Stepbrother Romance: My Alpha Cowboy Stepbrother (Stepbrother Romance, Taboo, Forbidden, Stepsister, New Adult, Western Romance, Cowboy Romance) (5 page)

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I like providing my readers with a little extra content… because, who’s ever satisfied with one short story? As my gift to you, I’ve included another short story in this book. All you have to do is flip a couple pages until you get to the next story. Consider this as my way of sharing my appreciation for you choosing to read my stories. Thanks!

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2 Hot Guys – 2 Hot Girls – One Woman’s Pleasure - Enough Said

By Celia Styles

Once a month, Janet Cleary hosts a “Martini Morning”, where all of the bored suburban housewives get together, gossip, and drink.  We tell our husbands that it’s a book club, but in reality the only book that gets discussed is
Fifty Shades
, mostly because it’s the only book that makes more sense the more drunk you get. 

Janet’s house is the biggest in the neighborhood:  the neighborhood being the suburban paradise of Wild Flower Meadows, full of nice large lush green lots, McMansions with faux-Tudor exteriors and earth-tone interiors, where the smallest car is a Nissan crossover and the status is determined by who crafts the most elaborate bento box for their child.  Well, maybe not the last—after all, I wasn’t the only childless one in the group—but there was definitely a certain degree of
oohing
and
ahhing
over what you posted on Pinterest.  Janet, with her pixie haircut and Julia-Roberts smile, was thankfully not into bento boxes but she did decorate her house every Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and made all of her baked goods from scratch.

On this particular morning, I was one of six other women there, sitting on the plushy soft couches of what was called the “rec room”.  The ottoman held a large, clear plastic tray, which held the martini mix and vodka, in case martinis at noon wasn’t strong enough for you.  Another bowl held pimento-stuffed olives, while yet another contained little pickled onions. The room was large and spacious, airy and kissed with sunlight—and despite it all I felt cramped.   I’d somehow gotten stuck with Jessica Riley as a conversation partner.  Jessica and I were complete, polar opposites—she was blockbuster, I was art house; she was a vegan, I liked my steaks rare and bloody.  She had the body of a walking stick; my curves were the definition of "luscious".  We were friendly enough—she, at least, wasn’t obnoxious about being a vegan or about her pet causes (she volunteered at the SPCA)—but having a conversation was like trying to talk to the dead. 

Marley Hennig, my best friend, was across the room chatting with Gary, the only guy in the group—not gay, alas.  Gary was a new stay-at-home dad who’d been invited to our group by Sarah Jacobson; we felt bad for him, mostly.  Their newborn cried all night and slept all day, to hear him tell it, and indeed, the little worm-faced creature was asleep in the carrier, while Gary, wearing a five o’clock shadow the way most women wear eyeliner, seemed relieved to be having a conversation that wasn’t about diaper blowouts or spit up.  Marley wasn’t classically beautiful, but she used to dance professionally, so in addition to her expressive eyes she knew how to move herself and speak through her body as well.  The effect was always strongest on guys—and those of us who were watching her conversation with Gary were quite amused—but I noticed myself falling under her spell, too.

“You’re not listening to me,” Jessica said, pouting. 

“I’m sorry,” I said, blinking.  “I was just thinking about the martinis.”

“You should really try the ones at Milligan’s,” she said, smiling.  Or pretending to smile.  I couldn’t tell.  It was all the same in suburbia:  pretending to be perfect was just as taxing as being perfect, so you might as well be perfect.

It was another dull Martini Morning, but I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to go.  In about another hour, when the booze started working its magic, we’d all start with complaining about our husbands—going through each of their faults in mind-numbing detail.  "He always leaves his socks in the hallway!" one of us would say.  And the others would chime in with, "Mine does that, too!" or "At least it's not his underwear!" and we'd all pretend to be scandalized.  Because despite the space we had around and between our houses, the pseudo-wildlife in the park, and the Starbucks just ten minutes away, living in the suburbs was a stifling existence.  The conformity it brought was comforting for a while--but when you realized you'd been trapped, it was too late.  The metaphorical fuzzy handcuffs turned out to be made of cold steel after all, and all you could do was brace yourself and wish it would be over soon.

