Stepbrother Master (4 page)

              Cold concrete under bare feet. Arms raised high, chafed with rope, leaving me helpless. I couldn't even turn my head, but I knew Ford was behind me. I felt his eyes on my naked body.

              Suddenly he gripped my hips. His fingers dug in, rough enough to bruise. His hot, hard cock pressed against the small of my back like a branding iron. I moaned through the leather strapped tight between my teeth and rose on tiptoe, grinding back onto him, begging my captor to do his worst. One strong hand slid around my belly, lower, between my thighs…

              I blinked awake, disoriented. It took me a full minute to figure out where I was. When the drowsy haze finally cleared, I threw my pillow at the wall, suppressing a yell of frustration. I didn't know which was worse—my subconscious mind betraying me like that in the first place, or my conscious mind cutting me off right when I reached the good part.

              It had been less than a week since I arrived. Less than two days since Ford had cornered me in my bedroom over what I'd seen. He had finally broken the sexually charged stalemate between us—leaving it to heal in a new, even more agonizing shape. Now I knew how his lips felt on mine. How talented his fingers were. What kind of things he wanted to teach me.

              At night, I tossed and turned, trying to forget. During the day, I avoided Ford as much as possible by throwing myself into last-minute wedding preparations. I could no longer deny that I wanted him. But I couldn't give in, either. Becoming obsessed with my own stepbrother was wrong on so many levels. And not only was he my stepbrother, but he was a Dom, and a manwhore—something I had no business lusting after. I needed to move on, to clear my head of the X-rated thoughts he and his hot body and large cock had created, and enjoy my last summer of freedom with my mom.
Right. Like that’s going to happen.
I was officially hornier than a teenage boy on a porn set.

              “Emma? Emma!”

              I blinked. “Huh?”

              “I said, could you pass me the scissors?” Mom repeated with a touch of impatience in her voice.

              “Oh. Sure.” I gave her the scissors I'd been holding while I spaced out.

              We were sitting at the kitchen table preparing party favors for the guests. Mom had ordered a box of artisanal goat-milk soaps—a phrase I never thought I'd encounter—with the idea of wrapping them in cute little cheesecloth bags. My job in our two-woman assembly line was to tie them shut with pink ribbon. However, because Ford had driven me temporarily insane, I was now up to my elbows in goat soap.

              Mom cut a few extra squares of cheesecloth for herself, then looked up at me again. I prayed that
I almost banged Ford
wasn't written all over my face. When I'd been a teenager, she could practically read my mind if she wanted to. Or maybe I was just a terrible liar back then.

              “Are you feeling okay, sweetie?” she finally said. “You've been so distracted lately.”

              I knew she didn't mean it in a scolding way, but I still felt guilty. Her big day was tomorrow and I couldn't get Ford's dick out of my head long enough to help. “I'm fine, Mom. Just thinking about—” I picked up a packet and cast around for something plausible. “My job offer. I have to find an apartment in D.C. and get my fingerprints taken and, um … like a million other things before I start in the fall.”

              Mom nodded sagely, her smile turning a little bittersweet. “It's a lot to worry about,” she said. Then she laughed. “Growing up isn't much fun, is it? At least I still have a few more months to spoil you.”

              I stared down at the round soap cake in my hand. She was right. Now that I had found a real adult job, we wouldn't have many more days like this. Sure, I'd have holidays off, but I still wouldn’t see her nearly as often as I used to. For a last one-on-one summer with Mom, I was more than willing to put up with Ford's weird behavior—not to mention my own.

              “Careful not to hold it too long,” Mom said briskly, already tying the ribbon on another little satchel of soaps. “It might melt.” Her tone sounded exactly like it had when I was eight, on the verge of losing my ice cream cone to the hot sun.

              I swallowed the knot that had suddenly formed in my throat. “Hey, Mom?”

              “Hey, Emmie?” she echoed, teasing.

              But before I could finish, Celeste pattered into the kitchen. “How you ladies doing?”

              I felt a stab of annoyance at the interruption.
We were doing just fine before you barged into our Lifetime moment.

              “Oh, you know … slow and steady,” Mom replied with a wave of her hand. “Thank you so much for all your hard work. I wasn't sure if we'd be ready in time, but I think we're going to make it.”

