Hawk (A Stepbrother Romance #3)(13)

This house lacks nothing for luxury. I turn the water down just a tad and lift the shower head from it's cradle, it's on a hose. I spray under my arms and down my legs, hang it again and soap myself up. I'd stink even if I didn't smell vaguely of pickles. It takes forever to scrub the sour sweat smell away with the soap. When I lift the shower head again, I rinse off.

I bite my lip, and swallow, shift my feet apart and slip it between my legs, spraying the water on my mound. I try not to do this too often but it feels so f*cking good, it makes my toes rise from the floor.

I feel… coiled. Somehow that release of tension I had this afternoon didn't really do the job. The memory of his touch lingers, but more of touching him. Feeling his skin under my nails as I traced out the fine lines in his tattoos. I didn't get enough. I want to see the parts that were hidden, the parts that reached below his waist and remained covered up by his jeans. I crouch and sit down on the tub floor and lean back against the wall and settle the shower head between my legs and let the water flow. A little twist and the water pulses, sending little shocks spreading through my body.

I remember grabbing him and feeling his cock stiff, so urgent I could feel its shape even through denim, and the way he shuddered all over when I brushed his balls. I turn up the pulsing and the water goes a little faster, pulsing against me. I've never seen Hawk fully undressed. I think the closest I ever came was seeing him in swim trunks. He used to have tan lines in the summer-the outline of a tank top after he took it off. He did a lot outside, sometimes worked outdoor jobs in the summer. One year we both worked at Hertrich's Nursery, selling people plants and caring for trees. We were both bronzed by then.

I miss his tan lines, but the tattoos turn me on somehow. I want to finish what I started, lay on top of him and study those tattoos inch by inch, ask him where he got them and why, what they mean. I can't stop thinking about the feeling of his cock under my hand. If he was here right now, I'd undo that belt and tug down that zipper and pull him free. As I imagine his shaft in my hand I slip a finger into my body and move it along with the rhythm of the water and crank the dial so it goes a little faster.

Very softly I moan as I picture lying on top of him, pushing his jeans down while he wriggles out of them, feeling his cock against my stomach. I could feel how hot it was even through cloth, how thick and heavy. I can imagine sitting up and rolling my hips, trapping his shaft against my lips, grinding on it to wet it with my arousal before taking him inside. Riding and tempting him, guiding his hands to my breasts.

My leg starts to shake and I turn up the water a little more, and a second finger enters my body and joins the first, stroking. Before, Hawk occupied my fantasies as a phantom, an imaginary version of the man I thought him to be. Now I see him clearly in my mind, imagining him rolling me onto my back, as I look down to see his cock rock hard, so urgent it's curved, throbbing. I take my hand and run it along his length and his whole body jerks, thrusting into my hand. Then I take the shaft and hold it and feel it press against my entrance.

My legs snap together and I moan softly until I bite my lip, and turn the water all the way up. I tip the hot water over with my foot and warm it up a little, and it's bliss. I know Hawk's cock will be much bigger than a finger. I can imagine him shaking as he holds back, so gentle even as he fills me up and I lick my lips in satisfaction and he kisses me as he grinds against me, filling me, taking me to the root. His imaginary thrusts match my fingers and the heat builds in my body until I feel like I’m going to burst, like my soul is stretching against my skin. My heels skid on the floor of the tub and I cry out, silence myself with my hand and the shower head falls to the bottom of the tub with a dull thud as I shake through a climax that leaves me drained, like I've been stretched out.

Shaking, I stand up and lean on the wall, pull the shower head back up, rinse myself off and hang it back up, step out of the bath tub and wrap myself in a towel.

When I open the door, Lance is in the hallway.

"What the hell are you doing in there? I need to take a piss."

He's still in uniform. He has his sunglasses on. In the house. It doesn't matter, he rakes me with his eyes anyway. The towel covers all the important parts but I feel naked anyway; all I'd have to do is bent over and I'd be indecent. I have to brush the wall to get past him, and he makes a point of craning his head to stare at my ass as I dart away from him and into my room. I pluck the bottom of my towel down but it doesn't help, and when I slam the door, a deep breath goes in and comes back out a ragged near-sob.

I hate that son of a bitch almost as much as I hate his father. Lance isn't a monster, he's just a creep. Ever since our parents married and I moved in, he's been eyeing me…

Or, as she gets older, May. One time, at our precious Sunday Dinner, Lance pointed out that May was filling out. That was a real Kodak moment. Ever since, I've been on edge, trying to make sure she's never alone with him. Not that there's anything I can do, other than stay on Tom's good side and put a word in his ear if I think something inappropriate might happen.

God, I want to cry. How did it come to this? We're prisoners here. No one will help us, not even our own mother.

Someone would.

No, he left me. He left me! He left us here and f*cked off to who knows where and never sent so much as a word, left me wondering if he was even alive.

I couldn't believe he'd just leave.