Stepbrother UnSEALed (5 page)

“I see you're already talking like a true reporter. Maybe you should give your subjects some more thought. It's not always fun being on the receiving end of some gangly, embedded jackoff who doesn't think twice about tweeting sensitive info from a war zone.”

“Chris!” Mom's turn to scream. Her silverware clatters on the china bowl. “I apologize for my son's mouth, Cordelia. He's a military man, very sensitive about these things.”

She flips her long dark hair back over one shoulder and shakes her head. “It's okay. Really. I shouldn't have sounded so stressed out myself.”

The fire blazing out my eyes, falling all over her skin, must finally get her attention. She looks at me, cocks her head, and polishes off another sip of wine before speaking.

“So, what are you? Some kind of sailor? A marine?”

“He's a SEAL,” mom answers for me. “You're not the only one who likes to hold her cards close to her chest. My son's very shy about admitting it, or maybe the government keeps his lips sewed shut, or something.”

Or something.
The only thing worse than the asshole reporters I dealt with in Iraq and Afghanistan are mom's loose lips. My commanding officer wrung my neck the first month I joined the SEALs after she squawked to a tabloid while she was drunk.

Thankfully, the asshole printing up the story refused to drop it, but only after she shelled out some serious money. Maybe she thought marrying her new sugar daddy gave her a new license to blab about my business again, but hell if I was having it.

“A SEAL?” Delia actually sounds impressed. “Wow. You must be awfully good at what you do to get inducted into the special forces. So elite.”

“Whatever. I'm good at everything I do.” I look her in the eyes and watch her eyes skip down. My confidence scares her, and I fucking love it. “I've got my duties and I take them seriously. That's all anybody at this table really needs to know. So, Bruce, while we're talking secrets, tell us about the big merger coming up with your company.”

I've got a feeling the soft, rich boy has a narcissistic streak as well. And I'm right when his face lights up, and he begins prattling on about all these high level corporate details, legalese, and how it's all but guaranteed to make him even richer.

He's as shameless as I expected – maybe a little more so. What a fucking joke.

After about five minutes of listening to him while I'm chomping on my main dish, a seared steak with a lobster tail and glazed asparagus, I hit my beer hard. Mom gives me the stink eye while I lift my tall glass and down the entire thing in one fluid movement.

It's like she doesn't know I'm doing her a favor. Something's gotta take the edge off here. Getting a nice buzz is definitely the lesser evil compared to shoving my hand under the table again, and this time I won't stop at Delia's thigh.

I'll feel her hot pussy again, shove my fingers straight up her wetness, drag my fingers back to her mouth and finally taste what I've had on my mind all fucking night.

She won't even look at me now, picking at her food more aggressively, occasionally lifting her head to look at our parents and murmur her interest. Fuck, that pisses me off.

I'm used to laying low. Secrets are my life in the force, and so is handling life or death, possibly for millions when our missions go critical to prevent bigger wars and terrorist attacks.

But being
ignored
by the girl I was guaranteed to sink my dick into up until this dinner? Fuck everything about it.

“Christopher, no one else has your expertise. Why don't you see what Bruce has to offer next time you're up for re-enlistment?” Mom's staring intently at me, and I don't even know what turn the conversation's taken after thinking about all the ways I'd rip off my stepsister's dress and fuck her. “I worry about you sometimes. Being over there, doing God only knows what...”

She mimics concern. Bruce holds her hand, giving me a warm, approving look, like he wants to interview me today for some boring bullshit designed to turn my muscles into fat office goo.

Maybe he cares, but I know better than to mistake anything mom says. I'll never believe her again, not after she leaned on me in my late teens, turning me into the rock I never asked to be.

It's a miracle I survived. Mom nearly ruined me before I found my discipline and purpose in the Navy. She's been trying to slither back into my life ever since, bringing her venom, her drama, her brutal flaws.

“No,” I growl, blotting at my lips with a tablecloth. “I don't do office crap, you know that. I'm happy where I'm at. I can handle the danger. I know every single day what I signed up for, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.”

