Hard: A Step-Brother Romance (10 page)

The
only thing more humiliating than arriving home to greet his booty-call was the
temptation to break my vow of silence and ask to borrow some butter.

But
the brush of his body devastated my defenses, destroyed my self-made promises,
and betrayed me to the rush of shivers over every sensitive part of me.

He radiated
a perfect heat. His scent promised a sexy tease. And his low hum? That rumbling
cadence of his murmured song sent me reeling.

He
hovered. He loomed. He invaded my space.

And
all I wanted was one broken, foolish moment where our bodies would touch and I could
sink into his impossible strength. My head buzzed with the hope of earning
another caress from his award-worthy fingers.

Zach
radiated trouble. He was the alcohol in a mixed drink of mistakes. The patient
zero of a love-sick epidemic. The catalyst of a reaction that centered only on
me
.

It was
wrong and idiotic. I knew he was as much a fiend as he was a liar.

Except,
during that perfect night we spent together, he didn’t seem like any of those
things. He was just…Zach. Testosterone. Sex. Passion.

He was
a cocky bastard who had no problem sexing up his step-sister and stealing an
inheritance from a will with ink that wasn’t even dry. So why did I still had
that tickling, foolish hope that he was different? I didn’t want him to be a
bad guy. I wanted to someday forgive him.

But
I wasn’t that naive.

Besides,
a pot of hot, creamy, cheesy grits was the next best thing to sex. I didn’t
need his hands on my body, lips on my neck, or weight crushing me into the bed.

I
just needed butter.

I
didn’t even have to ask.

Zach
leaned over me, pressing his hips against mine as though he planned to take me
then, there, and in danger of breaking the eggs. He reached, and the
irresponsible vixen in me hoped it was to loop his arm around my waist and have
his way with me on the floor.

Instead,
he rooted through his supplies and handed me a stick of butter. How it didn’t
melt instantly in my hands was a modern day miracle.

I
swallowed. He pulled away before I could thank him without actually speaking.

I was
just lucky I hadn’t sunk to my knees and showed him how grateful I felt.

Zach
whistled as he stirred the charred mess of his pasta. He added a generic can of
sauce over the chaos and tossed a lid on the horror. It simmered as I started
the grits and cooked my shrimp in the rendered bacon fat, onion, garlic, and enough
cayenne to
put hair on your chest
, as Gran used to tell Grandaddy. It
only took about twenty minutes to come together—enough time for Zach to burn
his first batch of garlic bread and douse our toaster with brunt garlic powder
caked onto the slots.

We
sat down at the same time—my shrimp and grits, steaming hot and delicious, and
his gloop covered in half a can of parmesan cheese and patted on top of garlic
bread.

He
raised a fork to his lips. The clumping sauce oozed over an uncooked chunk of
sausage.

Oh, Lord.
My family prided ourselves on one thing. Southern hospitality. My own moral
code included not sitting idly by while someone got food poisoning.

I
smacked his hand and took his fork. Zach grunted, but I removed his plate and
replaced it with a ladle of grits. I loaded it with shrimp and cheese. He
grinned as I shoved it under his nose.

I
sat down and tried to avoid his sea-green eyes.

And
I immediately failed, but I didn’t mind. His impish green teased over me.

God,
he was handsome.

He sampled
his dinner, his smirk evolving into a grin as he took a big spoonful and sucked
the juices from the shrimp’s tail. His dimples were genuine. A wonderful complement
for a home-cooked meal. 

We
ate in silence, and Zach finished every bite on his plate. He didn’t go for seconds,
though I probably would have allowed it. He dumped his horrid spaghetti and moved
his dishes to the dishwasher while I watched him with my best attempt at cool
indifference.

He
nodded to the container on the counter and winked.

“Dessert’s
on me.”

Dessert?

I
abandoned my dinner and peeked under the lid of the gold cake platter.

A
perfectly baked, 100% authentic, pecan pie rested beneath, waiting to be cut.

Homemade
.

By
Zach.

I
thudded the lid against the platter with a crash.

“You
prick!”

That
son of a bitch played me.

Again
!

He wasn’t
some inexperienced child wandering the kitchen and tossing whatever sounded
Italian enough into the pot. He
knew
what he was doing. And worse, he
knew how badly he was ruining it!

And
I fell for his tricks again. Only this time I did something worse than sleep
with him. I let him sample my secret family recipe. I shared my dinner like he was
a sad, hungry puppy, wagging his tail under the table.

For
three days, I had stewed in silence. In thirty minutes, he made me crack.

His
laugh carried from the parlor.

That
pecan pie was about to get shoved down his throat.

…Right
after I tried a piece.

Shay
fucking tormented me with that piece of string she called a bikini.

She
wore a tiny, pink tease that hid everything good, perfect, and holy in this
godforsaken world. I remembered what it concealed, but that memory needed a
refresher.