              “No problem—it's my job, right?” Celeste glanced down at the dirty tiles and sighed. “Although I wish certain menfolk would take off their muddy boots before tromping through the house. I just cleaned the first-floor bathrooms yesterday, and here I am again.”

              “Everybody's talkin' 'bout me,” sang a male voice from outside. The screen door banged open and Mac breezed over to the kitchen sink.

              “Isn't the song 'everybody's talkin'
at
me’?” I pointed out.

              “Poetic license.” He started filling a glass with water. “Don't tell Ford I came in here. I'm almost done settin' up them tables for the reception … I just needed to wet my whistle.” With a wink at me, he added, “And steal a minute with you three lovely girls.”

              Celeste gave him a tight smile. If Mom hadn't been in the room, I had a feeling that she would have told him exactly where to stick his whistle. Although, I wasn't sure whether she wanted Mac to fuck off or just pay attention to her instead of me.

              Mom just chuckled. “Careful, hon. I'll be a married woman soon.”

              “But that's rule number one,” Mac said. “Always have somethin' sweet to say to the boss's wife … at least, when the boss ain't around.” He cocked his head in my direction. “Same goes for the boss's daughter.”

              Too late, I realized that he was waiting for me to respond. I'd totally dropped the ball.

              Mac was pretty damn cute, and he seemed like a fun guy, but I just couldn't seem to get into the swing of flirting with him. The same thing always happened with TJ, too. Neither of the ranch hands could measure up to Ford. He was just … on another level. Sexy, masculine, in control, effortlessly confident. Even when he acted cold, it only made the rest of him hotter by contrast. And two nights ago, I'd glimpsed what he was like when he let himself burn.

             
It figures that I'd get hung up on the one guy around here I can't have.

              Well, that wasn't exactly true. I
could
have him. He'd made it pretty obvious what he wanted to do to me. Hell, he literally gave me an open invitation to his bedroom. But the point was, I shouldn't. No matter how curious I was about submitting to Ford. No matter how much I wanted to share the pleasure that his “pet” had so clearly been feeling.

              On that night, crouched spellbound outside the tack room door, something had caught fire inside me. A raw, animal part of me that I didn't even know existed—and I was dying to explore it. But there were certain lines that should never be crossed. I tried to ignore the little perverted voice in my head that whispered,
he's only
technically
your brother
.

              Mac swigged his water awkwardly. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

             
Shit.
I'd been staring off into space and totally dropped the conversational ball. Again.

              Looking disappointed, Mac put his glass on the drain board and went back outside. Mom turned back to me. “Did you want to ask me something, sweetie?”

              I shook my head. “Never mind, it wasn't important.” Celeste had sat down at the table, wiping her brow, and she was the last person on Earth I wanted to bare my soul around. I glanced out the kitchen window just in time to see a shirtless Ford carrying a heavy box of decorations under each arm. I quickly concentrated very, very hard on the tiny bow I was tying.

* * *

The next morning dawned warm, clear, and windless. The perfect day for a wedding.

Guests started arriving soon after our late breakfast; Russ offered them coffee and seats in the living room until they spilled out into the backyard. Most were here for him, but a surprising number of Mom's relatives and old school friends showed up, too. They lent a hand or watched as Ford, TJ, and Mac set up lawn chairs and rolled out a wide white carpet leading to the gazebo by the private lake. As maid of honor, I was happy to hide indoors and help Mom with her gown and makeup. I would be forced to stare at the best man soon enough.

At the first low notes of the band, I held Mom's train up and walked her to the altar. Ford wore the slightest possible smile as he stood behind his father. Not exactly ecstatic, but not cranky, either. Had he started feeling more positive about his new stepmother? Or was he just afraid of Russ murdering him if he ruined the wedding? The music ended and I told myself to stop caring.

The ceremony was less than an hour long. After a few words from the minister about love as the truest expression of faith, Mom and Russ each recited a poem—“Invitation to Love” by Paul Dunbar for her, “Most Like An Arch” by John Ciardi for him. As he slipped the diamond ring onto her finger, the way she beamed at him made me feel strangely peaceful. It might have been the beautiful weather, with the Montana sky surrounding us like an ocean, but watching them gaze into each other's eyes … I couldn't help catching a little of her optimism. I hadn't seen Mom this happy in so long. Maybe things really did work out sometimes. Maybe what she had with Russ would last.

