Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance

OFF
LIMITS:

A
STEPBROTHER MMA ROMANCE

CALLIE
HARPER

Tuck

I like to fight
and I like to fuck.

Now’s my shot to
fight for real, step out from my billionaire father’s shadow and be
my own man. This summer’s all about going after my goal of becoming
a pro MMA fighter.

The problem is the
girl I want to fuck. She’s driving me crazy with her little yoga
outfits, her creamy skin, luscious curves and wide-eyed innocence.
Normally, I’d hit it and quit it, get her out of my system and
focus.

But she’s my
fucking stepsister. And she hates me. This summer we’re supposed to
spend eight weeks together living under the same roof.

I need to taste
her. I won’t rest until she’s writhing beneath me, begging me to
let her come. I’m a man who gets what he wants, and what I want now
is Jewel.

Jewel

I want him so bad
it hurts. I’ve never felt this way before.

I’ve never had a
problem keeping my distance from bad boys. The more muscles, tats and
testosterone, the more I ran the other way. I learned my lesson,
growing up with a trainwreck of a mother.

Until now.

Tuck makes my
panties melt. He keeps me up at night, twisting in the sheets,
obsessed with fantasies while I touch myself.

But he’s my
stepbrother. And he’s an alpha, dominant asshole.

We’re sharing a
house and he’s walking around shirtless, every inch of him ripped
with hard muscle, sweaty after his brutal workouts. I don’t think I
can hold out much longer. I’ve always been the good girl, but he
makes me want to be bad.

***Off Limits is a
standalone stepbrother romance novel with a HEA (85,000 words).

Copyright © 2015 Callie
Harper

Cover
Design Jada D’Lee Designs

Ebook
formatting by Jesse Gordon

All
rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to
real events, people, or places is entirely coincidental. All rights
reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any
format without the permission except in the case of brief quotations
used for review. If you have not purchased this book or received a
copy from the author, you are reading a pirated book. Thank you for
your respect for the author’s work.

The
author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in
this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without
permission.

This
book contains mature content, including graphic sex. Please do not
continue reading if you are under the age of 18 or if this type of
content is disturbing to you.

NOTE:
all characters in the book are 18+ years of age, non-blood related,
and all sexual acts are consensual.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

• CHAPTER 1
  
• CHAPTER 2
  
• CHAPTER 3
  
• CHAPTER 4
  
• CHAPTER 5
  
• CHAPTER 6
  
• CHAPTER 7
  
• CHAPTER 8
  
• CHAPTER 9
  
• CHAPTER 10
  
• CHAPTER 11
  
• CHAPTER 12
  
• CHAPTER 13
  
• CHAPTER 14
  
• CHAPTER 15
  
• CHAPTER 16
  
• CHAPTER 17
  
• CHAPTER 18
  
• CHAPTER 19
  
• CHAPTER 20
  
• CHAPTER 21
  
• CHAPTER 22
  
• CHAPTER 23
  
• CHAPTER 24
  
• CHAPTER 25
  
• CHAPTER 26
  
• CHAPTER 27
  
• CHAPTER 28
  
• CHAPTER 29
  
• Unleashed: Hot Alpha Romance(The Beg for It Series)
  
• Unleashed: Hot Alpha RomanceVolume 1
  
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  
• CONTACT
  

Jewel

He looked like the kind
of man you wanted to rip your clothes right off of you. Like a huge,
sexy, rugged pirate, stepped right out of the historical romances I
loved. But also kind of like a Sean Connery 60s-era James Bond, suave
and tall in a classic tux perfectly tailored to fit his large frame.
The party was just getting started, but he already had the late-night
look with his bow tie hanging loose, his white shirt slightly
unbuttoned. My panties got wet just looking at him.

I blushed at my own
thoughts. They weren’t the kind I normally had. Calculations for
science labs, worrying if I’d be late for an obligation, that was
what usually filled my head as a sophomore at a preppy all-girls
college in Massachusetts. But standing there at that party my mother
had dragged me to, I forgot all of that.

I hadn’t wanted to go
to the black tie charity affair that night, but my mom had insisted.
She craved the spotlight. I shrank from it. But she said that there
was someone special she wanted me to meet, the guy she’d been
seeing for the last couple of months. I’d been hearing a lot about
him. He was so rich! Had she mentioned how rich he was? Cross your
fingers, this could be the one! But I’d heard that plenty of times
before. It got so you tuned it right out.

She’d been pretending
to be interested in polo lately, the game with the horses and
mallets. You know what she liked most about polo? The rich men who
attended polo matches. The charity event that night had something to
do with raising money for equestrian land conservation. What was that
exactly? She pretended to be passionate about the cause, told me the
equestrian industry needed our support. I tried not to roll my eyes.

I’d had some fun
getting ready for the party. Mom talked me into wearing green that
night. I usually tried not to call attention to my red hair. It drew
enough attention to itself as it was. Thank God it had toned down a
bit from the orange of my youth. I liked to pretend it looked auburn,
though in full sunlight I swear it was fire-engine red. Basically, my
hair belted out a solo of color when all I wanted to do was blend in
with the chorus.

But my mom certainly
knew how to take advantage of assets, and she chose a flattering
dress for me. She knew a lot about lingerie and supporting structures
and by the time she’d rigged me out I looked like the perfect
hourglass. I was still getting used to my curves. I was what you
called a classic late-bloomer. I’d had a long, awkward stretch,
made all the more awkward because my mother happened to be a movie
star.

