RICH BOY BRIT (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance)(27)

I closed my eyes, and then I was coming, hard. He slipped a finger inside of me, and I heard myself moan: “Fuck me, Eli. Fuck me.”





Eli



It was my fault that she was so nervous right now, I knew. Of course, she would have been nervous anyway. We both would have. But she would have been less nervous if our sex wasn’t in the forefront of her mind. But just like the rest of this week, the last two days had been spent in love, a large portion of which was making love. There was that first night, when she had made us promise not to do anything, and then I had immediately broken that promise, and then there was the next day, and today, and now it was evening and Mom had just texted me saying they were on their way.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” she said. She paced up and down madly, as though she were possessed by something. I knew what she was possessed by: guilt and shame. I was possessed by it, too. But not guilt and shame because we were brother and sister. We were guilty and ashamed because we knew this could ruin what Mom and Andrew had. This could ruin their happiness. But keeping quiet about it could ruin ours. We were being selfish, there was no doubt about that. But sometimes, I thought, you have to put your own happiness first. “Seriously,” she went on, twisting her hands. “I don’t know if I can. This is going to ruin their marriage. Oh, they come home, expecting a nice reunion, and instead we’re like, surprise! You didn’t expect this, did you? Got you! Now, when are you getting that divorce?”

“We don’t know that it’s going to be like that,” I said, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible. Jessica was nervous enough as it was. If she realized that I was nervous, too, she wouldn’t have been able to function. Jessica was an amazing person, but sometimes her nerves got the better of her.

“Yeah, right,” she muttered.

As she spoke these words, the sound of Andrew’s car sounded outside the house. Jessica’s face dropped, and her hands fell to her sides. I half-expected her to flee to her bedroom, and leave this job to me. I wouldn’t have minded. I would have done it alone, for her. Instead, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. When the door opened and Andrew walked in, smiling broadly, Jessica returned his smile. It was the PR-smile, but Andrew didn’t seem to notice. Andrew walked up to his daughter and gave her a big hug.

Mom walked in afterwards, and wrapped her arms around me. “Hi, Mom,” I said, not knowing how to begin. I started disentangling myself from her. She showered me in kisses and was talking at a million words per minute, trying to greet me and tell me all about her holiday at the same time. It killed me a little to interrupt her, but this situation was like a Band-Aid; it had to been done quickly. “Mom!” I exclaimed, louder than I’d meant.

She stopped, and tilted her head at me. “Yes?” she said.

“I have something to tell you.” I turned to Andrew. “And you, Andrew. Let’s go into the living room.”

Without waiting for them to answer, I walked into the living room. Jessica had the same idea; I had no sooner started to walk than I felt her at my shoulder. Neither of us could stand to pretend any longer, to laugh and joke when we wanted to scream, to smile when we wanted to cry. It had to be brought out into the open.

Without planning to, Jessica and I sat on two chairs at one side of the coffee table, and Mom and Andrew sat at the other side of the coffee table, instantly separating us, like generals looking at each other across the battlefield. But that was not what I wanted this to be at all. I didn’t want this to be a battlefield. I wanted it to be calm, and reasonable. I placed my hands on my knees, and was surprised to see that no part of me was trembling. Neither was Jessica. Maybe our bodies knew that there was no point in anxiety now.

“Mom, Andrew,” I said. “We need to tell you . . .”

And I told them everything. I didn’t go into the detail about the sex, obviously, but I told them that we’d had sex. I told them about the first meeting at the mask party, and then meeting again when we discovered that our parents were dating. I told them how we’d tried to fight it, how we’d tried to be brother and sister—how Jessica had tried pushing me away—and how that had failed. We hadn’t been able to fight it. I told them about how our love had exploded over these past few days since they’d been away. I told them all of it, all the while staring at the floor, all the while unable to look Mom in the eye.

When I was done, silence stretched. Neither Mom nor Andrew said a thing. But they were not crying, screaming, or shouting. I risked a look at Jessica, and saw that she was looking down, too. She felt me looking at her, and met my eyes. I offered her a small smile of encouragement; she smiled back.

Then I turned, looked up at Mom and Andrew, and waited. I waited for the caustic words, the knife-like retorts, the hateful gazes. I waited to be told we were awful people. I waited for a divide to open up that could never be passed. I felt the start of a horrible argument coming on, like a wave building on the horizon of a small town, the townspeople readying themselves for the impact.

But, thankfully, my feelings were wrong.

I had underestimated Mom’s kindness.

She leapt across the table and wrapped her arms around me, more forcefully than she had when she’d entered through the door. “Look at you!” she cried. “You’re looking at me like I’m going to desert you, like I’m going to hate you! You silly boy! How could you think that of me?”