Shame: A Stepbrother Romance (8 page)

“Sure, right. We forget about it,” I confirm and I hope the disappointment, which can only be my little devil’s work, is not too obvious in my voice.

“I’m still coming with you to that wedding. You know that, right?”

“Why? You don’t even know these people. You don’t even know me.”

“That’s exactly why. I want to
get
to know you,” he says and stands up. He walks over to my bench and sits down uninvited. He drapes an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me towards him. I feel tiny next to him and very, very warm. Too warm. “Platonically. As my sister,” he adds and I wince in the dark.

Stupid devil. Now that Andrew is out of the question, I do start to wonder if I’d ever feel the same way with another man inside me. I wonder if he has suddenly seen the huge discrepancy between us. Worst of all, just a few minutes alone with him have managed to convince me that he could actually be nice.

The little angel slaps me hard across the face.
He didn’t even use protection
, it grumbles. Where did that even come from?

“You can’t come to the wedding,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Why not?” he says and pulls me more tightly, running his hand up and down my upper arm to warm me up, though he has no idea I’m already burning. Sitting this close to him is a physical torture.

“Because everyone saw you at the club and they will think we hooked up or something.”

“Come on,” he laughs, “Only you’ll think, or wait,
know
that. You don’t think sooner or later your friends will find out we are related? I told you, I’m coming as your brother and as far as I’m concerned, that thing in the club—it never happened, so you can relax.”

He takes hold of my shoulders and twists me, so I’m now facing him. He is looking straight into my eyes and in the eerie light coming from the tennis court I’m thinking I’ve never seen a man more attractive than him. I hope he is oblivious to my squirming body and the way I’ve pressed my thighs tightly together. The devil has won. I want him despite everything I’ve believed about myself so far.

“There’s nothing for you to worry about, sis,” he whispers and I’m melting and screaming inside at the same time, “Whatever you’ve heard about me, it’s no longer true. I’ve changed and I’m here to stay. I don’t want this to be like with my previous sister. I know the two of us will get on really, really well.”

Previous sister? I have to physically shake my head to erase the nasty thoughts that flood my mind. I’ve never heard anything about his previous step-family. All I know is that Joe kicked them out and manipulated the divorce settlement, so his ex-wife ended up with nothing. I didn’t know there was a daughter. Now I can’t keep myself from wondering how old she is.

I make a mental note to ask my mom about this some time. Right now, I don’t think I can stand another second of him touching me without ripping my clothes apart. And I’m not even drunk this time.

“I’m freezing,” I lie, “Let’s head back inside.”

Later that night, in my apartment and with the lights out, my hand instinctively finds its way under the thick comforter. I haven’t done this in forever. I usually fall right asleep after a long day of work at the book shop.

My body won’t stop quivering tonight. In the course of a single dinner, I’ve gone from shock at discovering Andrew’s identity, to humiliation and disgust with both him and myself, and finally I’ve found myself overpowered with lust that I have no explanation for.

Is it because he is forbidden? Because he is so impossible? Because he suddenly has nothing but brotherly interest in me?

The guilt is tormenting me while my reckless fingers slip past the waistline of my underwear and hover over my throbbing pussy. Just the thought of him has made me so wet, I’m practically pulsating with a sweet ache that won’t go away until I touch.

I close my eyes and I am back at the tennis court. The afternoon sun is shining relentlessly over me as I jump to meet another ball flying towards me. As I hit it with my racket, my sweat-drenched tennis skirt flaps over my bare ass and sticks to my hot skin. My nipples are hard, pushing almost painfully against the tight white tank top and each time I move, they rub against the fabric and send jolts of desire to my pulsing clit under the skirt.

He hits again and scores a match point. I lose.

I know what follows as a consequence and brace myself as Andrew approaches in long strides, his rock hard cock already pushing at the front of his white tennis shorts. He whips it out and starts stroking its long, thick shaft up and down as he walks with determination towards me. I can’t move, I’m not allowed, I’ve lost the game.

He reaches me and without giving me much warning twists me around and pushes me over a bench. My knees land on the hard wood and I whimper in expectation. My juices are lathering the insides of my thighs when his flat palm slaps my bare, exposed ass. A wave of stinging pleasure travels down my limbs and I can’t take it any more. I need him to enter me right now.

He grabs my long ponytail and pulls hard, so my head is painfully bent back and then he rams his cock inside me, hungry to celebrate his win. My scalp burns and my pussy is raw and stretched as it meets his forceful thrusts. I start moaning like I’ve completely lost touch with reality. He fucks me harder and harder as his groans also escalate.

Back in my bed I can’t control the approaching orgasm any longer and I rub my moist, swollen clit frantically now. As Andrew erupts inside me on the tennis court, my scream fills the small bedroom as I am shattered by ecstasy so intense, I feel like I might pass out.

Here I am. I’m Jo Highfield and I’m sickly in lust with my step-brother.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It hasn’t stopped raining for the past two days. It’s dark already and I’m clutching my umbrella against the freezing drops falling from the sky. My rubber boots splash in the tiny puddles on the pavement as I make my way towards the bookstore. A serious gust of wind took down most of the yellow leaves from the trees last night and now they are floating in the water, muddy and lacking brilliance.

I have about twenty minutes till the book club meeting. No one was happy with me canceling on Tuesday, because of the family dinner, so I rescheduled it for this Friday, only a few hours away from Ashleigh’s wedding.

Usually, I stay in the bookstore after hours and set up for the book club, which is at 7:30 pm, but this time I needed to head to a few appointments, so I even closed earlier. I’ve just had my nails done, something very foreign to me, and I’m almost positive I’ll mess them up before they’ve had the chance to completely dry. A few dollars bought me a sweet pink base with white and silvery flowers, just what I imagine a maid of honor’s nails should look like.

