Stepbrother Gigolo (A Stepbrother Romance Book 1)
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Authors: Clare Cole
STEPBROTHER GIGOLO
Clare Cole
Copyright 2015 Clare Cole
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This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any situations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Ethan
I have one simple, ironclad rule when it comes to this business – never, ever fall in love.
Why would I need to? I have an incredible life. I'm 28 years old and living the dream, quite literally, in Las Vegas and with no shortage of beautiful, rich women begging me to spend time with them – and have sex with them – each and every night. The reality is, I don't – I pick my times to work carefully, maybe two or if I'm feeling into it, three nights a week. That's it. I could work 24 – 7 if I had to, but I don't. I need to keep an air of mystery about me, keep the demand high.
When you're in demand and repeatedly unavailable, women want you even more.
Who are my clients? You can take your pick from pretty much any sector of society. Some women are young, others are older. There's skinny girls and curvy girls, rich women and people who saved up just for one night with me. Many are single. Most are married.
No matter who it is, I give women what they want. Sometimes that’s companionship and just somebody to talk to. Most of the time, its sex. Hard, unbridled, passionate sex – the sort they can't get from their husbands or boyfriends. The sort they can't get from men they meet in bars because those idiots are too tanked up on beer to perform. When I make love to a woman, she damn well knows about it.
I'm very, very good at what I do. Scratch that, I'm being unnecessarily modest. I'm the best at what I do. I never, ever disappoint.
So, yeah, where was I? Oh, that's it. My rule – never, ever fall in love. It's a no-brainer, really. This is a lonely life I lead, quite a selfish one at times, but the pickings are rich and the rewards even richer. I don't have time for candlelit dinners and baths full of Kara petals. I don't have time for accommodating someone else's feelings. I have to be laser focused on being the absolute best that I can be and not letting anyone – or anything – ever get in the way of that. So, it's just common sense. Relationships are out. A complete no-no. Off-limits.
Yeah, well, I royally screwed that one up, didn't I? The second I set eyes on Kara again for the first time in three years I knew I was in trouble – trouble in a good way, of course. I started having those stupid little feelings for her that I swore I wouldn't get, feelings I’d spent a hell of a long time pushing to the back of my mind. I started thinking of her as more than just my stepsister. How crazy was I? She would threaten everything – my reputation, my business, my income, my life.
But, boy, was she worth it.
Kara
You know in the movies how someone's having a bad dream, like a nightmare, and they wake up, bolt upright suddenly? They're always tossing and turning from side to side, their body and the bedsheets soaked in sweat. At least, I hope its sweat. That would be bad enough, but anything else would just be full-on disgusting. Anyway, you get the picture.
Well, apparently that doesn't happen. Scientists reckon that when you fall deeply asleep and start dreaming, your body is kind of paralyzed. You start having rapid eye movements and all that stuff – I don't know the ins and outs, I'm not a doctor. But, hey, that's the long and the short of it. All that tossing and turning you see in movies isn't real. It's just for effect, to make it look like someone's all anguished and so stressed out, that they're sweating like Lance Armstrong in doping control.
Yeah, well, someone explain to me then how I woke up exactly that way – bolt upright with my hair matted to my head like someone had just thrown a bucket of water over it.
Figure that one out, smarty-pants scientists.
I had been dreaming, too, so if we believe the eggheads I should have been paralyzed in deep-sleep, snoring my little head off. Instead, my sheets looked like they’d just been taken out of a tumble dryer and thrown straight onto the mattress. My bed looked like it belonged to a college student, not a successful artist.
Wow. How arrogant did that sound? Not just an artist, people, but a
successful
artist.
That's not to say I wasn't a messy, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants college student at one point. I spent four years perfecting the art of eating terrible food and drinking enough alcohol to give a liver surgeon nightmares. But those days were behind me – unlike many people I knew, I had put my art degree to good use. I actually had a career where I got paid –
paid!
– for creating stuff.
That's what brought me to Vegas. You see, I've never subscribed to the theory of the struggling artist. I think it's entirely possible to make money doing something you love. For me, that's creating gigantic pieces of glass that play with light and color. I realized soon after leaving college that I was going to have to earn money somehow – $80,000 in student debts and the complete lack of a pot to piss in saw to that.
I had an incredible college lecturer who understood the reality of having to live in the real world as soon as I escaped the bubble of education. "Don't be afraid to make money from your creativity," she said. "All your so-called friends will see you as a sell-out and think you've lowered yourself. Ignore them. Sell your art to hotels, restaurants, sports clubs, nightclubs, strip joints – anywhere that needs something interesting on the walls. You can take all that lovely money and create as much so-called ‘real’ art as you want in your spare time. Being worthy doesn’t pay the bills, Kara."
Ah, yes. "Real" art. She was right all along – everyone I graduated with decided I wasn't a "real" artist the first time I sold a piece to a hotel for $25,000. I wasn't in any galleries, didn't have an agent, never put on an art show – but, boy, did I love having $25,000 burning a hole in my bank account! It was my first taste of being a commercial artist – someone who uses their creativity purely to earn money. When everybody else I knew started starving and complaining they didn't have any money, I was raking it in. Did I get any respect? No. None whatsoever. My lecturer had been right all along. But as much as I would have loved to create "real" art all day long, there's the slight issue of being able to eat.
Thankfully, I no longer have that problem.
Anyway, Vegas. They say what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas – right? Well,
I
had happened. A huge hotel had decided they quite liked my stuff and wanted to offer me obscene amounts of money for it – so I was more than happy to stay there.
The lure of work and easy money wasn't the only thing that had brought me to Vegas, however. There was also the small matter of Nick Carlisle.