Or had been. She was
now decidedly on the B list, but you’ve still probably heard of
her. Candice Kidd. At 14 she’d been discovered in a shopping mall
in Illinois. She still loved talking about it. She started modeling,
living unsupervised and mainlining coke like the rest of the
malnourished, overpaid minors with whom she shared an apartment in
New York. At 18, she made her big crossover, heading out to L.A. to
launch her acting career.

At 18 she’d also had
me, a minor footnote on her Wikipedia page. My dad was some agent
she’d partied with one night, but he’d never been involved. While
I’d been shunted off on whatever neighbor she could impose on or
babysitter she could afford for a little while, she started snapping
up any acting part she could, working her way into America’s hearts
or at least the pants of American males. She had a couple of bit
parts in teen romps, the kind set in summer camps where bikini tops
came off during mud fights. Where at 14 she’d been 5’10” and
all skin and bones, by 18 she’d filled out big time. That’s when
Hollywood took over.

Her big moment, the
apex of her career, came with a moderately successful romantic
comedy:
Springtime in Paris
.
You’ve probably seen it late at night on TV. There was the cute
meet, the typical hijinks and mix-ups, then all was lost
until—surprise! Everything worked out in the end.

Fast forward 15 years
and Candice Kidd was your basic has-been starlet, a few stints in
rehab, a few years making headlines as the girlfriend of Zane Black.
Nothing like a heroin-addicted lead singer in a band to bring
stability to a happy home. She hadn’t been in the headlines for a
couple of years, thankfully, but for most of the past decade she’d
been good for a juicy gossip story.

What had I been doing
through it all? The exact fucking opposite. Some of my first memories
were of my mom vomiting from too much booze or sleeping off a
hangover. I watched her cry into her rum and coke after she got
dumped, then a few weeks later clean up all bright, shining and
hopeful over some new guy. Repeat cycle.

I vowed I’d never be
like her, and so far so good. I kept my head down in high school, as
much as possible that was. It was hard to be stick-skinny with
flaming orange hair and freckles in a Southern California high school
where the rest of the student body was either cool and Mexican (think
Latin hip-hop video) or surfer dudes (teen beach movie). I fit right
in. Not.

But I used that to my
advantage. I had a lot of time on my hands. I studied and then
studied some more and what do you know I’d won myself a college
scholarship.

I loved it at my safe,
small, all-women’s, ivy-covered New England campus. That was my
comfort zone. Not black tie galas.

When we got to the
party, my mom said, “I want to introduce you to someone. Try not to
spill anything on your dress. And don’t disappear on me.” Then
she promptly disappeared into the crowd. I watched her and sighed. I
was used to it.

I made my way over to a
dimly-lit corner and found an inconspicuous spot behind a pillar. I
had a glass of champagne to sip, and I settled in to people-watch,
one of my favorite pastimes.

That’s when I saw
him. The most outrageously handsome, dark and brooding man I’d ever
seen in my life. Up until that moment, I’d never really understood
what all the fuss over guys was about. While all the teenage girls
around me in school had twittered and preened, I’d rolled my eyes.

Now, I felt like I’d
been hit by a Mack truck. My knees weak, my pulse instantly racing,
it wasn’t just the champagne that made me feel tipsy. I was
grateful I was standing in a corner where I could lean against some
structural support. From my dark, private spot I took him in, all of
him. Standing well over six feet tall, he looked so big, so powerful
in his stance with his feet splayed apart, hand in one pocket. Dark
hair, dark eyes, massive shoulders tapering down into a slim waist.
He stood next to the bar, surveying the scene like he owned the
place. He didn’t look too much older than me, but he looked so much
more experienced. A bit of stubble played along his strong jaw as if
he hadn’t shaved for the party, too cool for that. He looked both
perfectly at home in the midst of a wealthy gala and also above it
all, glowering and rough.

A shiver traveled down
my spine. His hair had that careless look, tousled just enough as if
some woman hadn’t been able to keep her hands off of him. I knew
how she felt. I was so attracted to him it hurt.

It wasn’t just me,
either. I’d heard the phrase before: chick magnet. All he did was
stand there looking impossibly gorgeous and strapping and women
flocked over to the bar to make eye contact, fluff their hair, and
offer a word or two of flirtatious small talk. I took it all in from
behind my pillar, spying on him. I gave meaning to my own phrase:
wall flower.

I took pleasure in the
fact that he didn’t seem interested in any of the women who threw
themselves at him. He’d acknowledge them, offer a comment or two in
return which would make them laugh and ruffle up their feathers. But
then his dark gaze would return to the crowd. He’d sip his drink
and, without a word, dismiss them.

He was bored, I
realized. Maybe he didn’t want to be there. Like me.

I couldn’t help
myself. I made my way over to the bar, too. He had a hypnotic pull I
was helpless to resist. I had to draw closer.

It wasn’t as if I
thought he would be interested. I’d seen him dismiss women far
hotter than me. This was L.A., after all, where young, gorgeous women
grew thick on the vines. After the party got going there was bound to
be some starlet or teen popstar who’d show up with her entourage,
the “it” girl of the moment. Surrounded by buzz, that’s the
type who had a shot at capturing his attention.

Ordering another glass
of champagne from the bartender, I felt acutely aware of his
nearness. He stood so close now I could almost feel his presence, but
I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact.

So I was shocked to
hear his voice, deep and sexy like I knew it would be. “Hey, Red.”

I blushed furiously.
I’d heard that nickname enough times to know for sure he was
talking to me. But the way he said it didn’t make me feel awkward
or funny-looking. The way he said it made me feel hot.