Goddamn.

How was
it legal for a woman that fucking beautiful to wear a bikini like that?
Especially near a pool! Christ, everyone warned about not running near the
water. How about no wet-dream inspired bikinis? A man didn’t need a head injury
to drown. One glance at her curves strategically hidden under the pink scrap of
material and he’d forget to breathe on land.

She
did it to fuck with me.

And
it worked.

I
tried to exercise, but a hard-on didn’t streamline me under the water. Just the
opposite. One look at the most beautiful woman on the planet, and the blood
pooled too low. I bobbed like a fucking buoy instead of diving deep.

Again,
she didn’t care. She flipped through her book, letting the sun warm her
perfectly mocha, temptingly smooth, mouth-wateringly tasty body.

Christ.
I needed to get these last laps done.

I was
behind on my training, even with my recovery going well and my progress better
than anyone expected. The pool was the only damn reason I stayed at the
mansion. After a couple weeks training in the water, I’d pass peak condition
and return to superhuman, where I belonged. Just in time for the medical
waiver’s required physical.

But I
couldn’t do a goddamned thing with Shay taunting me. She rolled onto her
stomach in the sun—pushing that perfect ass into the air. She rested on the
chaise, but I knew what she liked. She’d deny it, but I felt it. She wanted a
kiss, spank, or aching thrust. I’d do it too, if I wasn’t so sure she’d drown
me first.

I
kicked off the wall and splashed her.

She ignored
me. Like she had been doing for days.

Christ,
I hated that.

No
one ever ignored me. My smile always earned a favorable response from the
ladies, and a punch to the temple focused an insurgent on my demands right
quick.

I
didn’t want Shay pissed at me. I thought we made strides. She wasn’t in my bed
yet, but we had a breakthrough yesterday in the theater. She actually selected
the movie I wanted to watch on Netflix.

Love
was in the air.

Laps
be damned. I could think of a much better form of exercise.

I
swam up to the wall closest to her and crossed my arms over the warm cement.

“Shay.”

She
didn’t bother turning. “I’m napping.”

“Why
don’t you get in the water?”

“No.”

“It’s
no fun sitting on the side.”

“It’s
plenty fun.”

I
doubted that. A little bikini like that was begging to get wet.

Along
with other parts of her.

“Just
dive in. You can sunbathe on a raft.”

“And
you’ll tip me in?” Now she did peek at me, her eyebrow raising as she
considered the lengths I’d go to touch her caramel skin. She had no
idea
how low I’d sink. “I’ll take my chances right here, thank you very much.”

She returned
to her book. Like the conversation was done because the little princess decided
it was over.

Nope.

I
hauled myself out of the pool, shaking my head to clear the sudden muffle to my
ears.

Waterlogged.
Christ, I was out of practice.

I
loomed over her chair—a ridiculously expensive, imported, island-style
cushioned chaise. Completely impractical for pool-side shenanigans.

Shay
was onto me. She kicked as I approached.

“Come
on,” I teased. “You look like you’re done. Golden brown and delicious, just the
way I like ‘em.”

“You
did just
not
say that to me!”

I
scooped her into my arms before she could untangle from her beach towel.

“Zach,
don’t!” She flailed. “I swear to God—”

“Come
on, Shay. The water’s fine…”

I
edged closer to the pool. Her squirming did nothing to free her. She only ground
the best parts of her into the most flattering parts of me. Shay smacked. I
tightened my hold.

“Don’t!
Zach! I will
never
forgive you!”

That
was a given. She hadn’t forgiven me for fucking her brains out the night we
met, and she wasn’t about to forget that I was named in her father’s will. I’d
take my chances on earning her mercy before Judgement Day.

I
jumped. She screamed.

We
hit the water with an epic splash that would have gotten my ass laughed out of
the SEALs. The heated pool was still cooler than the August air, and we
submerged in a blitz of bubbles and churning water.

Shay
flipped her fucking shit.

Her
flailing elbow jutted into my stomach, and her leg nearly crushed a part of me
already too swollen for effective swimming. She panicked with the grace of a
flapping goose and shouted under the water.

I
touched the bottom and kicked us to the surface. She sputtered, coughed, and
twisted before wrapping her arms over my neck and shimmying up my body to get
higher out of the pool.

“Holy
shit, Shay. Can’t you swim?”

I
ignored the flurry of profanity. I probably deserved it for nearly drowning the
object of my affections.

“Easy,
wait,” I said. “I gotcha.”

I
wrapped my arms over her, pulling her closer and holding her firm, well above
the water. She clutched me tighter, slamming her chest against mine.

I wasn’t
about to complain. She could bitch all she wanted, at least she didn’t dare
raise an arm to hit me.

“You
are
such
an asshole!” She buried her head in my neck.

“I
didn’t know you couldn’t swim.”

“What
the hell possessed you to toss me in?”