Nick was a treat from my friends, a pick-me-up for being unceremoniously dumped for someone thinner, prettier and, well, blonder by my last loser of a boyfriend. That jerk. I should have known he was going to be a problem when Mike suggested taking me to a library so we could "feed our minds" and make out amongst the bookshelves
on our first date
. Yeah. That happened. That dude was in my life for seven months. What was I thinking?
He had nice abs. What can I say?
I'm a weak, weak person
.
Things came to a head when I came home to find him in bed with another woman. Not just any girl, either. She was slim, gorgeous and had perfect hair, even when it was all tousled and screwed up from resting on a pillow. Damn her. After punching Mike in the ribs so hard I hurt my fingers - I'm an artist, not a fighter - he woke suddenly with a scream and scared her so much she dived under the covers. At that point, I should have started screaming at the top of my lungs about what a bitch she was and throwing his stuff out of the windows. But no. Instead, I ran straight to the bathroom to be physically sick.
You never know quite how your bodily functions are going to react when you find your boyfriend in bed with someone else.
"Hey, Kara, don't be angry. This was inevitable, really. I've always said I've got just too much love to give for just one woman." Asshole - sorry, Mike - rubbed my back as I vomited the last of my lunch up. "It's not you, Kara, it's me."
I looked up between bouts of dry heaving. "Damn right it’s you. Is this your attempt to make me feel better?"
"No, baby. You don't need to feel bad about anything. I've always wanted to bring someone else into our life, you know that. Jenny's a wonderful person. Just like you, she's also got a banging body. I want us to explore each other’s sexuality, baby. Monogamy is so overrated."
"You think with your dick, moron," I spat, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Typical man. You want to be polyamorous? Fine. I take it I can bring home as many well-hung studs as I see fit to service me, too."
Mike's eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. "Whoa! I don't want that - you can't be, you know, putting yourself out there."
"So I'd be a slut and you'd be a stud, is that it?"
"Umm..."
"Take your misogynistic ass and get the fuck out of my apartment. And take your little bimbo with you."
His face dropped like a potted plant being dropped from a ten-storey building. "Her name's Jenny, baby. Don't be bitter."
"Get out! You've got thirty seconds before I take a flamethrower to the pair of you."
"You don't have a flamethrower."
I scowled at him. "Wanna find out?"
With that, Mike was gone from my life. He was a selfish, egotistical prick and I hated everything about him that day. But you know what? I still cried and cried and cried, long into the night. I blubbed like a freaking baby. My tears flowed like a waterfall, only tempered by lashings of Ben and Jerry's and the bad jokes of my best friend, Emma.
It was Emma who brought me here, besides the work. Emma had brought me to Ethan.
"You know what you need? You need wild, uninhibited, raw, primal, borderline illegal sex."
"Borderline illegal? I've never understood terms like that, Emma. Something is either legal or illegal."
She rolled her eyes. "Now is not the time for semantics, Kara. You've just been dumped by the world's number one asshole. You need one thing and one thing only."
I sniffed and wiped some more of my tears away." Which is?"
"Cock, silly. Big, hard, long, thick, vagina-filling, eye watering, pussy-stretching cock."
"That sounds painful as hell," I laughed. "I'm not sure that's exactly what I need, but the sentiment is nice."
"Rubbish! It's exactly what you need. And I know just the place to look. I was watching this TV show late at night where these male escorts basically service women left, right and center. They give them everything they need, no questions asked. We’re talking mind-bending, earth-shattering orgasms here."
I laughed. "Let me guess, you were masturbating at the time."
"Of course! You know me like an open book. Anyway, this isn't about me. This is about you and your need for big fat man-cock, remember?"
"I don't want a big fat man."
She slapped my leg. "Semantics again! Knock it off, I'm trying to help you here. This is for your own good. So, anyway, these dudes were all ripped to shreds, fantastic bodies and all that. Real studs."
"They probably take loads of steroids to look like that, you know."
"Who gives a shit? I don't care if they take an entire box of Viagra if they’re going to give me the best orgasm I've ever had in my life."
Now I was rolling my eyes. "I thought this wasn't about you."
"Well, okay, I'd be lying if I didn't say I didn't fancy it as well. But hey, I'll live vicariously through you! We'll go on the website, find a well-hung hunk to wine and dine you and after all that's done, he can screw any thoughts of that cheating loser out of your head. How does that sound?"
"Wonderful," I sighed. "The thought of resorting to paying for sex just fills me with pride and overwhelming amounts of self-confidence."
"Kara, don't be a prude. I insist, it's going to be my treat. Well, me and a few of the other girls. It might take a while, but we’ll all get together and have a collection…"
"Wait a minute, how much are you talking about here?"
"Well, we'll have to pay for flights and a hotel in Vegas…"
My jaw dropped. "Vegas? As in Las Vegas, Nevada?"
"No, silly, Vegas in Kazakhstan. Of course I mean Las Vegas, where the hell else would I mean? Anyway, on top of that, there's the small issue of $5000 a night for the man himself."
I shook my head. "No, no and no again. Thanks for the offer, but I don't want you to have to mortgage your cats on my behalf."
As I spoke, Emma flicked through some screens on her tablet before turning it over to show me. On the screen was possibly the most gorgeous man I had ever seen – Nick Carlisle, male gigolo. He had muscles that looked like they had been carved from stone and deep, dark eyes that instantly caused movements between my legs that made me want to head straight to the bedroom to pick out my favorite bullet vibrator.
"Still not interested, Kara?" She grinned.
"Well… now you mention it. If he’s for sale…it'd be a shame not to, wouldn't it?"
