A Stepbrother Romance
by Christa Simpson
For readers 18+ ONLY
Even if it means we’re wantonly destroying our family . . . I can’t resist him.
I know it’s not right to pine for this man, but he’s the one wielding all the power, controlling my body with a single menacing look. He tells me I can be his dark little secret and I’m honestly having a hard time saying no.
I’m Izzabelle Spade, the good-girl librarian: organized, anti-social, your average “by the book” kind of girl. Dustin Miller is off limits, with that naturally tanned skin, impossibly dark eyes and broad shoulders. Untouchable, to a girl like me—usually. But not anymore.
When I screw up, a beautiful chaos ensues. I demand a do over, but he has something else in mind. I know I should say no—absolutely not. I should turn around, walk away and never look back. But what do you think happens when he’s a “get what I want, when I want” kind of guy and what he wants is me?
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I’m feeling good after finishing the free drink, and I think I’ve got a handle on these shoes. Battling for bravery, I spin around and get to my feet, ready to go ask this man all the questions I’ve practiced in my head three times over. I strut across the room, knowing his eyes follow my path. I can feel it. It sets my body on fire as my hips sway to the rapid beat of my heart, my legs feeling a little like my favorite brand of jelly.
Suddenly, mid-stride, knowing that he’s watching, I forget how to walk. I stumble over my own two feet and tumble onto all fours, skidding my knee and landing in a sticky puddle of lord knows what not far from his feet. My driver’s license falls out of my bra and goes sliding across the grimy floor as the crowd starts to hollow out around me.
This is my worst nightmare come true. People start to point, laugh, and stare. I crawl across the floor to grab my photo ID and stuff it back to where the sun don’t shine, wishing I could crawl into a hole and die. I pray that I get trampled by the dancers, while gathering enough courage to look up, but as an upbeat song ends, a snippy jack ass makes a comment that leaves me frigid.
He flips my skirt up with the toe of his shoe. Why did I wear this stupid getup, again? Cringing, my eyes fall back to the floor. I’ve got myself in a hell of a predicament here, or so I thought until a pair of big shoes walks up and stops next to me. Look at the size of them feet! Shit is about to get real.
“Is there a problem here?” The depth of the threat in his voice sends a delicious shiver down my body. I can’t see him, but I see the way the problem scurries away and how the other men wither into the darkness.
It’s him. It’s him! I know it’s him.
Him must have a really nice view of my ass right about now, and I wonder whether he likes it. The way he blocks everyone else’s view makes me feel protected, like he wants me and he doesn’t like to share.
“Look at me,” he orders.
When I do, he’s standing above me, with a flock of other men scurrying away. I feel incompetent in his presence—like a total blonde—sitting on my heels and apparently incapable of forming a complete sentence. He serves me a smile and extends a hand in a friendly gesture.
“Can I at least help you up?” he asks, with the most deep and sensual voice.
In a daze I take his hand, gazing into stormy grey eyes with a swirl of darkness. He pulls me to my feet. He’s tall—very tall—and clean cut, with dark hair and mysterious eyes. A girl could get hypnotized by those eyes.
He catches my smile and lets me study him. Then, with a wink, he plucks me from the dance floor and takes me to the nearest open bar table. He doesn’t let me go until I’m being tucked into a seat. I pull my skirt under my thighs and settle onto the chair he offers.
He takes the seat across from me and smiles before hollering across the table. “You okay?”
A nervous laugh reaches my mouth, but I refuse to let it out. “Yeah, I’ll be okay.” A piece of light brown hair falls into my eyes when I glance down at the table. I brush it aside and fold my lips together.
“I did that once, it doesn’t tickle.”
My mouth drops open as I take in another look at his striking features. “Tripping in high heels?”
He laughs. “Falling on my ass in public. It’s usually a sign of a good time.”
I wouldn’t know. “I don’t suppose your ass was hanging out, too.” I cringe from the memory, even though I still have a bruised knee and a sticky hand as an unwelcome reminder.
“No, I don’t think it was. But my ass has had its fair share of public nudity.”
