Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance (3 page)

My father had talked me
into going to this fundraiser, some bullshit equestrian land charity.
We didn’t usually pal around. He wasn’t exactly a fan of mine,
his one and only son who showed more interest in fighting and fucking
than in the family pastime of wealth accumulation. If that wasn’t
bad enough, I was attending a state school, a SUNY besmirching the
Helmsworth name. The horror.

But I was home for the
holidays, as if his Bel Air mansion felt like home, as if we
celebrated Christmas with relatives and Santa and home cooking, and
I’d let him convince me to come. These kinds of galas were usually
good for getting laid, anything with an open bar typically was. And
if a party didn’t have an open bar, I could always turn it into
one, using my father’s tab to loosen the taps and inhibitions right
along with them.

This party started off
the same as all the others. I surveyed the scene, bored as usual,
ready to drink myself into a stupor and fuck whoever threw herself at
me the hardest. Call me an asshole and I’d admit it. I never
pretended I was anything but, never apologized. I played games with
women who liked to play, like shooting fish in a barrel.

Then I’d seen her.
She’d been hiding behind a pillar watching the party. From where I
was standing, I could see a glimpse of her, that green dress and red
hair. I knew there was something different about her right away.
Apart from the obvious, of course—that hair was like nothing I’d
ever seen before. Nothing out of a bottle could ever look that rich,
that captivating, like loose, flowing flames

But it was more than
that. Most of the girls I knew, prep school girls, rich New Yorkers,
they’d been cultivated, groomed, trained from the day they were
born. Some of them started having their eyebrows waxed at age five.
They’d been on diets since they’d started solid foods. At
boarding school I knew a girl whose mom flew her home every weekend
so she could weigh her on the home scale and make sure she didn’t
gain a pound. True fucking story.

What struck me about
this girl was how fresh she looked. So unstudied, new, real. It
seemed like her first night out at a party and she looked radiant.

And I was a healthy,
red-blooded man, so of course it was her body that hooked me in good.
Slender, graceful, pale creamy skin you wanted to suck and bite and
mark, at least if you were a perverted fucker like me. I was a big
guy, pushing 6’3”, so a lot of girls seemed like munchkins. I fit
proportions all over and, honestly, some girls just couldn’t handle
all of me.

This girl, though, she
looked perfect. She had mile-long legs and I could instantly see them
wrapped around me as I drove into her, maybe fucking her against a
wall the first time. She could throw her arms around my neck and her
ankles around my ass and I’d plow into her as she screamed my name.

It was hard to tell
about her tits, she had a lot of structure up top in her dress, but I
sure wanted to find out. I bet she’d be unsure, inexperienced,
wanting my guidance about what to do. I’d love to see those full
lips wrapped around my cock as I taught her just what to do to suck
me right.

I’d been about to
approach her when she came up to get a drink. She wasn’t going to
talk to me, though. I liked that. I’d have to go get her. As much
as I liked an easy lay, the predator in me enjoyed having to hunt for
my kill.

She blushed when I
spoke to her and instantly my dick got hard. That skin, so pale, so
delicate. I knew if I spanked her I’d leave a nice, red mark. She
stammered at first, shy, her emotions so close to the surface, none
of the practiced flirtation I was used to encountering.

And she was funny. As I
drew her into a quiet, dark corner, the kind of spot where we could
go unnoticed even in a crowded room, she surprised the hell out of me
by making me laugh. We got some kind of running joke going about the
ridiculousness of the party. Insightful, witty, she had a brain in
that gorgeous head of hers. All the more fun to play with.

When I first kissed
her, dipping my head down to those luscious lips of hers, she tipped
her head back and responded so rapidly, parting her lips, seeking out
my tongue, making a few small sighs of pleasure. She might not have
much experience, but she ran hot. That drove me wild, how sweet and
intense I could tell she could be, just under the surface.

She felt so good
pressed up against the wall, so yielding and responsive, so feminine
and hot. For a good girl she was going bad fast. I had my hand up at
her breast and could feel her through the fabric, the firm peak of
her nipple pressing through, wanting, needing more. I wanted it bare
so I could pinch it, play with it, tease and lick and suck and hear
her moan. Had anyone ever done that to her before? My gut told me no
and I was filled with the primal urge to claim her, mark her, take
her as my own and do everything to her she’d never experienced
before.