Now, I'm feeling the heat. Delia's anxious eyes are on me, but I don't give a damn about that. It's feeling mom's gaze digging into me, pleading, trying to bend me like clay to be her perfect trophy boy again.

“But Christopher,
look.
” She pauses, grabs Bruce's hand, and runs a hand over her tired face. “We can all start over. It's not too late. Look at me. I've sorted out my life and I'm ready to love again. You've given a lot to this country, and you've got to draw the line somewhere. I didn't want it all to come out like this, but I –“

I throw my cloth napkin down on my plate and bang my empty beer glass so hard Delia jumps next to me. “You what? Is that what you really brought me here to talk about, mom? I should've known there was an ambush here somewhere in between the grand tour and hanging out with your perfect new family.”

Bruce puts a hand up, timid and unsure. “Your mother's concerned for you, Chris. She talks about you every single day. I never served like you did, but I've had plenty of colleagues who did, and I know how dangerous it can be. The pay's pretty terrible for everything they put you through. I follow the news, and I know what might happen now that this situation with North Korea's heating up. Nobody in this house wants to see you get hurt.”

How the fuck does this guy manage a billion dollar company? He's such a worm. He can't even look me in the eye for more than three seconds at a time, but I guess looking like I'm about to tear his head off has something to do with it.

“I didn't come here to get berated and bitched at. I'm a grown man, mom, and I had to do most of the growing up myself. If it's taken you a lot longer than me, too fucking bad. I'll suffer for my job. I won't suffer for you. Any of you.”

I stand up and look right at Delia. She's sucking at her lip, tense and afraid, maybe a flash of sympathy in her eyes.

Great. Pity's just about the last thing I need from the hot girl at the beach I was going to spend all night fucking – the girl who some sick twist of fate just turned into my stepsister.

“Chris, wait, that's not what I'm saying.” The calm, controlled poise in mom's voice breaks. Her fists hit the table. “You never fucking listen, do you!?”

“Evie, it's okay.” Bruce puts a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. She brushes him off like she's shaking off swamp water.

“No! It's not okay. He's going to wind up just like his bum of a father, too hooked on adrenaline to know what's good for him.” She buries her face in sugar daddy's chest and squeezes out a few tears before she looks back at me, her face wild and red. “Don't come crying to us when something awful happens overseas. I tried to help, tried to do everything for you. Why is it so fucking hard for you to just open up your heart and realize we care? All of us!”

My hand burns, just like it does when I'm flying up a flight of stairs in some terrorist asshole's luxury bunker, tearing open doors, ready to pop the first thing that moves with a sneer on his face and a weapon in his hands. I'm tempted to rip my glass off the table and hurl it over their heads, smash it against the mantle of that fancy fucking fireplace in the corner.

But I'm not giving her what she wants. Mom wants a raging, crazy outburst. That was the old Chris – mad, lost, undisciplined.

“I've barely met you,” I say, directing it to Delia. “I don't know what the hell any of you really think, nor do I care. I want to believe this is just mom, but for all I know, everything since I got back into town's been a damned setup meant to twist me into place. This rich, fucked up family time's a joke, and I'm not gonna pretend I belong. I'm out.”

Mom screams after me, but I don't turn back. The last thing I see before I turn my shoulder for good is pain flashing in Delia's eyes.

No, I don't want to believe last night was some weird conspiracy to soften me up. But I can't put anything past Evie, master manipulator, especially when the mask comes off.

And the rich asshole she married? He'll do anything to make sure I'm not an embarrassment, maybe even give his own daughter permission to flirt and tease before I find out she's off limits.

I'm stomping toward the big entryway, but the beer was bigger than I realized. I've been laying off the booze for weeks after the last mission fucked me over.

Shit. I'm too damned buzzed to drive, and there's no way they'll think I did anything except storm out.

I find the nearest servant and shake him, asking for a bottle of whiskey. He promptly brings me a glass and a nice bottle while I wait by the tall staircases. Then, I take the nearest one up and head into my room, kick the door shut, and flop down on the bed.

I'm supposed to be getting some R and R, and I'm not giving up.

