Escape: A Stepbrother Romance (11 page)

“Why do you insist on denying yourself the things you want?” I asked. “You want to spend the summer cooking, but instead you’re going to do what your dad wants you to do. Right now, you want to reach out and touch my cock.” On reflex, her eyes immediately darted towards my cock. She couldn’t have helped but notice I was hard as a rock and bursting through my jeans. “Just imagine how that would feel in your hands right now. Remember when you took hold of it and guided it into your wet pussy?”

“I’m trying to forget,” she said, but I noticed her eyes looking between my legs again. She was trying to be subtle, but she didn’t have years of experience at checking out the opposite sex like I did. “Anyway, it looks to me like you’re the one who wants me, not the other way round.”

“You’re convenient,” I said with a shrug. “And I’m not going to deny that I enjoyed being inside your tight pussy. If you ask nicely I might be persuaded to eat you again.”

“You’re disgusting,” she said, but there was no conviction to her voice.

I placed my hand on hers. She jumped as if the touch had given her a static shock, but she didn’t pull her hand away. Slowly I lifted her hand from her leg and pulled it over towards me. I looked her in the eyes as I lowered her hand to my cock. She closed her eyes and gasped lightly as her fingers moved gently over my cock. She didn’t take a firm hold of it, but she didn’t resist as my hand moved hers down to the base and then up to the tip.

“You did well to fit this inside you the first time,” I said. “I can’t usually put it all the way in with virgins, but you handled it like a pro.”

“You’re disgusting,” she said again. “I can’t do this. We shouldn’t be doing this. Someone might see.”

Suddenly she yanked her hand away and moved to sit as far away from me as possible. She grabbed her drink and downed it in one go, panting hard afterwards as if she were an athlete who had just finished a race and downed a bottle of water.

“Fucking hell, are you serious? I know you’re innocent and all that, but it is really bad form to start stroking a guy’s hard cock and then back off. My balls are going to ache for weeks now.”

“You should go to London,” she said. “Unless you want to spend the summer masturbating into all those condoms you bought, I suggest you head off back to London and screw all those horny women who want you, because this is not happening. Not again.”

“Fine, I’ll do that. You run back home to daddy and spend the summer doing what he wants you to do. You won’t see me tonight. I’m going back to London to spend time with real women who know what to do with a decent piece of man meat when it’s put in front of them.”

“Good.”

“Think of me when you’re rubbing your clit tonight.”

She stormed off as I started typing a reply to Naomi on my phone. Naomi was the last thing I needed right now, but one way or the other I had to release the tension Vicky had built up inside me. I watched her cute little ass as she walked away and knew that Naomi would not satisfy the ache completely. but she was willing, and that was more than I could say for Vicky right now. I didn’t chase women. I’d already broken my golden rule. I couldn’t break another.

Caiden might be a complete sleaze, but he was a man of his word. He came home briefly to grab some things, but left without saying goodbye and didn’t return that night. I told myself that he might just be going back to London to pack up his things to move in here for the summer, but he was probably screwing that trashy girl who had been messaging him in the pub.

I hated the girl I had never met for throwing herself at him, until I remembered that I had done the exact same thing. For all I knew, this girl might have felt the same way about me when I spent the night with Caiden, and this was her way of getting revenge.

Caiden had been telling the truth about another thing as well. I lay in bed that night and thought of him while I touched myself. After the frustration of the last few days, I’d been desperate for some release, but with Caiden in the room next door it hadn’t been possible. Now he wasn’t here and yet I still couldn’t orgasm.

I tried to think back to the night I’d spent with Caiden, but all I could do was picture him with another woman. I imagined her as tall, blonde, and with large firm breasts that he could bury his face in. I hated my tiny breasts and knew Caiden preferred women with bigger bosoms.

The imaginary blonde woman knew how to keep Caiden happy in bed. She screamed like a porn star and rode him silly. I pictured him spanking her and taking her aggressively from behind. I’d been surprised and a little disappointed that Caiden hadn’t done that with me. My magazines led me to believe that was most men’s favourite position, and yet the third time we had sex we just went back to the missionary position. Caiden had moved slowly and while I loved it at the time, I now worried that he had actually been bored.

That third time was my favourite. The first time I had come with Caiden he had been eating my pussy and while the orgasm was violent, I also felt a sense of shame for coming in his face. I’d only ever come by myself between the sheets before and didn’t know how to handle the experience with a man.

The second orgasm had been when I was riding him and this time I looked away and tried to lose myself in the moment. The third time, the orgasm had built up slowly as Caiden thrust himself in and out while grinding his hips against mine. The slower, less intense orgasm reached every muscle in my body as I gripped hold of him and looked him in the eyes while coming. He finished while I was still shaking and the glow on my body lasted until I arrived back at my dorm the next day.

I shouldn’t have gone to the pub with him yesterday. I’d been furious at my father for the way he had forced his plans upon me without any consideration for my feelings, so when Caiden suggested a visit to the pub I jumped at the chance. It might not have been so bad had I not sat so close to him. As I’d been going to sit down, I’d spotted some chewing gum on the seat and scooched over a little bit to avoid it. I ended up sat just a foot from Caiden and had a view of his cock I would not have had if I was sat a little further away.

