Love My Billionaire Stepbrother: A Steamy BBW Stepbrother Romance (2 page)

Besides, what would our families think? I wished I could sink the idea, but part of me wouldn’t let go.

Part of me didn’t care what anyone thought.

None of it mattered.

His attention was occupied by a million things. What could I offer that he couldn’t already have? He didn’t strike me as the type to have unfulfilled wants. That just wasn’t the reality of a billionaire.

I needed a supernova event. Something to blow him away. Something beyond what his harem already did.

The problem was, as a virgin, I had no idea what that might be. He and his bimbos were in a different league. A different world.

I didn’t know the what yet, and I only had a few more days to find it.

It had been a perfect birthday. We met up after his last meeting of the day. I was strolling through the lush gardens of the Rodin museum when he called. He met me there an hour before our dinner reservation. I thought the audio guide was informative, but Jake proceeded to take me on a personal tour that sounded like the guy was his best friend.

Rodin loved to produce. Jake talked about how he used tons of helpers to do his work for him. He would come up with a little mini-design version and then have a assistant do the big version for him. Then he would take all the credit for it. I thought it was straight-up cheating. Jake thought it was good business sense.
 

Different worlds.

The grave sculpture he, or his lackeys, did for him was crazy. It’s this huge black granite thing that arches over his grave and has worlds and worlds of little creepy beings doing different creepy things. Creepy. But beautiful too.

We arrived late for dinner and were ushered to a table in the corner. Jake sat with his back to the wall. He surveyed the room like a king in his court.
 

I never expected to have birthday dinner at one of the fanciest restaurants in Paris. I tried to change his mind, but Jake insisted and I’d yet to win an argument with him.

L’ Arpege was a three-star Michelin rated restaurant located in the government district. We sat at a small round table with high back comfortable chairs. A bright white, stiff tablecloth covered the table and draped over the sides. The dining room was small, intimate. Maybe ten tables total. It was quiet and elegant. Old world elegant. Very conservative. Not flashy or too modern like the hip restaurants back home in Los Angeles.

Light, sweet smells drifted through the room. Men in suits and women dressed to the nines surrounded every table. Conservative nines. They chatted in hushed tones, sipped at glass after glass of wine.

My dress was definitely the outlier on the sexy end of things. I didn’t care. It wasn’t for them.

It was for him.

My age was definitely an outlier as well. Today was my nineteenth birthday. There was no way anyone else in here was under sixty. Make that our ages. We were the youngest couple there.

Did they see us as a couple?

Probably not. He looked completely at ease and I fumbled through every course. Even tripped my heels and almost bit it on a trip downstairs to the bathroom earlier.
 

The wine didn’t help my already near total lack of grace.

Everyone says Paris is the culinary capital of the world. And L’ Arpege was supposed to be the fanciest restaurant in Paris. So didn’t that mean I was actually, this minute, enjoying a dinner at the best restaurant in the entire world?
 

We’d gone through, what, seven courses?

I’d lost count after four or five. The wine paired with every serving helped with that.

I pushed the fried green tea ice cream dumpling around my plate. I loved sweets usually, but there was only so much food you could eat. And after however many courses of delicious culinary inventions, I think anyone would be pretty stuffed.

That steamed egg concoction was to die for!

The egg, still in the shell, topped with fluffy cream and burnt brown sugar. Yum. That was the desert matinee. Course three or so.

I looked down at my plate and reconsidered.

It was fried green tea ice cream though.

And it was my birthday.

I partitioned off another spoonful and took a bite.

I looked up and Jake had his wine glass raised.

“Time for a toast,” he said.

I nervously raised a glass filled with a dark red-colored wine, a port I think they said. The waiter guy said this one was perfectly paired to the tangy raspberry sauce on the dumpling. My dad would never have let me drink, but Jake took it as a matter of course. I tried to do the same, but even half-glasses add up.
 