It struck me all over again that Mom and I were both getting on with our own lives. If only for moments like this, I realized, I was glad that I'd come to Wild Cliffs.

Just eleven more weeks to go.
I wasn't sure whether that time was too long or too short.

Was it strange for all adult children to watch a parent walk down the aisle? It had to be. It couldn’t just be me.

But watching my father promise to love, honor, and cherish a woman knocked me off balance. And not just because the woman in question had a daughter who also knocked me completely off balance.

She’d held my arm stiffly as I’d led her down the aisle as the wedding party recessed. She’d dropped her hand quickly with some mumbled excuse about needing to see to something for the reception.

Forced back into my presence for the family pictures, I couldn’t help but wonder how genuine her smiles had been. Especially since she’d been avoiding me ever since.

Her toast at the reception under the big white tent had been simple and heartfelt. It’d also reminded me that she’d done this many more times than I had.

My confidence in the longevity of my father’s new marriage wasn’t particularly high. I considered myself a realist, and Cynthia’s track record left a lot to be desired. I just hoped it worked out, for both their sakes.

The guests were chatting and mingling, and the bar already had a steady stream of people bellying up to it. I was one of them. I grabbed a beer and decided to play a drinking game just for the hell of it: every time Emma looked at me and then looked away as soon as I caught her stare, I’d drink.

It didn’t take me long to finish my first beer.

Beer number two went something like this:

Emma rearranged her mother’s bouquet on the head table; our eyes locked. I drank.

Emma chatted with an elderly guest and helped her to our table. Her eyes landed on where I was leaning against the bar. I drank.

Emma grabbed a glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray and stared directly at me as I sat at the head table. I drank.

Emma finished a second glass of champagne and allowed herself to be pulled onto the dance floor by our neighbor’s boy, who was about five years old. She glanced at me, smiling, before quickly dropping her attention back to the pint-sized cowboy. I drank.

I continued this game through another beer before I switched to scotch and finally gave up because I’d end up hammered.

And now I wanted to drag her off the dance floor and back to my room, rip that sexy blue dress off, and pin her to my bed before I made her come so hard she forgot her own fucking name. And the touch of every other man.

Every look from her had ratcheted up the possessiveness growing inside me. My grip tested the strength of my glass, and I forced myself to relax as I lifted it to my lips and swigged the contents. I couldn’t care less that this single malt cost more than most people made in a month. I was more concerned about taking my mind off the woman who taunted me from twenty feet away.

I swore to God she was doing it intentionally. Still avoiding me—staying at least twenty feet away at all times—and yet her bright blue eyes kept landing on me. Her last glass of champagne had made her bolder. I wasn’t a green boy. I knew when a woman was interested. And this woman? She was primed and ready. But that didn’t mean I could just rush in and indulge my primal instincts. No, this situation required careful planning and tact.

When she danced with Griff, I was somewhat surprised. It was cute to watch her pull the crotchety old man from his seat and coax him into a two-step. Where Emma had learned to two-step, I couldn’t even begin to guess.

My amusement died a quick death as soon as Mac stepped in and twirled her away from Griff, pulling her close to his body as the song changed to a slower number. I had to turn my back and head to the bar for a refill and content myself with the fact that he’d have plenty of time to reflect on his dumb ass move from the back of his saddle while he rode fences in the scorching sun.

I returned to my position at the edge of the tent, watching and waiting. The song  finally ended and Mac tipped his hat and walked off the dance floor. The little fuck had better have gone to look for a woman in his own damn league.

The band segued into another fucking slow song and another cowboy who didn’t quite understand the meaning of ‘hands off’ stepped up to Emma.

TJ. Apparently he wasn’t going to heed my warning either. The cocksuckers.

Mac was the kind of guy who thought more with his dick than his brain when it came to women, and was just looking to get his dick wet. I couldn’t say the same about TJ. He was a smart guy. Thoughtful. Looking for a woman to settle down with on the ranch and start making babies.

And I fucking hated how he looked at Emma. Like she could be that woman. Her eyes darted to me again, and I met them, hoping she could read the irritation and possession burning through me. She flushed pink and dropped her eyes from mine and looked back up into TJ’s face, locking her hands behind his neck.

Oh, sweetheart, your luscious little ass is going to pay for that move
.