I couldn’t help but glance between his legs. I hadn’t been looking, but out of the corner of my eyes I saw movement in the crotch of his jeans and realized that his dick was growing right in front of my eyes. I assumed he was aroused by the dirty text messages from the other woman, because it had nothing to do with me, considering I just wore jeans and a cheap strappy top that I usually wouldn’t wear out of the house.

I still had regrets about that night with Caiden; mainly not at least attempting to give him a great blow job. I had only seen his cock as it pounded in and out of me, so I didn’t have a great picture it in my mind as I tried to masturbate.

Even by Caiden’s shockingly low standards, the brazen way he took my hand and placed it on his cock shocked me to my core. We were in a pub—a public place where we could be seen by people who might even end up attending my dad’s wedding to Caiden’s mum. He just didn’t seem to care what people thought about him or about us and it freaked me out.

When my hand came down on his cock, it pulsed and twitched under my touch. My mind screamed at me to pull my hand away, but my fingers started to close around it. My eyes were transfixed on my hand as if it belonged to someone else, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Nicole banged two glasses against each other by the bar and it snapped me out of my trance. I snatched my hand away in case Nicole came over, and stopped rubbing my step-brother’s cock through his jeans.

Touching his pulsing member and then the shock of being caught sent my heart racing and my mind into panic mode. I got out of the pub as soon as possible and practically ran home. I nearly ran into a man in tatty clothing as I rounded the corner without looking where I was going. He looked like he must be homeless and I felt guilty for worrying about my relatively minor problems when I had an otherwise comfortable life.

Caiden didn’t come home until about one o’clock the following afternoon. He had brought back a few bags full of clothes from the penthouse, but before I could get too excited about him only going to London for that reason, I caught sight of the box of condoms he bought when they fell out of his bag.

I couldn’t see how many were left in there, but the seal had been removed and the box had been opened. It didn’t make much difference whether he’d just fucked her once or ten times. I could have been the one he used those condoms with, but I’d panicked and turned him down.

I was doing the right thing, but dammit, the right thing was boring sometimes. Why couldn’t I just live on the edge like he did and have some fun?
You know why
, I told myself.
The last time you lived on the edge and had some fun you fucked the man who will be your step-brother soon.
Some people are good at living in the moment; I was not one of them.

“I was hoping you would stay away a little longer,” I said to Caiden as he unpacked his bags in his room with the door wide open.

“Don’t you worry,” he said, keeping his back turned to me, “I’ll be going back there again soon. It’s so nice to spend time around women who aren’t afraid to admit they want me to fuck them.”

“So you spent the night in a brothel then?” I asked.

Caiden ignored me, so I walked downstairs to the kitchen and flicked through some of my cookbooks—although not any of the ones written by Sheri—and found a few recipes I planned to cook with Gemma this afternoon. If I could find a way to get out of Mandarin lessons then I would be spending the summer developing my own recipes, but for now I was more than happy with just cooking others. Especially if it meant I got to spend time with Gemma.

Gemma had been best friends with my mum before the accident and I knew they still kept in touch although, like me, Gemma wasn’t able to speak to Mum anymore as much as she would have liked. I credited Gemma with helping my mother and me get as close as we were. I hated to admit it to myself, but at one point I preferred Gemma to my own mother.

Gemma was a barrister and worked in the City like my father. She made more money than she could spend in a lucrative and prestigious career, while my mother was effectively a housewife. Even when I was old enough to go to school, my mother never went back to work because my father wanted her home to keep the house and have his dinner on the table when he arrived home after work.

I wouldn’t have blamed my mother for that, but she had such potential, and in my eyes she had wasted it. She had a law degree from Cambridge—where she met my father—and became a member of the bar after a few years of training. However, after she got married and had me she quit her job and never went back to work.

Once, when I was about eleven years old, I’d had what could only be described as a temper tantrum and had screamed at my mum for something so silly and petty I couldn’t even remember what it was. I’d accused her of wasting her life and asked why she couldn’t be more like Gemma. I stormed off, but not before I saw the tears in my mother’s eyes that still pained me even today. If Gemma hadn’t talked to me the next day I might have still hated my mother when she had the accident.

Gemma had waited until my mum left the house to go shopping and showed up with a box of files. She sat me down and made me swear that I would not tell anyone else what she was about to tell me. It was confidential and she could lose her job and her law license if anyone found out. I quickly promised, as any eleven-year-old would when asked to keep a secret that sounded exciting, and Gemma started taking files out of the box.

One by one, she went through the files. They were legal documents about people facing trial or those who had already been found guilty but were appealing the decision. Gemma opened the first file and explained that the man in the file had been convicted of killing his wife, but there had been no evidence linking him to the crime other than an unreliable eyewitness.

“How did he get convicted?” I asked. Even at the age of eleven I had heard of the phrase “beyond a reasonable doubt” and knew it was supposed to protect people from bad convictions.

“He was subject to what could politely be called ‘advanced interrogation techniques,’ ” Gemma explained, “but what I would call torture. He eventually confessed, but the confession should not have been read to the jury.”