Still:  getting drunk was cheaper than therapy, even though we all seemed to tacitly agree that talking about cheating husbands was taboo, because no matter what you said, people heard: 
She's a harpy, a shrew, who drove him away.  She was too demanding, taking all and giving nothing, no wonder he looked elsewhere. 
So socks-in-the-hallway became a substitute for "strange receipt in the pocket", leaving the toilet seat up became an emotional code for "he never listens",  and forgetting a birthday was a sign of impending marital doom.

I was on my second martini, waiting for the booze to hit me, and I looked over at Gary.  He was sitting alone again, and I was wondering where Marley went when she appeared in front of me, holding a glass with two olives.  "Some morning, huh?" Marely asked, sitting down next to me.  "Hi Janet." Marley pursed her lips and sucked the olive inside her mouth with a little
pop.  "
What's wrong, babe?" she asked me.  

"Nothing," I said. "Just enjoying the view," I said, raising my eyebrows at her décolletage.   Marley had a nice, svelte figure and wasn't shy about showing it off, and my staring at her was mostly out of a wish that I could get it together enough to wear something like that. 

Marley sighed.  "If you're not going to be honest with me I can't be your friend," she said. 

"I’m being honest," I said, even though I was lying through my teeth.  "It's nothing that you want to hear."

Because the fact was, Alan had been cheating on me since the day we met.  I hadn't wanted to look or see the reality of the facts before--I'd been eager to buy his excuses, that "Tiffany" was a business partner, that "Britney" was a supplier.  I still wanted to believe in the romance that led us into falling into the bed together, drunk on cheap frat house beer, giddy with hormones.  We made the mistake of thinking that hating our parents was enough to build a relationship on. Seven years later, the shoddy foundation of our lives together had completely crumbled, leaving nothing but the naked truth of our lives. 

Truth be told, even I managed to convince myself that things weren't so bad--that there was nothing a little therapy and marriage counseling couldn't fix.  He let me run things the way I wanted.  I had time and money to paint, and had even managed to sell a few paintings.  I joined a gym, volunteered at the library, and had what was pretty much the perfect life.  Minus the good husband, but hey, everything comes with a price, right?  And the price I paid was not having a man who honored his wedding vows.

I could have lived with all of that if it weren't for the terrible family reunion we went to one month ago.  It was the first time that Alan and I were together in weeks.  Alan wore a rictus grin on his face as he kissed his aunts, uncles, and other relatives that he was somehow related to.  I would have enjoyed watching him choke on his own politeness if I hadn't had to endure the unending sneering condescension.  The Goodman clan was Old Money; his great-great-great-grandmother was one of the first Pilgrims who supposedly landed on Plymouth rock, and Alan was their Golden Boy, literally--blonde-hair, blue eyes, with smiling, beatific patrician features, the youngest child and only son left to "carry on the family name".  I was not Old Money; I was Hardly-Any-Money--my mother was from Mexico and God-only-knew who my father was, much less where he came from or what he did.  In other words, I was not good enough to be a Goodman and they all made sure I knew it. 

But I knew what I was marrying into when I said "I do" at my wedding.  Alan had never really liked the toxic affections of his family.  No, what really took the cake for me was overhearing Alan's sisters talking about Deborah, the girl that Alan was seeing on the side--how she was so much of a better match for him than I could ever be.  Her family name was Waterhouse, which meant that she was "a suitable match" for him.  She wasn't fat.  She had a "real" job. 

I drove myself home after overhearing that, and cried for the next three hours.  Alan didn't come home for three days; when he did, I'd managed to recover my composure, but I'd also decided that enough was enough.  I'd had it.  I was leaving. 

But the problem with old habits is that they don't get old because they're easy to kill.  And Alan could be a real gentleman when he wanted to be, and when we did sleep together he was an attentive lover, reading my body like an open book and touching, palming, reacting to my body.  When he came back, I shut him out, but even I had to use the bathroom at some point--and he'd spread rose petals on the ground, and started running a bath, and gave me the most delicious foot massage I'd ever had while I soaked.  Alan begged me to forgive him, told me that the reunion had made him realize what a gem of a woman he'd married, swore to me up and down that he'd changed his ways.  I told him I didn't believe him. 