If I can't deal with the bullshit here, I'll sure as hell drink 'til I'm too dumb to be pissed, 'til I can't think about the shit she said about my dead dad. Much less the twisted, dark haired little succubus next to me all night.

She still wanted my hand between her legs when I clasped her thigh. I couldn't mistake it.

I know a woman's body better than I know SEAL Team drills, and I'm so fucking good at those I work the new recruits.

There's a lot I already know about tonight. I know mom hasn't changed a damned bit, and her new hubby's exactly the weak, snob pissant I expected.

Delia's the only mystery left. She acted like she really didn't know who I was, and her body still can't believe it. Thinking about how close my fingers were to the hot little clit I brushed to convulsions last night makes my dick throb, even while I'm slinging fiery whiskey down my throat in quick, steady shots.

I can't seriously fuck her. Can I?

I don't know, but my cock doesn't give a shit. The flesh knows what it wants. It doesn't understand boundaries or taboos or complications. Only mad, hawkish desire.

She can't slip away. Sure, I'm too disciplined to ever do something stupid, too hardened to ever see her as anything but a rich girl with a killer body.

But I can't ignore her. Can't pretend she doesn't make me burn.
Fuck it.

I decide then and there I'm having some fun with her one way or another. If it doesn't end with us tangled up in the sheets, listening as she begs for my come, then I can sure as hell tease her 'til she cries.

The longest summer of my life just started, and Delia's gonna help me blow off some steam.

I have to know her. I have to unravel her. And if I don't end up between her legs again, giving it to her harder and better than anyone else ever can, then I'll sure as fuck tease her like nobody ever has.

I
t's late. I'm laying in bed, flipping tensely at my phone, playing stupid games and texting a few friends.

I can't do anything serious after that disaster of a dinner. Poor dad dragged Evie straight to bed after Chris exploded and left, leaving my jaw hanging on the floor for about the third time today.

I don't know how I let him touch me without flipping out. The hug in front of our parents was bad enough, his hand gliding down my back and the not-so-subtle bump in his hips.

My stepbrother. My arrogant, demanding, sinfully sexy stepbrother.

What are the odds? What had I done to piss the universe off so badly?

His greeting hurt as much as it set me on fire. It was nothing but a reminder of what we'd lost by fate screwing us over like this.

Of course, the way he carried on, it's like he doesn't even know how badly screwed we are.

I think about his hand underneath the table, riding up my skirt, clenching my thigh. His touch was so rough, so rude, so tempting.

He paralyzed me. I'm still not sure what was worse – my urge to jam a fork in his face, or let his fingers go higher.

Jesus. I can't do this. I'm the only one who knows he's still in the house too. An hour ago, I heard him banging around behind my wall, throwing something heavy into a metal trashcan in his room.

Why Evie decided to set his room up next to mine, I'll never know. This house has at least six more empty guest rooms, and any one of them could've been ours, nice and private.

My fingers keep rolling across the screen, returning to his number. It
hurts
to see it now, like the entire world keeps razzing me in his digits, telling me I'm an idiot to let a stranger into my pants last night.

I should've been texting him around this time to tell him to pick me up. In some alternate universe where dad hadn't gotten hitched to his mom, maybe I was.

In this one, all I can do is stare sadly at the screen, fighting the savage urge to send him a text anyway.

But I can't. There's nothing to say, logically. It's not hard to imagine how it would sound.

Oh, hi, Chris, sorry about dinner. Sorry your mom's a big bitch and my dad hangs on her every word. Sorry that I'll never be able to feel your lips on mine again.

Sorry I didn't slap you across the face when you put your hands where they don't belong.

Ugh. I want to hurl my phone against the wall, slam it into the matching metal trashcan I've got in my room, right next to my dresser.

Night sounds keep filtering through my cracked door. When I hear the whoosh, I think it's just a sudden breeze, but it's odd how it doesn't blow the clothes hanging out in my closet, where I've left the door open.

When I feel the rough hand tugging at my shoulder, my first instinct is to scream. Chris flips me over, throwing his other hand against my mouth, preventing the shock from ever leaving me.