There is a small cafe a block away from my book shop and I hope they’ll still have some pop cakes or fruit tarts or at least cookies that I can take to the book club meeting. I’ve trained the girls to expect refreshments and they won’t be fooled by nuts and tea. For many of them, these meetings are the highlight of their working week, an escape from the everyday grind in their accounting or editing jobs.

When I first moved here with my mom, I didn’t know anyone. I had no friends, and though I wasn’t the most sociable person back in Chicago, I was even more of a hermit here in Boston. I started the book club without expecting much. I’ve never stopped reading, it seems ever since I first learned how to do it, and even if nothing came out of it, I could still just sit curled up with a book by the fireplace and enjoy a quiet afternoon.

The first couple of ‘meetings’ were a lonely business and I had almost lost hope that anyone would ever show up, despite my modest advertising in a few local journals and the colorful flyer I stick in the bag with every purchased book. Then one day, a beautiful girl with luminous dark skin rushed in, clutching a copy of the latest title I had announced for discussion on the book shop’s Facebook page.

“Did I miss it?” she panted as she unwrapped her thick knit scarf and tossed her curly hair around, so that a spray of melting snowflakes sparkled about her.

“No, no,” I said, ushering her in and taking her coat, “You’re just in time. I haven’t even started yet.”

My words indicated how non-existent the response to the book club invitations had been so far. I felt like a loser and it was one of the rare times I felt uncomfortable with my nerdy nature.

She looked around and saw that it was just us. Then she walked over to the fireplace area and sat down on one of the leather sofas. She looked up at me in expectation.

“Are we waiting for anyone else?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I admitted and felt a rush to my cheeks that only meant I was crimson with embarrassment.

“Great, because I can’t wait to talk about this little gem we have here.” She patted the book’s cover and I realized just how grateful I felt at that moment. The girl wasn’t judgmental. She was real and she loved books just as much as I did.

This is how I first met Ashleigh a little less than a year ago and now I can safely say she is my closest person in the world. Over time, she started bringing her friends to the club and introduced me to them. Some strangers joined as well and in a month, the book club was finally happening, just like I had imagined it with the heated discussions, the faces warmed up by the fire, the cups of hot cocoa. And of course, the pastries.

Soon I reach the BeWitched cafe and I stop under the awning in front of its brightly lit windows to close my umbrella and shake the rain off it. It’s a cute little place with an occult theme, where the hot drinks are served in tiny cauldrons and it seems like it’s permanently Halloween inside. The two waitresses and the bartender are dressed in witches’ costumes that are a more sexy than scary and the interior is decorated with gossamer, spiders and glass jars of various herbs.

My wet hand is almost on the door handle, which is oddly shaped like a witch’s nose extending from a creepy wrinkled brass face, when I freeze in my spot. On the table that is closest to the door and the front window is Andrew. And he is not alone.

I duck out of view, though I doubt he’s noticed me. It’s too bright inside and he seems too engrossed in his companion to have eyes for anything else around him. I’m behaving like a school girl again as I sneak a peek at the couple enjoying their afternoon coffee. Though I swore I’d never drink alcohol again, I suddenly feel like having a tea heavily spiked with rum.

When I’m safely hidden behind a magazine stand on the curb of the sidewalk, I look again. Andrew looks immaculate as always. My brain is even convinced that he’s put more care into his appearance tonight. He is wearing a sharp-looking, well-fitted gray suit as if he has been to work or an important business meeting. His hair is sleeked back, revealing his high forehead, and an expensive watch blinks under his pressed cuff.

His company is a woman. That would have been enough to ruin the warm, fuzzy mood I was in on my way to the book shop. But it’s so much worse. She is nothing short of stunning, Andrew’s female counterpart, an ethereal creature that you just don’t see on the streets and would more likely attribute to Photoshop.

Her hair is warm cinnamon and flows down past her shoulders in an avalanche of velvety waves. From where I stand, not a hair seems out of place. Her profile is flawless. Small, well-shaped chin, luscious peach-colored lips, tiny nose. She is holding her cauldron with such sophistication as if she is holding a champagne glass and I can see her bright-red nails, which don’t seem trashy or vulgar, but elegant.

I look at mine and… Shit! I’ve chipped the nail-polish already, probably while I was closing my umbrella. I hope the photographer won’t be zooming in on my hands. Plus, I have more important things to obsess about now.

I squint my eyes towards the woman again and catch a glimpse of Andrew laughing at something she’s just said. Her lips are attractively curved in a sly smile now. She is probably very aware of how funny she is. She probably doesn’t even need to be funny. Any man would gladly laugh at even the lamest line she’d say, just to make a good impression on her.

She is slim and her long legs in shiny black stilettos almost touch Andrew’s under the table. I look at my rubber boots and feel miserable. Since when am I so shallow?

I’ve never been too concerned with my looks and I don’t normally base my confidence on the way I look. Though I’ve recognized the attractive features in both my friends and ex-boyfriends, I wouldn’t say any of my relationships have been influenced by a person’s appearance either. And now, here I am, with my muddy rubber boots and my military, fur-trimmed parka and I suddenly feel inferior to the couple chatting inside the window.

Then the questions start banging inside my head. Who is this woman? Has Andrew slept with her? Did he (Oh, God) like it better than when he was with me in that bathroom? Are they on a date? Is it serious?

I can’t seem to stop myself and the worst is that since we’ve now established we are just brother and sister, I have no right to be jealous. It’s even creepy for me to be jealous. It’s sick. I picture a long life of sharing our love conquests with my
brother
, him introducing a new model-like girl every other week and me going years in between pathetic dates with balding intellectual snobs. Fun!