His Plaything (3 page)

Chapter 5

Nixon

Although I stepped out of the shower a little calmer, I still had no game plan. What the hell was I supposed to do with this girl? Dad told me to be hospitable, so feeding her would be a good start.
Can't really go wrong with dinner.

I threw on some pants and took a quick inventory of the fridge and pantry; I didn't feel like going to the store again if I could help it. Corn tortillas. A bag of frozen shrimp. Rice. Salsa. Avocado. Seafood tostadas and Spanish rice? That was nice, right? Even if it wasn't, she probably wouldn't care; somehow I doubted there was good Baja-style food in London. But what did she like to drink? I scrounged around more and found a bottle of white wine from God only knew when. Sure, whatever. That was always a safe bet for female-friendly booze.

I screwed around in the kitchen for a little longer, setting a pair of plates at the breakfast bar so we wouldn't have to eat where I'd just spread my neighbor's legs. Then I cut up a lime, squeezed it into a nice cold Corona, and crashed in front of the TV. I had to talk to Avery eventually, but I sure as hell didn't want to ignite another screaming match. I'd wait to start cooking until she came out of her foxhole.

Just when I thought she'd died in there, I heard footsteps padding down the hall. I twisted around on the couch. “Hey, you—”

What was I saying again?

Avery was wearing a bikini. Not the most scandalous bikini I'd ever seen—far from it actually, since things got pretty crazy on southern California beaches. But it was sexy as hell. This was a girl who knew how to pick clothes that showed off her curves perfectly.

I didn't even try to avoid staring at her. What man could resist a sight like that? But at the same time, I wasn't some stupid frat boy who couldn't read the atmosphere. She was probably still gun-shy from earlier, and the last thing I wanted to do was start that argument again. So I kept my comments to myself and just said, “Don't stay out too late. Dinner will be on the table at seven, whether you're here or not.”

“Oh. Uh … okay. Thanks.” She seemed surprised, but didn't waste any time hightailing it out the door.

I considered an impromptu jerk-off session, starring Avery as a beach girl pin-up, then opted for a second beer instead. She'd probably forget her purse or some other damn thing and freak out at the sight of a man holding his own dick.

A little after six, I turned off the disappointing college football game on TV and started cooking. Just as I had brought the rice and tomatoes to a simmer, the front door opened. Right on time … she was more obedient than I'd expected. Or maybe she was just too hungry to care about making a point.

“Hey,” she said as she disappeared down the hall. A single word wasn't great, but I'd accept that as progress.

The shower turned on, then off; her bedroom door opened and shut. When I heard her footsteps again, I called, “Dinner's ready.”

“Did you sterilize the table?” she called back. “Is there anywhere else in this place I should avoid touching?”

Evidently she'd gotten her sass back while she was out. With forced calm, I replied, “I wiped it down. And we're not eating at the table, anyway. Use your damn eyeballs.”

She scoffed—that quiet, sneering throat-catch that apparently came pre-programmed in every college girl. I could almost picture her rolling her eyes, but the bar stool scraped as she sat down at her place setting anyway. I resisted the urge to make a smart ass remark and opted to just serve the food instead.

For almost ten minutes, we both focused on our meal in silence. At least her outfit wasn't quite so distracting anymore; she had changed into leggings and a white collared shirt. “Food okay?” I finally asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, it's great. Thanks.”

Another minute went by before I said the first thing that popped into my head. “You sound different.”

Her brows crinkled together. “What?”

“From when we met at the ranch. You sounded sort of British-y.”

“Oh … huh. I didn't think it would change back so fast.” She scraped up another spoonful of rice. “I guess it's because I'm surrounded by SoCal accents again.”

After another round of awkward silence, I put down my fork. Fuck it. This was getting painful. We needed to talk about our living situation, and if she was going to pretend like nothing was wrong, then I'd just have to bring it up myself. “Avery,” I said flatly. She looked up, and I continued, “I know our conversation earlier didn't go that well.”

She snorted. “That's for goddamn sure.”

My eyes narrowed, but I continued, “We need to talk about roommate rules or apartment etiquette or whatever you want to call it. How about we declare a do-over?”

She folded her arms. “Fine. Where do you want to start?”

So glad you asked, Miss Priss. Welcome aboard
. “First of all, there's only one bathroom. So you can't leave your girly shit strung out all over the place. I don't want to see a million shampoo bottles in the shower or any tampons lying around on the counter.” I knew that was a little petty, but fuck it. A man didn't get over being cock-blocked so easily.