My brain buzzed with a gauzy warmth.

I’d gotten drunk a few times at parties with my girlfriends. I hated the wasted drunk feeling. I had no idea why they loved it so much. I did notice they seemed to enjoy having a justification for doing what they really wanted to do.

Like oh it wasn’t me. I was so drunk. I’d never normally do
that
.

 
Yea, right.

I wasn’t like that. I had no interest in the boys in high school. So I never needed an excuse.

Until now.
 

No boy had ever done it for me.

Until now.

But Jake was a man. The only man that had ever gotten me steamy down there.

And he sat across the table from me. Sat looking gorgeous and confident like the world was his garden, every flower watered or plucked at his whim.

Did I mention gorgeous? Stupid hot.

And he was going to be my stepbrother the instant our parents tied the knot.
 

Fuck you universe.

Not cool.

Jake sat upright in his chair. Tall and casually formal. He wore a dark blue suit, the jacket left with the attendant when we arrived.
 
Sleek pale blue shirt that had a subtle sheen. A deep blue-black bowtie neatly knotted at his neck. Jet black hair swept back and slightly wet-looking. Deep blue eyes. Those laughing, teasing, drop-dead-gorgeous eyes that occupied more and more of my dreams each night.
 

“You there Jules,” he said.

He loved calling me that, like we’d been brother and sister for years.

“It’s Julia to you,” I said and smiled.

He clinked our glasses together. The soft
ting
rang through the small space.

“Happy birthday, Jules,” he said. “I’m sorry the rest of the family aren’t here to celebrate. A nineteen birthday is a big deal. I remember mine vividly.”

His eyes glazed over and he smiled crookedly.

Great. Probably some supermodel orgy or something.

“One,” I said, “I don’t want to imagine your nineteenth birthday. I’m sure the depravity offended Bacchus himself.”

“It was fun,” he said with a nod.

“And two, it’s dad and Bridgette for now. She’s not my stepmother yet.”

“You don’t like my mom,” he said. “The woman who shaped and raised me? The woman I love more than any other?”

Always teasing. Always in control.

“You know I didn’t mean that,” I said. “She’s great. I’m happy my dad found her. I just meant that we aren’t steps yet. In case you were wondering.”

He crinkled his brows.

“So you don’t want to be related to me,” he said. The light tone in his voice dropped through the floor.

“No, not that,” I said. “Ugh, I’m a little drunk and my brain isn’t working. I think you’re great. Amazing. I love being around you.”

His demeanor bounded back into the light.

“Yea,” he said, “I get that a lot.”

More teasing. I guess I served that softball pitch up.

“What I meant to say,” I said, “is thank you for this. For Paris. For making my dreams come true.”

“So I’m in your dreams,” he said. “Good to know.”

“Shut up,” I said, a little louder than I intended. A few of the people at other tables glanced in our direction.

I looked down. Embarrassed to have their attention. More embarrassed because he was right. I didn’t want him to see the truth in my eyes. My slightly drunk and unguarded eyes.

“Are you trying to get me kicked out,” he asked. “These people don’t want hear you babbling about how I’m in your dreams.”

I didn’t respond.

The horror of him looking into my dreams was too much. I didn’t know how to respond.

I should have laughed it off. But the buzz had my defenses askew.

“I’m kidding,” he said. “Happy birthday Jules.”

He reached across the table and tinged my glass again. We each sipped our wine. It went down easier and easier. It was delicious. Not at all like the Bartles and James I’d tried back home.

I looked back up at him. Fairly certain my thoughts were again mine alone.

“Seriously, thanks for taking me out,” I said. “I mean, for my birthday, not a date. Err, you know.”

He laughed. Always cool and calm. The perfect counterpoint to my hot and flustered.

“Obviously. Brothers and sisters don’t date,” he said. “And you’re welcome. I knew you’d love Paris and I’m honored to be your guide.”

“Do I have to tip you at the end of the ride,” I asked.

