Stepbrother Thief (52 page)

“You mean what do I want to do? As a job? Or what do I
really
want?” I shrug, keeping my honey brown gaze on his. No way I'm looking away first. This is my bedroom, my turf; Gill's the new guy.

“Either one.”

He pauses for a moment, thinks, and then his smile gets wider.

“
Je veux être avec toi pour toujours,
Regina.” Gill unclasps his hands from around his legs and sits up on his knees. Our mouths are even closer now … oh God. My mind struggles to translate, but I'm not far enough into my French class to do much more than say my name and classify school supplies.

“Not fair!” I say, sitting up and putting some distance between us. I don't know how many times I can feel his breath feather against my cheeks and not do something about it. “What did you just say? You know I can't translate that.”

Gill follows me forward, standing up and putting an arm on either side of my crossed legs. He leans in, closing the distance I just put between us, headphones hanging over his neck.

“
Veux-tu être ma petite amie
?” he asks and I laugh, smacking him in the chest. When he grabs my hand and curls his fingers around it, I can hardly keep my breath.

“I don't know what you just said,” I whisper, but Gill won't stop smiling.

“Just say yes,” he tells me, and I do.

It takes me fifteen years to remember—and properly translate that.

I want to be with you forever. Would you like to be my girlfriend?

I smile.

One day, he'll ask me to marry him—again.

I'll say yes—again.

And this time, this time we'll get what we always deserved.

A second chance.

A happily ever after.

Fin
The End

Turn the page for a sneak peek at Violet Blaze's next novel ...

Dash Buchanan should never have walked into my life.
When he did, he made a mess of it.

A hot, wicked, tangled mess that I'm not so sure I want to crawl out of.
If only I'd been more careful, if only we hadn't been seen.

One night, one mistake that changes everything.
Dash and me, we're in way over our heads, drowning in our demons.

I can only hope he has the strength to swim.

***

Adelaide Vaughn should not have been at my concert.
Hell, she shouldn't have been anywhere near me.

As the son of the CEO of Buchanan Bikes, there are a lot of rules.
First, never touch a Vaughn girl.
Second, never let anyone see your weaknesses.

This girl, this daughter of the Weeping Bones Motorcycle Club . . .
Damn it, but I'm pretty sure she's going to make me break all of them.

CHAPTER ONE
DASH

I love it when my dad calls me into his office - mostly because I like to screw his secretary.

“Fuck,” I groan, grinding my hips against the petite little blond's, twisting my fingers in a handful of her hair. She tilts her head back and gives me access to her pale, perfect throat. I run my tongue along her skin, tasting the sweat that's beading there, eating up the proof that I'm doing this right, doing
her
right.

See, I don't just like to fuck women, I want to pleasure them, shake them to their core and feel them tighten around me when they come. Can you even believe Laura didn't have her first orgasm until she was twenty-four? That's a goddamn travesty if you ask me. Thankfully, I was able to take care of that for her. Imagine how many other women must be suffering in the same way.

I might just be one man, but I aim to make the world a little better - one hot, frenzied fuck at a time.

“Oh my god, Dash,” she moans as I ram her into the granite countertop of the ladies' bathroom. Hopefully nobody walks in on us. But if they do? Oh well. I'm the prince of this palace so to speak, future CEO of Buchanan Bikes. They can deal. “Deeper, Dash. Deeper.”

“Turn your ass over and I'll be happy to oblige.” I slide out of Laura's slick, wet heat and spin her around, pushing her chest into the sink. We both groan as I fill her up again, pound my pelvis into her firm round ass.

And I thought working for my dad was going to be boring?

Hell, if this is on the agenda for my workday, I'll gladly quit the band and come over full time.

I glance up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, sweat beading on my forehead, a stray droplet sticking to my lower lip. I flash a grin and then lean over, curling my fingers gently around Laura's pale throat, drawing her head up so I can meet the eyes of her reflection. She bites back a gasp, tucking that red rouged lip of hers beneath white, white teeth. Her eyes are ringed in liner, and they look huge, open, bare as I keep our gazes locked, ramming into her again and again and again.

An orgasm catches her first; I can see it building in the curl of her spine, the tightness of her fingers as she claws at the countertop with her perfectly manicured nails.

“Dash!” she screams, loud enough that I wouldn't be surprised if one of the security guards came traipsing in here. “Oh God,
yes.
” Her voice breaks like a wave cresting on a rock, crashing around me as she squeezes tight, holding my body captive for one, perfect moment. One fucking perfect moment where I don't have to be anyone or anything except myself. Sex is like a drug, isn't it? And I can't seem to stop myself from leaping between highs. “Wow,” Laura says as I pull away and drop my used condom in the stainless steel trash can. I fix my jeans as I watch her turn around and gather herself together, smoothing strands of blonde back into place, adjusting her suit jacket and skirt, pulling up her panties. “That was amazing. Please tell me you'll be coming into the office more often?”

