spare hand running through her long, dark hair. Just like I finally was.
 

I pulled away for a second, one hand under her shirt, the other caressing the soft moon of her cheek. Just a beat — enough to make sure she still wanted this as badly as I did. My eyes weren’t asking if this was a good idea or if she’d regret this tomorrow — the answers were clearly
no
and
yes
— but if she wanted to continue, damn the taboo.
 

She responded by pushing me more upright. By unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans. She didn’t move like a virgin; Angela’s hand was under my boxers, wrapping my throbbing cock, within seconds.
 

We couldn’t speak. Neither of us could break the spell. I leaned into her working hand, grinding against her friction. Then I unbuttoned her, violently yanking both pants and panties down just far enough to see. She’d kept herself trim but not shaven, a small and intoxicating patch of hair visible between her legs, topping pink lips blushed with moisture.
 

Light washed the front windows, and we heard the sound of a car’s engine.
 

My heart raced. Angela’s eyes went wide.
 

Lust melted to panic.

We were adults, but still our parents’ children, brainwashed into convention, living under their roof.

We pulled away, my urgent cock wanting to cry out at her fleeing touch. She yanked her pants back into place and zipped as I did the same. Angela tugged her shirt down then fumbled with her bra to reclasp it.
 

Seconds bled as Dad fumbled with his keys. Angela’s fingers had gone dumb; she couldn’t get her bra in place and the way it hung from the front was obvious. I thought she’d sprint to her room, but she somehow pulled the whole thing off one arm at a time instead, fishing fabric through the armholes. It came out one sleeve, and she shoved it between the cushions.
 

When the door opened, we must have looked like two kids caught raiding the cookie jar. We bolted upright, hot and bothered, my lap sporting a rail spike and Angela braless and obvious. I could still see the outline of her nipples through the stretched fabric, and it took everything in me not to reach for them.
 

Bill entered first. He went straight to the kitchen, barely tossing us a glance despite what I felt must be damning visual evidence. It’s almost like he didn’t expect his son to be fingering his stepsister, for said stepsister to be minutes from wrapping her soft lips around his son’s throbbing cock.

We sat on the couch, awaiting discovery. Of course neither of them could see our guilt, or sense the slowly dying sexual energy still pervading the room.
 

What we’d almost done would have been terrible, and the next morning’s guilt was excruciating. Only the act itself was missing — the good thing that might have made the bad worth it.
 

Still, despite my yearning, I felt that sense of disaster barely averted. I was a fuckup already, the blackest of sheep. Angela, on the other hand, was all I wasn’t. A good girl. She earned straight As. She was respectful and kind, generous in ways I never had been or would be. She was sweet, and I’d almost stolen that from her. I’d almost been her first, even knowing I’d be soiling something beautiful. She’d wanted me, and I with my selfish, black sheep ways had almost taken advantage.
 

From then on, I knew we’d be a powder keg.
 

From then on, I knew that if we were alone, neither of us would be able to halt the inevitable. She’d want to be ruined, and I’d want to ruin her. I’d take her potential and soil her fleece. What was sweet, I’d certainly sour.
 

From then on, I knew we’d never be able to resist acting on our inappropriate urges.
 

I had to be strong enough to leave them all, and never return.

ANGELA

P
ARKER
’
S
PHONE
VIBRATES
AND
BREAKS
our kiss.
 

The air is uncomfortable for a few pregnant seconds. We’ve never quite revisited all that happened between us as kids, even though it’s been heavy over our heads like clouds while we’ve pretended we’re friends.
 

I want to joke about vibrators as his phone buzzes again, but it feels too near the bone.
 

Parker fishes it out and looks at the screen.
 

“It’s Samantha.”
 

“Your girlfriend,” I say.
 

“Yes, my girlfriend.”
 

“She probably wants to get going.” He’s already told me that she’s coming here, that she and Duncan are both at some hoity-toity thing just one building over and that we can all ride to the restaurant together in Parker’s limo.
 

But Parker just stares at his phone. It goes to voicemail, but she must not leave a message. Instead, Samantha sends a text.
 

For no reason, Parker looks up at me and says, “We’re breaking up.”
 

I put my hand on my chest — which, thanks to this pretty dress and miraculous undergarment, is generous and bursting with alluring cleavage. The new necklace dangles in place, and I find my mind straying to our brief kiss: something broached yet arrested by the phone call and too late to continue.
 

“But we’re not even going out!” I reply, laughing.
 

“Me and Sam. We’re breaking up.”
 

But we’re going to dinner with Sam. How uncomfortable.
 

“Does she know that?”
 

“I don’t even like her, Angela. I never really have. Duncan set us up. She’s ‘right’ for me, in his mind. Because everything is about appearances and perception.”
 

“So you’re not really together?” For some reason, the idea that Samantha is a fake girlfriend thrills me. I think of the photos. She’s beautiful. I don’t like to think of Parker’s hands on her for real.
 

“No, I mean … ” he stammers. “We’re
together
; I just think she’s a horrible person.”
 

“Ah. Respect. The foundation of any successful relationship.”
 

“No, I mean … she’s … ”
 

I wait, wondering.
 

“I’m not that guy, Ang,” he blurts. “I’m really not the guy the media shows me to be.”
 

“I haven’t seen a lot of media on you actually.”
 

“I’m not just about the money. It was always about the music, and the business. But Duncan, he’s different. We need an image. We need to be a certain way. And Samantha, she just likes me for … ”
 

“That’s your business,” I say, putting a hand on his arm to pacify him. “It’s not mine or anyone else’s.”

“It’s complicated. Samantha is helping us with PR and media relations. But we’re kind of entangled, what with business and pleasure mixing, and … ”
 

“Pleasure?” I say the word like a joke, though it hurts.
 

“We’re a bad fit. I just want you to know that.”
 

“Okay.”
 

“I’m not that guy.”
 

Now that he’s repeated it, I wonder if he’s talking to me or to himself. Press on Parker is thin as far as I’ve seen, and I’ve actively searched. I look around his apartment and remember the boy he used to be. I wonder if anyone accuses Parker of selling out and changing with his money … or if Parker’s only accusing himself.