Her body responded like
it had been made for me as I teased her nipples through the fabric of
her dress, playing with her tender, sensitive buds. When I pinched
her, light, her eyes closed and she gasped like she’d never felt
anything like that before. I wanted to be her first for all of it,
teaching her, showing her what it could be like. I could tell she’d
be the perfect student, eager to learn, so responsive. She’d come
undone under my tongue.

I inched my hand along
her dress, slowly, carefully, not startling my prey, working her
heat, stoking her fires, making her want this as much as me. I drank
in her pants, kissing her mouth, her throat, her chest as I worked my
hand up, drawing up her dress. In the corner, I could do this
unnoticed. My frame so large, hers smaller and more delicate, I could
shield her from view, take advantage of the shadows.

I could slip my finger
up into her silky folds and feel her heat. I knew she’d be wet for
me. So close, I had to touch it, had to feel her molten core. I
needed to stroke her pussy and watch her face as I did it, see her
plump lips part. I’d stroke her so good, coax so much pleasure out
of her, feast on her pants and moans, her throaty cries of need. Then
I’d drop my mouth to hers to drink in her scream when she came.

With a giant clatter, a
waiter near us dropped a large tray. Elaborate canapés flew
everywhere and the waiter swore, loudly.

She broke away first. I
still looked at her like I was drugged, mesmerized, lust dulling my
senses to everything but her. She seemed to notice something else,
though.

“Um…” She pointed
down. I looked and saw a cucumber slice with cream cheese and salmon
stuck to my pant leg, slowly sliding down.

“Nice,” I
commented, brushing it off.

Before I knew what was
happening, she was down helping to clean up the mess, scooping up
bits and pieces of food from the floor. No longer in my hands,
pressed against my body, but on her hands and knees. I’d like to
see her in that exact position, but I’d need to get her somewhere
more private first, back to my house. Or even better, one of the
suites in the hotel building upstairs.

“Oh, look here they
both are. In the same place,” some lady exclaimed, false gaiety
pumping up her voice like a hot air balloon. Next to her stood my
father.

Dimly registering shit
wasn’t going down the way I’d planned, I shifted my weight,
hiding the massive hard-on that pressed urgent and thick against my
pants. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed against my chest, I
took some deep breaths and waited to see what kind of shit my father
was about to pull this time.

The lady he was with
looked the part, frosty blonde hair pulled into a tight coif, big
unnaturally perky boobs squashed into a form-fitting gown. No wrinkle
furrowed her brow, she’d had plenty of work done. Exactly my
father’s type. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place
it.

Leaning down, she
hissed, “Jewel, did you knock over that tray of food?”

“No, Mom,” she
answered, instantly sounding like an embarrassed kid.

Wait, did she just say
Mom?

“Jewel, stand up,”
the woman sang out, sounding tense as fuck. She stayed on my father’s
arm like the piece of candy that she was and he drew himself to his
full height, still an inch shorter than me. “There’s someone I
want you to meet.”

As if in slow motion, I
watched this play out before me. The redhead I’d had up against the
wall, so close to finger-fucking I could still feel her trembling,
hot skin underneath my fingers. The one who’d riveted me, drawing
me to her with an animal magnetism I didn’t think I’d ever felt
before. She was my father’s girlfriend’s daughter.

Of course. Because my
life was fucked up. Sometimes I liked to forget about that. But it
never lasted long.

“Son, this is Candice
Kidd,” my father declared as if he were announcing royalty, the
pompous fuck. Candice Kidd, now I remembered. She’d done a few
movies back when I was a kid, the types about summer camps where the
girl counselor’s bikini tops always came undone but you didn’t
get to see anything good because it was PG. Cheap, forgettable, she
hadn’t worked in a while. I was sure she needed a steady paycheck,
and she stood right next to one now, dripping off of his arm.

And Red was her
daughter.

“Pleased to meet
you.” Candice stuck out her hand to me and I shook it.