But I stayed. 

Because that night, we connected again.  He reminded me of how we met (bad beer at a frat party, neither of us could stand the stuff, went to get real beer at a local bar), the sex games we used to play.  They were happy times for me, too.  "I want to get back to that point," he said, as I got out of the bathtub.  "I want to feel the way we used to."

I wasn't so sure about that, but he peeled off my robe and said, "Don't you see?  I'll always come back to you.  You're the only one for me."

Well if I'm the only one for you then why are you always fucking other chicks? 
I should have asked him that, but at that moment he kissed me the way he did when we had sex for the first time, running his tongue against mine--promising me, for the moment, anyway, that he would be mine and only mine.

The bathrobe fell away.  He turned me around in the bathroom mirror and said, "I see you and your amazing curves and I wonder how I could be such a fool."  His hand cupped my breast, his thumb toying with my nipple, sending little thrills that made my breath catch.  "I see your amazing body and the work that you do and I am so grateful that you are my wife," he said, sliding a hand between my thighs. 

Then he took a blindfold from his pocket and tied it around my eyes.  I should have pushed him away, but I knew what was going to happen next, and the animal part of me wanted it, badly.  I was indecisive, and in my moment of indecision he guided me to our bedroom, which had been perfumed with patchouli oil and sandalwood incense.  He guided me towards the bed and helped me to sit down.  He began to kiss me again, and I found myself kissing him, pulling him down on the bed with me, glad--
grateful,
even--that he understood me so well that I didn't have to tell him what I wanted.

His fingers began to tickle my clit, and my hips rose up and began to grind against his body.  He'd always had a nice body, and I'd always liked the way he smelled, musty and yet clean.  I felt him put his hand on my stomach, and then move up to massage my breasts, while his other fingers drew circles on the inside of my thighs.  Suddenly I felt his tongue against me, fluttering against the shaved skin, sending little electric shivers of pure ecstasy pulsing up my spine.  I bit my lip as he brought me closer and closer to orgasm, just one last touch away from the moment when everything would just let go--

He groaned as he slid inside me.  I'd never liked this part, because, well, truth be told, he never did it very well.  It wasn't a matter of anatomy--he had no sense of rhythm or movement and it always felt like he was pounding my pussy the way a hammer does a nail.  But I was still sighing from the flood of ecstasy that was coursing through my veins, and the warm and tingling sensations in my body left me too happy to care about what he was doing.  And anyway, marriage was compromise, right?  Give a little, take a little--I could forgive him this. 

It was like this for a week.  Champagne, lobster, roses--the works, and I was almost,
almost
won over by it.  Then a week later, when I was out getting the groceries, I heard a mysterious buzzing in the glove compartment.   It was a cell phone I didn't recognize, with a text message that clearly wasn't from me, reading "Hey wanna fuck tomorrow?  Tell the cow you've got a deadline."

A quick scroll through the cell phone's history revealed that he'd been playing me for a fool that entire week.   "Gotta keep the wife happy, boss won't like it if he thinks I’m getting distracted with a divorce."  There was a frank discussion of our lack of a pre-nup, which he definitely regretted.  "At least there are no kids."

At that moment I was sorely tempted to go out and buy a positive pregnancy test.  It would basically guarantee that I would get the house when I filed the divorce papers--and I did like the house, with the clean, orderly rooms, and my studio where I painted. 

And then I came to my senses and realized that I was being an incredible idiot:  the house didn't matter.  If anything, I wanted to burn the place down--burn down anything, everything that had to do with this sham marriage I was in and start over somewhere where people's idea of a fun time didn't include getting wasted by noon.  I wanted out--out of the house, out of this skin, out of my life so far. There had to be something more, something else. 

That was the moment that the Martini Morning crowd's obsession with
Fifty Shades of Grey
finally began to make sense to me.  It wasn't the sex, or the terrible story, or the stupid plot, or the insanely creepy Christian Grey.  It was a woman writing about a dream life and a dream world, escaping the drudgery of her own life.