“Well, since the big manly man is so
offended
by basic female biology, it's a good thing I don't get my period,” she snapped.

“What are you talking about? You on one of those crazy birth control shot things?” I asked. I have no idea why I asked—it was none of my fucking business. But … there was something in her tone bleeding through the retort, and her expression was dead serious … even somber.

She glanced down. I expected her to tell me to mind my own fucking business, but she didn’t.

“I … had cancerous cells,” she murmured.

Wait. What the hell?
This was definitely not the casual dinner conversation I had bargained for. I took a deep gulp of my beer while I scrambled for a reply. Goddamn it. How had I already managed to misstep again? And what could I possibly say to such a personal confession?

“I don't mean I had, like,
cancer
cancer,” she went on, saving me from having to think up a response. “But that's what killed my mom. So when they found malignant cells when I was twenty, I had to decide what to do. I could undergo a minor surgery, which would risk the cancer coming back someday, or I could get a complete hysterectomy. Just … pull everything out before it could turn on me.”

“Jesus,” I said, and immediately wished I hadn't.
How insightful. Nixon, you useless idiot.
I'd been seeing Avery as a girl, an immature nuisance with all the concerns of a regular college kid, when she’d already faced some rough shit. She'd watched her own mother die, realized that the same thing could happen to her, and refused to take her fate lying down. Outside my line of work, how many twenty-one-year-olds had been forced to confront their own mortality like that?

She nodded a couple times, more to herself than to me. “Mom was diagnosed when she was twenty-three, right after she had me, but I guess she didn't treat it aggressively enough … she died when she was thirty-one. I didn't want to make the same mistake. And I figured that infertility wasn't such a bad price to pay. If I ever wanted kids, I could always adopt.” She toyed with the last bite of her food. “At least I could plan on living long enough to raise them.”

Without thinking, I reached out to lay my hand on hers. All the bravado I usually relied on had fallen away. I still didn't know what I say, so I just said quietly, “I'm sorry.”

Avery looked surprised, but didn't pull back. “I … don't worry about it. It's in the past.” She smiled. “I guess I kinda killed the mood there.” I shook my head, opening my mouth to say it wasn't a problem, but she interrupted. “So what's it like being a SEAL? Is it really as dangerous as people make it sound?”

“It can be,” I replied. “But we train a lot, to make sure we're prepared in any situation.” I removed my hand from hers to tick off items on my fingers. “Swimming and scuba diving, armed and unarmed combat, setting and defusing explosives, rappelling, navigation, small-unit tactics … it takes over a year just to get your trident. And
then
you train in a specialty that's meant to complement your other partners' skills. It kind of never ends.”

She nodded slowly. “Wow. That sounds intense.”

I chuckled. “It's fucking brutal. But I love it. The adrenaline rush, the way I'm constantly testing myself and what I'm made of… Plus, I get to serve my country.” Remembering the question she had actually asked, I slowed down. “I should probably explain that SEAL stands for Sea, Air, and Land. The Navy originally created the SEALs for covert recon in coastal areas, but today, we initiate strikes from land and air, too. We also specialize in extreme environments: deserts, mountains, jungles, tundra. You probably heard about this on the news, but it was a SEAL team that got Osama bin Laden. We do kill-or-capture missions for specific terrorist targets, rescue hostages, stop militia activity… ”

Avery's expression had turned to awe. “So you're, like, a real-life hero.”

“Oh God, no. Don't say that. I'm just doing my job.” I knocked back the dregs of my beer; it should probably be my last for the night. “If I'm anything, it's a masochist.” Before she could get all hero-worship-y again, I changed the subject. “So what about you? You're studying fashion shit, right? Seems like you're really into it.”

She laughed. “Yeah—fashion shit. I've loved clothes and makeup since I was in middle school. It’s something me and my mom loved to do together, and I guess I just don’t want to let that go.” It was amazing how suddenly her whole face lit up.

“So what are you going to do with that after you graduate?” I asked.

She dipped her head. “If I could take my hobby and make a career out of it … I can't think of anything I'd rather do for a living. What I really want is to start a fashion blog. Not for celebrities—they have more than enough help already. Just for regular people.” Her smile softened into a strange sweetness. “Soccer moms, old ladies, teenagers figuring out who they want to be. Girls my age who're working minimum wage and living on ramen, but still want a splash of cuteness in their lives. Everyone deserves to feel their best and look how they want to look, no matter how little money or spare time they have.” She paused, suddenly self-conscious, her eyes darting back to me and then away. “But you probably think 'fashion shit' is silly.”

