Hard: A Step-Brother Romance (9 page)

So
far, the sexual deviant was a perfect gentleman. His promise rang in my head.

The
next time he came into my bedroom, he wasn’t leaving till morning.

Thoughts
like
that
didn’t make the trip home any better. I pumped the radio and tried
to think of anything but how fun a forbidden all-nighter would be.

Sin.
Disaster. Perversion.

Muscle.
Power. His lips…

That
offer
.

I
screeched the car to a halt before I made it to the garage. I parked behind a
little, red Porsche that hadn’t been there when I left.

Who drove
the midlife-crisis-mobile?

I
edged out of the car, and my heels clicked against the walkway. The front door
abruptly opened.

A little
blonde bunny slipped outside. She squeezed Zach’s hand goodbye.

Oh.
He
had
to be kidding me.

I
crossed my arms and let my arched eyebrow do the talking. Blondie got the hint.
She fluttered her hair over her shoulder and batted her eyelashes at Zach. Her
baby-blues stared at him with
some
intelligence, but she was still
screwing around with a guy in a house that didn’t belong to either of them.

He was
such an
asshole
. My shoes were too good to kick his ass out.

First
a snotty professor who insulted my character, and now a step-brother
man-whore
who disrespected my home, inheritance, and my father’s estate?

No
wonder he earned his nickname. The bastard got hard for anything that let him get
close enough. If his
petty officer
waggled near me again, he’d be wise
to go on high alert—defcon one. One word, and I’d go nuclear.

“Zach.”
The blonde had a soft, sultry voice, and she wore a perfume to match. I’d never
get that rosy scent out of the furniture. “Promise me you’ll do as I say.”

He smiled,
but the dimples didn’t dig in deep. The dog knew he got caught. I was surprised
he could even feel shame.

“Always,
Gretchen.”

She
hummed. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because
if I listened, I’d never have to call you again.”

“You’re
probably right.” She donned a pair of designer glasses and glanced me over
before turning back to him. “I’ll see you next week.”

I pushed
past him into the house. He scheduled his sexcapades in front of me!

Goddamn
it. He teased me with a promise of a night of blind, perfect, passionate sex to
mirror the amazing night we had before. Had I less willpower, morals, and a
hell of a lot more alcohol in me, who knew what might have happened!

I
didn’t care
how
many centipedes he dispatched for me. He was a no good,
perverted, fiend who probably had a girl in every port. Now I was sure of it. He
wanted to get with me so he could humiliate me and take my family’s money.
Unbelievable.

The
front door closed. I stormed into the kitchen.
His
dirty dishes cluttered
the sink, including a glass with a lipstick print on it.

Gross.

Zach
followed me. He should have crawled on his knees to apologize.

“This
isn’t how it looks,” he said.

I
turned, facing a man who thought only with his cock.  “Oh, so you
didn’t
invite Goldilocks over to my house?”

“Our
house.”

“Don’t
start.”

“Look,
Gretchen is a close friend of mine. She was helping me with—”

“Stop,”
I said. “I don’t need the details. I know
exactly
what she helped
you
with. The same thing I helped you with two weeks ago.”

“Shay—”

“You
know what?” I took a cleansing breath. “You’re a grown man. You’re entitled to
do whatever or whoever you like to do.”

“Listen
to me—”

“I
don’t care what you do, Zach. Drink the milk out of the carton. Invite over all
your
friends
. But you
will
stay out of my way.”

“What
does that mean?”

“It
means, from now on, we’re two separate people in this house. I’ll live my life,
and you’ll have yours. I’m done with you.” I shoved the dirty plate and two
glasses into his arms. “You can buy your own food, wash your own dishes, and keep
out of my rooms. I want nothing to do with you.”

He
laughed. “You think you’re just going to…ignore me? We
live
together, Shay.”

“No.
We share the same house. That’s it.”

“The
least you can do is hear me out.”

“Oh,
now
you want to talk?” I poked at his chest. “Where was that initiative
two weeks ago? We needed to have a very important conversation before you
decided to fuck your
sister
.”

“For
Christ’s sake, you’re my
step
-sister.”

“You’re
only after what doesn’t belong to you. And not just me. This house. The money.”

He
had the audacity to get irritated. “The house and money are
legally
mine.”

“Not
for long. Once you’re gone, I’ll be glad to get your ass-print off my
furniture.”

I
left him with his dishes. He yelled after me.

“So
you’re giving me the silent treatment?”

That
was the plan.

“It
won’t work, Shay.”

Watch
me. I didn’t answer. He didn’t deserve it.

He
chuckled from the kitchen, setting the plates back in the sink.

Unwashed
.

“This
is going to be a fun game, Shay. Just you wait. You’ll break before I do.”

Like
hell. Nothing else was going to break around here. Not my resolve. Not my
anger.

And
not my heart…even if a tiny fragment already cracked.

Used
and hurt.

Sex
dreams didn’t count as incest…right?