My palm tingled with the need to have her under my hand. That need intensified several degrees when the light, clear sound of her laughter floated from the dance floor and her smile stretched across her face. TJ lifted a hand to brush a curl from her face … and I nearly lost my grip on my better judgment.

The one thing that saved me? Ironically, my father. Nothing like the reminder that the woman you wanted under you was your stepsister.

Dad, already several scotches of his own under his belt, stopped beside me and clinked our glasses together. He followed my gaze to the dance floor.

“You’re going to be nice to Emma while Cyn and I are away, or you’re going to answer to me when we get back.”

The words sounded like they should’ve been spoken to a thirteen year old and not a twenty-five year old.

“I imagine we’ll both keep to ourselves and be just fine, Dad.” I didn’t add, because if I don’t keep to myself, there’s a good chance things might spiral out of control really fucking quick.

Dad sipped his scotch and studied me. “She doesn’t know anyone here, and we’re going to be gone for a week. I don’t want her left to her own devices that whole time. I expect you to make her feel welcome and make sure she’s not bored.”

“So you expect me to drop everything and become her entertainment director?”

My dad’s eyes, the same color as my own, turned dark. “You share her meals, you take her horseback riding, show her the ranch. She better be happy and smiling when we get back.”

Every word that came out of his mouth gave me too many ideas. I needed to end this conversation—now.

“Of course, Dad,” I said, but he was intently watching Cyn, who looked like she was heading out of the tent and toward the house.

Dad gave me an absent nod. “Good. Knew I could count on you. Now I need to see to my bride.”  He didn’t wait for my reply, just crossed the tent faster than I’d seen him move in a while.

And following my dad’s movements brought my attention back to the dance floor and Emma. Where she was still wrapped in TJ’s arms.

I dropped my now-empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. I’d had enough. My path was short and direct.

TJ and Emma stilled when I stood within feet of them.

TJ’s eyes were knowing. Daring. Was he taunting me on purpose? Right now, I didn’t care.

My voice sounded rough, even to me, when I said, “I believe you promised me a dance, Emma.”

Shock lit her eyes, and they cut back to TJ.

Don’t look at him, Emma. He’s not going to save you.

I could see the moment she decided she was going to concede, if only not to make a scene. TJ tipped his hat to both of us.

“Boss. Emma.”

I nodded in response, and pulled Emma into my arms. Her frame was stiff, almost wooden—the complete opposite of the pliable, passionate woman she’d been only days ago.

I leaned down and spoke into her ear. “Did you think because they didn’t do a bridesmaid-groomsmen dance that you’d get through tonight without me having you in my arms?”

Her response was quiet, so as not to carry, and I caught the slightest hint of panic in it. “Why are you doing this? What if someone—”

“There’s absolutely nothing improper about me dancing with my new stepsister. It’d be strange if I didn’t.”

“Don’t call me your stepsister if you’re going to rub
this
against me.” She turned slightly to press her hip against my growing hard-on, which was concealed between us.

“I can’t help what you do to me,” I admitted.

Emma didn’t back away, but pressed against me again, her eyes pinned to the studs of my tux.

“You shouldn’t do that unless you’re prepared to deal with the consequences.” My voice came out low, almost a growl.

She finally looked up at me, her eyes tinged with mischief. “I think I can handle any consequences you can dream up.”

Her complete one-eighty had my eyebrows rising and my cock hardening further against her stomach.

“I don’t take well to little girls who like to tease when they’ve got a little champagne-fueled courage.” I knew exactly how much she’d had to drink, because I watched her so damn close all night. But I didn’t think it was enough to impair her judgment and prevent her from making an informed decision when I finally got her alone.

“It’s not the champagne, and I may not be as experienced as you, but I’m not teasing.” She swallowed and her courage seemed to falter for a beat before she added, “I can’t stop thinking about it. Hell, I even
dream
about it.”

I slowly maneuvered us off the dance floor, and we were nearing the tent entrance when she made that admission. Which was probably good, because no one could overhear me tell her: “You better be sure that you want this, because you just might get more than you bargained for.”

The time had come to lay our cards out and see if we wanted the same thing. Every look she’d shot me tonight said she did. I just needed her to say the words.

“I want this,” Emma said, her voice quiet but confident.  

Thank fuck.