I laugh anxiously. What I would do to see that rock hard ass.
“Maybe I should save that story for another time,” he says, noticing how intrigued I am by his conversation.
I smile softly and nod in agreement as a blush warms my pale cheeks.
“Are you here alone?”
It seems like a bold question, and I should probably lie. “Yeah.” I search for something brilliant to add to the conversation. “You?”
His sexy, narrow eyes peek out from beneath the curve of his ball cap. “My brother.”
I nod, feeling a little less comfortable in the situation. I wonder if his brother is just as big and beautiful as he is. I sigh, scrunching my eyes to adjust the annoying film over my eyes from the contacts. This guy is tall, dark, handsome, well-dressed—way out of my league. The thought crosses my mind: this is probably only happening because he pities me, because I am here alone. What was I thinking coming here tonight? I feel like such a fool.
“You look like you could use another drink.”
Do I now? Perceptive, he is. I don’t know where I find my nerve, but while I’m here— “Are you buying?”
Before I even have a chance to seek out a waitress, one is standing at his side. “What can I get for you?” She smiles at him seductively.
I could learn a thing or two from this girl. Her shirt is a little tight in the chest; the buttons near her cleavage are busting at the seams. I bet he likes that. But he only looks to me when he speaks.
“Two bottles of Bud, please.”
The waitress waits for him to make eye contact with her, but he doesn’t. In fact, his eyes never leave mine. He wants to order for me? I’m game, because being under his gaze is a heady cocktail that I’m not ready to give up just yet. I’ve never reaped this kind of attention from a man before. I must have done something right.
“Are you from around here?” he asks me, with a quizzical expression on his face. His voice fluctuates with curiosity and his dark eyes shine with interest. He leans in toward me, and our small table in this crowded room is suddenly feeling very intimate.
“Born and raised, unfortunately. You?”
He shakes his head and takes a long draw from his beer, polishing it off before answering. “Naw. I’m only in town for the weekend. A family thing. But I’d rather not talk about that tonight.”
I nod with relief. “I respect that.”
A pleasant silence passes between us. I’m all shy smiles and he’s all sex-god on steroids. Just sitting at his table has my heart racing and breaths cut short. I’ve never felt so attracted to a non-fictional man.
“What about you? Let’s talk about you,” he suggests, being a man of few words. That makes me super nervous. I never talk about me. I talk about authors and articles and books, but me? No.
“There’s nothing much to talk about.”
He gets up from his seat and pulls a chair over from the table next to us, stealing it without asking and sliding up beside me until our knees are touching and his arm is hovering behind my back. His fingers skim over my shoulder, tracing the fallen strap of my bra. Everywhere his fingers pass, a wake of tingles follow. Air slips between my lips hurriedly and a coolness creeps along my skin. Nerves. It has to be the nerves.
“I don’t believe that for one second. You look like a woman with stories.”
The deep seductive sound he makes with his voice is making it hard for me to breathe. “I do?”
Only one thing is certain: I’m drinking way too fast for a girl who had planned on driving herself home, and yet my beer disappears shortly after it’s placed in front of me. I chase it with another Bud. Talking becomes much easier after that. I probably say more than I should, but I’m feeling good—real good—especially when he touches me. And, since I don’t expect to do anything like this ever again, I’m going to make the best of it.
It’s not until I polish off another bottle of Budweiser that I start to feel the full effects of drinking too much alcohol.
He notices my surprise. “Drink much?”
“Once a year,” I admit, then slap my hand over my mouth for giving away how plain and boring my ordinary life is.
Little did I know, that was all about to change.
Copyright 2015 Christa Simpson
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Christa Simpson is a Bestselling Romance Author who entertains her readers with protective alpha males and sassy heroines. She writes sexy new adult romances loaded with passion, suspense and sarcasm. In her free time, she loves reading, writing, music, movies and dancing.
Christa is a small town girl, living in Chatham-Kent, Ontario, with her husband and two beautiful daughters. She’s a dreamer and has always believed you can do anything you set your mind to.