RICH BOY BRIT (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance)(21)

“Dammit!” I muttered, clenching my fists harder. The fidgeting was back, like a thousand creatures trying to wriggle out of my body. “Dammit.”

I thought about the masked ball, about the lion, about the lovemaking, and wondered if I would rather have never met him. Even now, as my body fought to drive me into a panic attack, I knew that I would not. Then irony was that the man who caused the anxiety was the only one who could alleviate it. Eli held the poison and the antidote. His power over me was startling; I wanted to run toward and away from him at the same time.

But I never wanted to run away from him because of something he had done. It was always when I imagined other people’s reaction that I felt a stab of guilt in my belly. Nobody else would understand. They wouldn’t care that we had met as lovers before we were brother and sister. All they would care about is that we were different, that we had done something which society agreed people did not do. Every time I thought of the hordes and hordes of sneering people, laughing, pointing—that was when I wanted to end things with Eli.

But when I only thought about him, in isolation, and didn’t allow other thoughts to color my feelings, I didn’t want to run from him at all. No, when I thought like that, my body ached for him, my nipples ached from wanting to be grabbed and my pussy ached from wanting to be fucked. There was a warm orb in my belly when I thought about his hands on me. The anxiety did not go—only being with him, in person, seemed to do that—but it lessened when I relived our sex.

I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting at the edge of the bed, pacing up and down, wringing my hands, staring out of the window, until there was another knock at my door. “I’m making some dinner,” Eli said. “Do you want some? Pizza.”

“I’ll eat it in here,” I said.

I knew I might be hurting him, but the idea of seeing him again for any long period of time, the idea of exposing myself to that kind of lust, didn’t bond well with the images of sneering bystanders. Once the food was cooked, Eli knocked on the door again. I walked across the room and put my hand on the door handle, my other hand on the lock. I turned the lock (holding my breath, but hardly realizing it, excited to see him again even after just a day), but when I opened the door he wasn’t there. The plate lay on the floor. I bent down, picked it up, and retreated into my room.

This wasn’t healthy, of course. I couldn’t stay in this room forever. I had to get out, lest I go completely mad. The last thing I should have done was just sit in there, thinking, overthinking, dwelling, going over and over our sex, reliving every passionate breath and thrust. I was continually shocked by myself. Even as I knew it was wrong, I wanted to fuck him again. Sometimes, I wanted to do it because it was wrong.

You’re a slut, my mind whispered. That’s all it is, Jessica. You’re a slut and you’re hungry for cock. That’s your problem. You’re dirty. People at college would ridicule you if they saw you now. You should be ashamed of yourself. But those thoughts didn’t stop the others; if anything, they enhanced them. As if rebelling against the traitor voice, my mind conjured up more and more images of Eli, naked, muscular, rock-hard . . .

Again, my thoughts seemed to make time go faster. What had I done all day? I had just been pacing, worrying, and now when I looked out my window I saw that the sun was beginning to set, and that shadows were thrown across my room. I walked to the door and clicked the light switch, my room lighting up with pale yellow light. Part of me was sure I was going crazy, but another part knew the real reason for this behavior. I was fighting feelings that could not be fought. I was fighting a losing battle. I wanted Eli, I wanted him bad, and fighting my lust was only making it harder for myself.

I was like an alcoholic who spends his first cold-turkey day thinking about the consequences if he were to take a drink, thinking about the people he would disappoint, thinking about the pain he would cause, until evening came and he couldn’t resist anymore. I was the same; evening was here, and I couldn’t resist anymore.

I unlocked my door and made my way to the stairs. That strange calm had started to descend upon me the second I decided on my course of action. That calm was something I craved almost as much as I craved Eli. The two—the calm and him—were linked in a way I could not fully understand. It was not just that he made me comfortable (though he did), but more than comfortable. He made me feel strong, as though I could do anything, if only I tried.

I hesitated outside his door for only half a moment. Images of Dad and Annabelle flashed across my mind. But my body was too excited to care. I was outside Eli’s room, every nerve in my body prepped for what was about to happen. It was a strong force, and the paltry images of the people I would hurt by allowing it to take action were no match for it. I turned the handle.

Eli was on his back, reading. He turned to me when I entered, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t know how grateful I was for that. When I was standing over him, I reached down and rubbed the front of his shorts. His cock hardened in my hand, and I rubbed it harder, harder, and then pulled his shorts down. I pulled down my panties, hiked my skirt up, and climbed atop him.

Stepbrother or not, I couldn’t fight this lust. Today had proved that. I had tried white-knuckle sobriety, and I had failed. I placed my hands on his chest as I rode his cock, moving my hips, feeling more confident than I could believe.

“I think I love you,” I whispered, locking eyes with him.