Jewel glanced at me
quick, eyes wide, mortified, then looked away like she couldn’t
quite believe this was happening. Her lips now parted in shock and
embarrassment, but it didn’t stop me from picturing the same things
I had been a few minutes ago. Down, boy, I shifted my weight, willing
my painfully hard cock to catch up with the program. This was not
going down as planned.

“Tuck!” my father
boomed out in his fake TV-dad voice. Both performers, it occurred to
me that he and this woman might be perfect for each other. “Isn’t
it something you and Jewel are almost exactly the same age? She’s a
sophomore and you’re a junior!”

“Cool, Dad.” What
did he expect, Jewel and I to start playing with a train set or
launch into a game of tag like we were six? What the fuck? Part of me
wished he’d arrived a few minutes earlier, before the waiter had
dropped the tray. Back when my hand had been right on Jewel’s
delicious breast, my fingers so close to paradise between her thighs.
That would have made for an awesome intro.

Looked like I’d
missed that fucking boat. All that lustful admiration shining from
Jewel’s big green eyes? Gone. Now she looked anywhere but me and
seemed itching to run from the scene of the crime.

There went the fantasy.
I should have known. When something seemed too good to be true, it
was. That innocent, ‘ravish me as I never have been before’ vibe
she’d been giving off? That had to be an act. If there was one
thing I knew how to spot it was a scheming gold-digger, and that
mother of hers wore that label like a blinking neon sign on the Vegas
strip. No one with a mother like that could ever be that unpracticed,
that real, that natural. Jewel had a good game going. She had that
breath of fresh air thing down pat.

“So your mom is
Candice Kidd?” I asked her, condescension thick in my voice. She
looked down at the floor, not meeting my eyes.

“Why don’t you go
clean up,” her mother urged her with a crazy, bright laugh. I
noticed Jewel had a canapé stuck to her dress with a big cream
cheese smear.

Candice turned to my
father and apologized, “I’m sorry, darling.” The maternal
instincts on that one were strong. My father really knew how to pick
them.

I almost felt bad when
I saw tears swim in Jewel’s eyes. She did as she was told, turning
and disappearing into the crowd quick and fast. Not before I got one
last look at her luscious ass, her small waist flaring into a
generous swell and curve.

I turned away, angry at
myself for getting played. She’d lit a spark in me, made me almost
forget myself, woken me up from my boredom like a cool breeze. But it
wasn’t real. None of this scene was. The best thing to do was turn
my back on it, all of it. I knew that, but it turned out sometimes
even a 21-year-old world-weary, jaded son-of-billionaire could get
played like a sucker.

Jewel

I thought it couldn’t
get any worse. That scene at the fundraiser, when my mom had almost
found me getting down and dirty with her boyfriend’s son against a
wall? I’d thought that was as bad as things could get.

It got worse. They got
married. Valentine’s Day. So romantic.

At least our parents
hadn’t done a big wedding ceremony. I knew my mother wanted it, but
she wanted to be married to Tucker Leland Helmsworth II even more, on
any terms he wanted. She told me that they’d tied the knot
after-the-fact, after they’d eloped in some place called Turks and
Caicos. So now I had a stepbrother, Tucker Leland Helmsworth III.

The Valentine’s Day
they’d eloped, what had I been up to? Out for a romantic evening of
my own, roses and candlelight with my boyfriend? Not by a long shot,
not a nerd like me. I’d spent the night playing poker with my
geek-squad friends. We played for lunch, as in who’s buying who
lunch next week at school. We liked to pretend that poker was cool,
that it wasn’t as dorky as staying in on a Friday night to play
board games or Dungeons and Dragons. But, honestly, it was the same
thing. We drank lemonade instead of liquor, chewed gum instead of
smoking stogies, and kept our clothes firmly on, thank you very much.
No strip poker for this Victorian era women’s social club.

I didn’t tell anyone
what had happened at the party over Christmas break. My friends would
be scandalized, and not in that fun ‘tell me more’ kind of way.
I’d spent my entire life defining myself as the opposite of my mom,
from the way I dressed to the kinds of people I hung out with. They
didn’t play that way.