I
mean, people couldn’t control what they dreamed about. What flashed in my head
wouldn’t damn me forever as a perverted, reprehensible sex-fiend. It just meant
that the heart-pounding, muscle-rending, core-clenching visions were the result
of my subconscious—a part of my mind that was much more deviant than I realized.

I
tried to avoid Zach, but three days of radio silence was hardly a punishment.
We still lived in the same space, and the mansion somehow shrunk to the size of
a walk-in closet. We bumped on the stairs. Brushed hands in the garage.
Accidentally blessed each other when we sneezed in the hall.

Zach
grinned whenever he saw me, and I fell for the dimples every time.

I
stayed away from him during the day. But at night?

My
dream had us meeting in the garden, embracing under the roses, and committing
delicious sins right there in the dirt. It was where we belonged. We were sex-crazed,
immoral menaces, and it nearly ruined our lives.

Zach
thought our indiscretions were harmless. After all, our parents weren’t married
that long. It was easy for
us
to rationalize, but if our friends or
families found out? That was a shame I couldn’t confront yet.

Hell,
I couldn’t even approach Zach after having the sexiest dream of my life. I hid
in my room all day just to steer clear of him. I longed to busy myself with
lesson plans, but nothing for my classes or student teaching gig had been
assigned yet. I checked the calendar. Four months until I graduated from
college, one semester early, all thanks to Dad. He bought me a couple extra
credits my freshman and sophomore year because I planned to get out into the
real world as soon as possible.

Everyone—even
my family and friends—assumed I wanted to inherit my trust early.

They
thought I was in it for the money, and I hated having that reputation. I wasn’t
a money-hungry, trust-fund baby, step-brother humper. That was
not
the
legacy I wanted to leave on this world.

Fortunately,
I could get rid of the step-brother easy enough. As soon as I got my trust, I’d
buy his stake in the mansion, and he’d be out of my life quicker than I could
say
skeleton in the closet
.

But
first, I had to live with the man-whore. Except who was I to judge him? I slept
with him, a complete stranger, just to have a quick, one-night stand. It was
the greatest sex of my life, but it didn’t make me a pillar of morality.

Still,
there was a
big
difference between me and Zach. He was an unrepentant playboy
who propositioned me, was rejected, and then immediately leapt into bed with
the first bimbo he could find.

A
woman he brought into
my
house.

It
shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

I
abandoned my laptop and ducked into a cold shower. It didn’t dull the fire in
my belly or the dreamy, forbidden fantasy that swirled in my mind. He wasn’t
worth my anger. Hell, he hardly deserved the passing glance I gave him when we
headed to bed last night.

I
just needed to clear my head. I spent entirely too much time thinking about that
ass.

Literally.

I was
supposed
to be enjoying myself. I had two weeks until my student teaching
job began, and I deserved a vacation from the insanity that was weddings,
funerals, inheritances, and incest.

My
stomach grumbled. Momma always said she could tell a proper lady in two
ways—how graceful she acted in the face of adversity, and the quality of her shrimp
and grits.

Well,
I already humiliated myself with my current adversary, including indulging in
activities in the bedroom I wasn’t sure had real names. The least I could do was
have a home-cooked meal.

I showered,
dressed, and spent too much time and money at the grocery store. Zach and I had
a new agreement.

What
was mine was
mine
.

What
was his could rot in the sun for all I cared.

I
bought my own food, claimed my own rooms, and smacked his hand when he stole
one of my chocolate chip cookies. We shared the house, and that was
it
. I’d
be damned if I let him near any of my desserts.

Including
me.

My
car’s trunk filled with groceries. I thought hauling the bags in from the curb
to my old apartment was difficult. No wonder people hired help in estates this
big. I was out of breath by the time I hit the hall and struggled just to lift
the plastic bags onto the island. I grunted and went back for the bottled
water.

Zach
watched it all in amusement. He munched on an apple over the sink, but he didn’t
offer to help—the silent treatment went both ways.

He
set a box of spaghetti, a giant pack of ground meat and sausage, and a can of
marinara sauce on the counter. I watched as he filled a pot too small for
noodles with water. He warmed a skillet for his meat and claimed the entire
cutting board for his mess.

What
an ass. It was no accident that he started cooking the instant I got home. He
just wanted to get in my way and under my skin while I made my dinner.

The
mature, responsible thing to do would have been to surrender the stove until he
was done. Screw it. I wasn’t letting that bastard chase me out of my own damn
kitchen.

Shrimp
and grits were on the line. Wars fought for less.

I
dropped the fresh shrimp on the counter—whole and raw like Momma and Gran
preferred—but the sink filled with his dishes. Two glasses were rimmed with his
chalky protein powder supplements. A plate smeared with mustard. The colander
for his spaghetti haphazardly angled to the side so he wouldn’t have to load
the dishwasher.

I scowled
and piled his mess before rinsing my shrimp. He laughed, still crunching on the
apple.

The
serpent in the garden had more tact that him.

But
I wasn’t going to scold him. He wanted that. Expected it. If he couldn’t get me
to talk, he’d try to rile me up. And usually it worked.

Not
this time.

No
way.