“Hey, I was just kidding.” I waved one hand slightly in a
calm your tits
gesture. “I can't say I understand what's so magical about it, but you obviously care, so … that's important. And it sounds like you're busting your ass to make your dream happen. I gotta respect that.”

She blinked, as if she'd expected me to make fun of her, then smiled again—big and bright this time. “You need any help cleaning up the kitchen?”

I shook my head. “Nah. I'll just throw everything in the dishwasher.”

Too late, I realized that she'd been making a peace offering. But she didn't seem offended. As she sipped the last of her wine, I started gathering all the dirty plates and pots, still trying to get used to having another person in my space.
Seems like the kitten has her cuddly side—when her claws aren't out.
Actually, you probably couldn't get one without the other; the same passionate nature that made her fierce also made her warmhearted. She was still a little bit naïve and innocent, but that was cute rather than annoying.

For the second time today, it struck me that I wanted to learn more about her. That was an unfamiliar feeling. My job demanded a lifestyle that didn't mesh well with typical dating stuff, so the getting-to-know-you phase wasn't something I reached very often. But I was stuck with Avery for the next couple months. So why the hell not?

Chapter 6

Avery

After dinner, I found myself sitting on the living room couch with Nixon, holding a fresh glass of chilled Chardonnay. I was starting to get tired and maybe a little buzzed, but the tension between us had started to lighten, and I didn't want to let it slip away just yet. How did a day that had started with walking in on my naked, erect stepbrother having sex—not to mention the insane argument that had followed—end with us chatting over dinner like friends?

Normally I never talked about Mom's death, especially not in my first conversation with someone new. But for some reason … I couldn't put my finger on it, but I'd felt like I could trust him. And he hadn't disappointed me, even if he hadn't quite known how to respond.

I couldn't forget the way his eyes had lit up when he talked about being a SEAL. His devotion was so intense—but I'd glimpsed a humble, sweet side, too, when he'd waved off my awed compliment. And I definitely hadn't expected him to care about my love for cute clothes. Even though his job was so much more serious, he listened to me talk about my career as if fashion were just as important as nabbing bad guys and saving lives.

However, the easy atmosphere soon became strained again. Nixon was leaning forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, letting his beer dangle precariously between his fingers. “There's still one last thing we need to talk about,” he said. “This whole 'no strange women in the condo' rule...you're kidding, right?”

I swallowed my sip of wine and shook my head firmly. “I'm still one hundred percent serious.”

“Well, then I'm just as serious about my offer from before.” He looked at me, unblinking. “I'm a red-blooded man, Avery. I already told you I've spent nine months in the Middle East, and the only action I saw was with my own hand. So I'm going to get laid and that's all there is to it. If you're living with me until you graduate, and you don't want other women coming around, then … ” His lips quirked and he shrugged. “There's an easy solution. We've got two willing participants sitting right here.”

I scowled, ignoring the spark of warmth that flickered in my belly. This bullshit again? I was starting to think he'd learned his lesson, but that had clearly been too much to hope for.

“Two willing participants? You might want to count again. Use your fingers if it helps.”

An evil smirk pulled at his mouth as he shook his head slowly. “Come on. Don't think I didn't see you staring at my dick earlier.”

Every cell in my brain screeched to a halt. I opened my mouth to deny it, to call him a stupid pervert or retort with a witty comeback or
anything
. But not a single word came out.

“You made sure to get a good, long eyeful before you scampered off. Now, why would a healthy young woman do that?” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Hm? Could it be that even
you
have physical needs?”

I finally choked out, “Y-you don’t need to talk about me and
needs
in the same sentence.”

“Hey, you don’t have to get defensive.” Ignoring my splutters completely, he went on, “This doesn't have to be a big deal. It's just sex.” He turned toward me, his eyes smoldering, and I felt myself heat up again. “No strings. Whenever we want.”

I had lapsed back into speechlessness. He set his beer on the coffee table and relaxed into the couch. “The way I see it, this would be a win-win. I've been with enough women to know what the hell I’m doing.” His hand slid up to the top of his thigh. I swallowed, unable to look away from his zipper. Was that just a fold of denim, or was it a growing bulge? “I can make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

“S-stop it,” I mumbled. I didn't want to hear more. Or rather, I desperately wanted to hear more—but I didn't
want
to want it.

