RICH BOY BRIT (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance)(16)

It was hard. I had to force myself to smile when I wanted to open up to him. I had to make myself mutter platitudes and play the stepsister role with all my might. And beneath it all, always, there was another version of me trying to break free, a version which wanted Eli, wanted all he had to give, wanted to kiss him, touch him, be with him. Dozens of times I felt the urge to reach out and touch his face, to feel his skin in my hand, but I always held back. I knew it was wrong. I couldn’t do it, no matter how badly I wanted to.

Dad and Annabelle were too happy, too in love, for their children to mess it up. So I stayed in my room as much as possible, hunched over an Eliot or a Hardy or an Austin or a Hemingway, losing myself in the words, my hands aching from gripping the pages for so long, my eyes burning from hours and hours of reading. It was all a way to escape—not him, but myself, my feelings. I could smile and pretend as much as I was able, but it didn’t stop me from waking in the middle of the night, reaching out for him in my sleep, still horny from a dream when he was naked (tattoos sun-bright in the dream) and fucking me hard. It didn’t change the way my skin pricked each time I thought of that night. It didn’t change the way my mind lurched in recognition each time I thought of the way he’d quoted George Eliot to me.

I knew that if circumstances were different, we could be close. We could be lovers, maybe more than lovers.

I joined Annabelle in her bedroom on the day of the wedding. She and Dad did not want anything outlandish, anything over-the-top. Annabelle had long hair, and I helped her style it so it wouldn’t get in the way of the back of her dress, which was low-cut almost to her tailbone. I braided it for her and set it—like an elaborate ornament—atop her head. And even here, doing this, I couldn’t dissociate the simple task of braiding hair with Eli. It was his mother I was helping, and it was her son I wanted, badly.

“Thanks, Jess!” she beamed, looking at me in the mirror.

I saw my own face, how tired my eyes looked, how my lip trembled for a moment. It was like looking at somebody else, somebody playing a role. And I was. I was playing the role of a woman who had no interest in her soon-to-be stepbrother. I was playing the role of a woman who didn’t dream every night of the muscles and sex and tattoos and endless orgasms.

“No problem!” I beamed back, smiling widely.

She did look beautiful with her hair and her dress. Her dress was a mixture of traditional and stylish. She had the long flowing bottom of a traditional wedding dress, but the low-cut back of more modern styles. I made to help her with her makeup, but she laid her hands atop mine. I felt a stab of guilt in my chest when I saw this happy bride with her hand on mine. She doesn’t know, I thought. She doesn’t know that I fucked her son. She doesn’t know I want to do it again, that we both want to do it again.

“You’ve done enough,” she smiled. “I can handle this. Why don’t you go and get ready, sweet?”

“Okay,” I mumbled, and left the room.

I walked through the house, my heart beating race-horse fast for no outward reason (but all the time thinking of Eli, of that night, of the lion and the way he touched me, of the orgasms and his rock-hard cock), to my bedroom. I was about to walk into the room when I heard two things. The first was Annabelle squealing as Dad entered the bedroom: “Andrew, you’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding!” The second was Eli, clearing his throat behind me.

I turned and he stepped forward. I knew I had to keep up the fa?ade, had to smile my fake smile and pretend that this was what it looked like, pretend that we were not connected. I forced my lips to twitch upward, but as I did so I found myself looking at his dagger-marked hand, at the hand which had touched my clit. An image, burning, strong, thrust itself into my mind, of Eli moving forward and moving his hand up my thigh, lifting the hem of my dress and clamping his hand down on my clit. I felt the heat, my clit pulsing, hungry for it. But he didn’t do that. He just stood there for a few moments, watching me.

His eyes trailed to the tops of my breasts, lingering there for a moment, and then moved down to my bare legs. I knew it was wrong, I knew that I was supposed to be the good sister, the nice girl, the girl who plays along in this elaborate play, but even so, I reached down and lifted the hem of my dress. That was the true me coming out, I think. I could hear Andrew and Annabelle at the other end of the house, laughing, and I knew I would hear them if they decided to come to this side of the house. I wanted to be desired by him. That was the truth. I lifted the hem of my dress and showed him my panties, which were pink and lacy. His beautiful earth-brown eyes widened when he saw them, and he took a step forward.

I dropped the dress. The madness passed. Idiot, I thought. Why would you do that? Idiot! I’d worked so hard this past week at pushing him away, and here I’d done the one thing that was sure to bring him closer. “Don’t,” I whispered, the fake smile gone from my face. I was revealing my true self, the self that wanted nothing more than for him to ignore me and push me into the bedroom and suck my nipples, grab my ass, spank me, fuck me. “Don’t, Eli.”

He ignored me and stepped close, looming over me. The sun entered from behind him, from a small window set into the wall opposite my bedroom, and when he stepped close to me his shadow fell upon me, making me feel small. But it was not small in a frightened, diminishing way. It was good to feel small near him because it reminded me of how big he was.