If
he was that bored, he could call little Miss Tasty-Cake for a romp.

I ignored
him as I cleaned the shrimp, but I needed the stove to get my bacon rendering
and the grits on to boil. Zach paid no attention to the chunk of meat he burned
in the skillet. I turned, nearly dropping the bowl of deveined shrimp.

The
gas burner
cranked
all the way up. His ground meat smoked and charred on
the bottom while the top quivered, pink and cold.

I wasn’t
about to help him fix his mess, but he’d burn the damn house down!

I
cleared my throat with all the subtlety of a cough with laryngitis. Zach
grinned, pitched his apple core away, and flipped the meat. Half of the charred
gunk stuck to the pan.

Then
he dumped the noodles into the pot.

Lord
have mercy, the water wasn’t even boiling.

Did
he have
any
idea how to cook? No wonder he ordered out, brought in
pizza, chicken, and hoagies. He wasn’t bulking—he was barely surviving on his
own. The boy was lucky he managed to cut a bologna sandwich in half.

Not.
My. Problem. I let him do his thing.

I
searched the lower cabinet for a pot to cook the grits and a skillet for the shrimp.
My father had excellent foresight in ordering three crystal gravy boats for
special occasions but only one suitable skillet.

Fine.
Shrimp and grits. From a wok. We’d call it
fusion
and I could sell it at
a sixty percent markup in a restaurant.

I
grabbed the dish. Zach moved behind me to stir his pasta. I rose, but my butt
bumped his legs.

Not his
legs.

Oh,
God.                                                                                                     

I
bent over, head in the damn cabinet, booty on display, and I knocked into his
hips
.
A rush of heat that should have gone to my cheeks decided to bolt straight down
to the troublemaker between my legs.

I had
deliberately ignored her this morning, a punishment for the dream about Zach.

Well,
that was a mistake.

I couldn’t
blame my reaction on the sexy dream. This particular bout of shame and weakness
was brought to me by the letter F—as in
Fuck, I should not be grinding
against my step-brother’s legs.
Terrible, sensual thoughts popped into my
head. I imagined his hands holding my hips. Fierce strokes of his namesake that
hit everywhere unholy inside me.

I
remembered him in both reality and the dream, everything from his dusty scent
to the monster between his legs. 

Hard.

My
senses came back to me…and they were pissed off.

Zach
was
hard
.

I
launched forward, crashing into the cabinet. The dishes and glasses above
rattled around, but the only thing broken was the spell that sleezeball put me
under.

I
grunted and untangled myself from the pots and pans, but Zach already turned
his attention, chiseling at the crispy flecks of meat in the skillet I needed.

He
whistled a little tune.

Like
nothing had happened. Like nothing passed between us. Like nothing about me
bending over even affected him.

And
why would it? The man-whore probably humped everything from here to Washington D.C.
while he was on leave—storing it up for the long winter of his deployment like
a perverted little squirrel. Money and girls. All the same to him.

So
why did I let him bother me?

I
gritted my teeth and slammed my wok against the stove. He turned off the
burner. His sausage was still pink but the ground meat was Cajun blackened. I grimaced
as he stirred the paste-like gloop that became of his noodles. The fool couldn’t
even feed himself. He needed a personal chef more than a mansion.

Didn’t
his parents teach him anything about the kitchen? He didn’t seem the home-maker
type, and, from the bits I heard about Emily, his mother wasn’t either. She was
the perpetual cleansing dieter—the one who ate a piece of ginger after every
five raspberries to catch the free radicals. Her wedding menu demanded free-ranged
chicken, cage-free eggs, deep-massaged beef, and non-GMO, pesticide-free, herbicide-free,
taste-free salads, so fresh you could see where the caterpillars had munched.

It
must have been her idea. My father used to eat McDonalds cheeseburgers he
accidentally dropped on the ground.

I
washed a knife and readied my ingredients, but curiosity burned me. I knew
nothing about Zach’s family or his mother. I hadn’t even asked.

But
nope.

I wasn’t
getting involved. I didn’t care what Zach did. My only concern was that he
didn’t imprint the taste of his insult to Italy into our best skillet.

I
added water to my pot and opened the bag of white, stone-ground grits. My
stomach rumbled in anticipation, but it sunk when I opened the fridge. I wanted
to keep our food separate, but getting the label maker was probably a little
overkill. I shifted the containers, moved the drinks, and searched behind
Tupperware’d leftovers. Then I uttered an uncouth word and groaned.

No butter.

Thank
God Gran wasn’t alive to witness this travesty. Only two sins existed in the
world for her—taking the Lord’s name in vain and substituting anything for butter.
Both margarine and profanity offended the baby Jesus.

 I
didn’t need Zach to sneak up behind me, summoned by my groan and the frustrated
shoving of his Gatorade from my shelf. He reached over my head, aiming for a
can of fake cheese that would be the best part of his meal. His arm brushed
mine.

My
heart stopped.

No,
it leapt into my throat, which was good because it prevented me from speaking
to him. In the drawer with his parmesan—butter. Four glorious sticks.