He waved his hand almost lazily. “Well, anyway, my point is: We can both work off some tension. And you can have your damn nookie-free zone.” He grabbed his bottle again and took another sip of beer. “The offer's on the table. That's all I'm gonna say. When you decide, you know where I'll be.”

Yeah, I did. I knew exactly where he would be—never more than a few short yards away, never letting me forget the images he'd put into my mind. Parading his gorgeous body in front of me. Undressing me with his eyes. Even now, I could smell his fresh, masculine soap. It was different from his earlier musk, but still intoxicating. How could I concentrate on anything when I could feel his presence in the air itself, like a living promise of sex? How was I going to go about my normal life with Nixon permanently at the edge of my awareness?

More importantly, why hadn't I told him to go to hell yet? I should have already been down the hall by now, screaming and slamming my bedroom door. My brain must have gone on vacation. That was the only explanation for why I was still sitting here, listening to Nixon's crazy proposal with eyes wide and jaw dropped. Sure, we had made an unexpected connection over dinner earlier, but all the little heart-to-heart moments in the world couldn't make this idea okay.

“Y-you're basically my stepbrother,” I managed to spit out at last. “Wouldn't that be fucked up?”

He shrugged. “If we're related, it's only on the slimmest possible technicality. So … no, not really.”

“
Yes
, really!” I was getting frustrated. How could he still not understand me? It was like we were both looking at the same paint chip and seeing two different colors. “Cynthia is my stepmother, so when she married Russ, he became my stepfather. Do the math.”

“What about Emma and Ford? Nobody cares that they're together.”

“I, uh… ” Honestly, I hadn't given their situation all that much thought. I'd just accepted it as the way things were. But it was true that, on paper, they were much more closely related than me and Nixon…

I shook my head. That train of thought was dangerous; I needed to get this conversation back on track. “This is about us, not them,”  I insisted. “It doesn't matter what you think. I consider you my stepbrother, so that's all there is to it.” Maybe if I said that enough times, he would start to believe it—and the responsible part of my brain would wake up and chase away all these filthy thoughts.

“Hm. Fair enough. Still, though, it's not like we'd be breaking any laws.” I didn't answer, and Nixon rubbed his stubbled chin, quiet for a moment. Then he abruptly asked, “How many men have you been with?”

What the fuck?
Outrage ripped through me, leaving me gaping and blinking at him like a fish out of water. Where did he get off asking something like that? How dare he! But when I drew a breath to yell
none of your goddamned business
, what came out was, “One.”

A slow, lazy, downright sinful smile curled up his lips. He looked like a cat that had just spotted a bird with a broken wing. Like he had me right where he wanted—and he'd toy with me at his leisure. “Really?” he purred. “In that case … I can show you things you've only dreamed of.” His voice lowered to a near-groan. “You'd be so fucking tight around my cock, Avery. I'd probably have to work you open with my fingers first, until you were soaked and shaking and desperate for me. Then I'd slide in nice and slow, letting you feel every inch, before I got rough… You wouldn't know what hit you.”

I almost gasped. Every word flashed straight between my thighs with throbbing heat. Nixon licked his wickedly upturned lips and my pussy ached, wanting so badly to feel that flicking tongue on my clit. Wanting that long, thick cock to fill me up until I couldn't think about anything but pleasure. The part of me that understood things like
shame
and
stepbrothers
was on the verge of being kicked out of the driver's seat. If Nixon so much as touched my knee, my legs might fall open. If he climbed on top of me right now, I'd let him—hell, I would beg him—to give me all he had.

Abort, abort!
my brain screamed at me. I had to seize back control, right now, or my own body wouldn't give me another chance.
I leaped up, putting my wineglass on the coffee table so quickly I almost tipped it over. “I-it's late,” I stuttered. “I think I should call it a night. Sorry.”

Without waiting for his reply, I fled from Nixon for the second time that day. I didn't even look back as I hurried down the hallway. I really wasn't sorry at all, but I still didn't want to see his reaction. I didn't know what would be worse: him frowning in disappointment, shrugging in
oh well whatever
apathy, or staring hungrily at my ass. I couldn't deal with any of it right now. I'd had too much wine, too much traveling, too much sun, too much testosterone in too small a space. The bottom line I was coming to: nothing about this night was my fault.

Over and over again, I tried to excuse myself for my rampaging hormones. But when I had brushed my teeth and changed into my pajamas and snuggled up under the silky-smooth sheets, I realized that I'd never actually told Nixon
no
.