I shrug and reach into my back pocket for a smoke.

“I'm going on tour this summer with the boys,” I tell her and pretend not to notice when her face crumples. Laura's nice and all, but she's got this attention to detail that drives me nuts. Everything with her is so perfect, so put-together. I like messy girls, girls with frizzy hair, makeup on one eye but not the other, a bedroom floor strewn with books and T-shirts and high heels still in the box. I don't have to ask myself why or get introspective about it - I know
why
I like chaos. The answer's pretty simple: my father made me this way. “I'll see you when I get back?” I light my cigarette and watch as Linda's eyes crinkle at the corners. Last time I saw her, she gave me a packet of brochures on the dangers of lung cancer.

“Sure thing, Dash,” she says and then points a red-nailed finger at me, “just don't tell your dad we did it again.”

Next up: a juicy excerpt from C.M. Stunich's Hard Rock Roots Series

Turner Campbell is an asshole.
I fucking hate him.
But I can't get enough either.
He sings like an angel and fucks like a devil.
If I could, I'd run away and never look back because to tell you the truth, I think this man might be the death of me.

X X X

Naomi Knox is a bitch.
I can't fucking stand her.
But I can't stop thinking about her either.
She looks like an angel and plays like a devil.
If I could, I'd fuck her good and forget all about her, but to tell you the truth, I think this woman might be my last saving grace

CHAPTER ONE
NAOMI KNOX

There's a metamorphosis happening right before my eyes. I'm watching a devil shed its skin, shrink its horns and grow wings. The dark haze in the air is lifting, banished by the bright lights of the stage. Even metaphorically, a trick like that is hard to pull off. I'm impressed. Or I would be if I didn't hate the asshole so much.

“He looks like a fucking angel,” I whisper as I sip my beer.

“What?” Blair shouts, cupping her hand around my ear. I swipe some hair away from my face and lean over, so that she can hear me above the booming of the bass. It pounds down through the wood of the stage, into the concrete, and across the floor where it catches on the rubber soles of my boots and ricochets up through my bones. If I close my eyes, I can see it tainting my blood, forcing my heart to pump faster and faster, until I feel dizzy from the beautiful poison in the air. The phrase
slaying the crowd
wasn't made up off the top of someone's head; if the fucks on stage do it right, it really does feel like the music is killing you softly.

“Turner Campbell,” I yell back at her, my lips brushing against the small, black plugs in her earlobes. “He looks like a fucking angel up there.” Blair leans back and raises one pierced brow at me. Her blue eyes say that I'm full of shit. I take another sip of cool, cool amber and watch as she turns her heart shaped face to the stage. Her gaze rakes Turner from head to toe and then slides across the heaving, thumping crowd, landing right back on me.

“A fallen angel,” she shouts. Pauses. “
Maybe.
”

I shrug and ignore her pointed stare, watching Turner as he moves across the stage, lights glistening off the blue-black highlights in his hair and making him look like he has a damn halo on his head. His brown eyes scan the crowd, catching on faces and holding them as he purrs into the microphone and caresses it like he fucking
owns
it. I bet every bitch in here can practically feel his hands on her body, taste his tongue in her mouth.
What am I shitting myself for? They've probably all had a nice, big slice of the real thing anyway.
Let's just say that Turner's reputation proceeds him.

Devil.

I have to remember that he's not just a devil, but
The Devil.

I take another sip of beer and try to focus on something else – the crowd of people clusterfucking at the bar, the mosh pit up front, Blair's white feather eyelashes. Nothing works. My gaze finds Turner Campbell again and stays there, focusing primarily on his lips and the words that tumble out of them.

“
What the hell did you do to leave me broken, barren, and bleeding? What gave you the fucking right?
” Turner sucks in a massive lungful of air, blowing his hot breath across the microphone and breaking my heart with a single gasp. I'm not alone. The crowd starts to hum, men and women alike pulsing with the heat and the energy of the song.
Goddamn, that's good,
I think as I allow myself to sink against the cool concrete of the back wall.
Doubt those lyrics are his though. Fucking hypocrite.
Just yesterday I walked in on Turner fucking a roadie over a PA speaker. When he saw me, he just pulled out and left the girl there with her panties around her ankles. She cried for a half a fucking hour.
Devil.
I want to hate him, but it's really hard from down here. I like it better when I'm backstage, when I can look at him hitting on groupies and roadies, watch him running his fingers across the lips of a dozen girls in a dozen cities. It's a lot easier to hate him that way.
How am I going to make it through six months of this?