“It
looked fun.”

“Get
me out of here.”

I
grinned. “But we just got in.”

“Zach,
come on.”

“I’ve
got you. Nothing’s gonna happen. I’m trained in water rescue.”

“Who’s
gonna save
your
ass though?”

“You’re
not sinking. Enjoy it.”

Her
nails tapped against my shoulder. “Nothing to enjoy.”

“You
sure?”

I
edged into water deep enough for me to stand. She hadn’t uncurled her legs from
my waist. In a perfect world, she never would.

“Please
take me to the stairs.”

“Take
you on the stairs?” I glanced at the Mediterranean styled tile. A couple pool
jets bubbled close to the ramp. “I’d never refuse a lady.”

“You
are such a pervert.”

I was
getting tired of being called that. “I said lady, not sister.”

“Zach!”

“You
really don’t know how to swim?”

“No!
Get me out of this deathtrap!”

I
grinned. “You should learn. You never know when you’ll need that skill.”

“Like
when an asshole drops me into a pool?”

“
Exactly
.”

I
spun her around. She panicked like I tried to dunk her. My arms crossed over
her tummy, and she arched, touching as much of my chest as she could fit
against her back.

I
liked it, but I wasn’t about to hold a woman hostage just to feel that perfect
ass grind against my straining cock.

“Get
used to the water,” I said. “I guarantee you’ll love it.”

I
pushed her toward the wall. She couldn’t touch the bottom and freaked. I eased us
through the ripples, holding tight so she didn’t kick an unfortunate area
keeping us afloat. We reached the wall, and she grasped the edge like a cat
shredding through curtains. I didn’t let her escape, only moved behind her and kept
her still in the lapping water.

Pinned.

My
arms stretched alongside hers, gripping the wall and trapping her between my
bulk and the cement. She knew exactly what I was up to.

“
This
is a swimming lesson?” She asked.

I
pressed against her. She didn’t buck me away. “Best I could do without
floaties.”

“I’m
going to drown, and I’m taking you with me.”

I
laughed. “It’s all about getting comfortable in the water. Don’t worry. I won’t
make you dive and tie military knots like they did for my training.”

I
nudged closer. Her mocha skin glistened with droplets of water, and her
delicate neck begged for a gentle kiss. But I was a gentleman. Shay was worth
candle light. Roses. Champagne.

My
gaze settled on the pool jet, positioned
just right
for a treat better
than romance.

She deserved
something more fun. Something that would reward her for not clawing my eyes out
and tolerating the dunk into the pool.

I moved
her along the wall, inch by inch. “If you give it a chance, you’ll love the
water.”

“Doubt
it.”

“Really?
I always thought it was soothing.”

She
snorted. “You like it so much? Why don’t you slip under the surface and take a
deep breath?”

Oh, sure
she wanted to kill me
now
. All part of the plan. In a few seconds, she’d
be singing my praises. I chuckled and edged her a bit closer…

“Swimming
is actually a very pleasurable experience.”

“So
is kicking your lily ass—”

I nudged
her in front of the jet. The bubbled force hit that perfect crest between her
legs. Shay flinched so much she might have leapt out of the pool and taken half
the water with her. I didn’t let her go. I held her against me. Hard. Her tummy
pressed into the wall.

I
knew where that jet was aiming.

“Za—Zach…”

“Now
you’re getting it. The pool is nothing to fear.”

I
grinned, but she couldn’t see it. I doubted she saw anything. Her fidgeting
only trapped her closer to the jet. I knew that was a pressure she hadn’t felt
since I dove between her thighs and lapped at her perfectly sweet, perfectly
tight little pussy.

“I…Zach…”

Her
words trembled. I chuckled, leaning over her. “The secret to all of this? You
can’t be afraid of the water. Gotta be confident about it.”

“
Confident
…”

She
shuddered. When a wave of pleasure hit her, it crippled her. During our night
together, I clutched at her body as she collapsed into a helpless bundle of
sensations and overwhelmed intensity.

Absolutely
fucking sexy.

I
loved it. Every fucking minute of it. My women always enjoyed themselves, but
Shay made an orgasm into a religious experience.

I
had to see her come again.

I
had to
feel
it.

Three
fucking weeks had passed since I took her. I’d held her. Felt her. Pumped my
cock so deep inside her clenching pussy I thought her slit would rip it off,
and I hardly fucking cared. Her taste was on my tongue, her tightness still
tormenting my shaft.

Three
weeks was too long a wait.

The
least I could do was watch her crumble in my arms as I delivered her the
greatest orgasm she ever had. Shay could ignore me all she wanted, but touching
herself would never replicate the attention I gave.

Sex was
an art, and I was the most gifted son of a bitch she ever welcomed inside that
tight little slit.

And
she made one hell of a muse.

“You
just gotta give into it.” I grinned. “You can’t fight it. Got that, Shay?”