“Only if I deserve it,” he said and grinned.

Gah!

His smile was so sexy. A tingle rippled between my legs. A hot tingle that sent shivers up my back. The hair on my arms stood out.

“Are you cold,” he asked.

Cold? I was the furthest thing from it!

“I’m fine,” I said.

I had to change the subject. My fuzzy brain couldn’t handle it.

His phone buzzed and skittered a fraction on the table. He looked at he number and frowned.

“Sorry,” he said, “I have to take this.”

He turned his body and cupped his hand over his mouth.

“What,” he said in a whisper.

He waited for a moment.

“No,” he said, “I’m not going to tell you that because it isn’t true.”

A siren scream escaped the phone.
 

He listened for another moment.

“Do not do that,” he said. His voice was a razor.

He clicked the phone off and dropped it back to the table. It caught a plate’s edge on the way down and clanged to a stop.

The other patrons of the place looked over. Their stares felt like accusations. Like we had done something unspeakably wrong, horribly immoral, and the townsfolk had gathered to judge and punish us. They’d decided on guilty. Guilty deserving punishment.

It was a phone people.

Relax.

“You okay,” I asked.

“Huh,” he said and looked up. “Oh, yea it’s fine.”

He shook his head and let out a big exhale.

What was that all about?

I raised my glass to him. To bring his mind back.

“To us,” I said. “Brother and sister.”

We tapped the rims together and took a sip of the delicious, deep red liquid.

“I knew you’d come around,” he said.

I giggled. One of those giggles that starts well and ends up all wrong. Like you’re a choking pig or something.

What?

It was fun.

And I was kind of drunk.
 

And there
he
was.

On my birthday.

Maybe it was the buzz talking, but the world felt limitless. No rules. No regrets.

It was my birthday after all.

In Paris.

At the best restaurant on the planet.

With my hot not-yet-stepbrother.

He could have been anyone. Any gorgeous man that I’d just met and fallen madly in love with. He could have been that.

If the world had any sense of justice.

“Happy birthday, to the most beautiful stepsister I’ve ever had,” he said.

“You’ve never had a stepsister,” I said.

“True,” he said and winked.

He was so hard to read.

I took another sip of the port. It was sweet. Really sweet. Like dessert in a glass. It was good. The warm buzz way back in my brain rolled outward, engulfing the critical thinking parts of my brain.

Good riddance.
 

“Jake, you know you’re right,” I said.

“I get that a lot,” he said.

“Haha,” I said, “I mean it. Nineteen is a big deal. I mean, I’m a woman now. I’ve got the body of a woman now.”

Should I have said that?

It was ridiculous to say out loud. But it was true too. I needed him to know that.

He glanced down at my dress and his eyes locked onto my ample cleavage an instant before he yanked them away. But, I’d caught that instant.
 

I leaned forward over the table. My full bosom nearly spilled out of the low cut dress.

His eyes dropped back down. Let him have his fill. I wanted to give him more. All the ambiguity left me. All the maybes and kindas.

I wanted him.

I wanted him to be my first.
 

I didn’t care what my prude brain screamed. The alcohol did a fine job of muffling its accusations.

I wanted him tonight.
 

I didn’t want to be a virgin at the age of nineteen plus one day.

I hoped all the care I put into preparing for the evening made an impression. I never dressed like this in real life.

 
A simple, sexy white dress. It didn’t reveal too much. I just wasn’t that kind of girl. But I was all for hints. It clung to my full waist and supported me just right. I had a heaping helping of handfuls up top and the dress did its best to restrain them. I was happy it only partially succeeded. It was cut short at the thigh, but not slutty short.

I’d taken my long, straight dark brown hair and wrapped it up into a fancy bun. The sophisticated, Paris kind. It took forever getting ready that evening.

Jake cleared his throat and pulled his eyes away again.

“Uhh, yep,” he said, “you are definitely mature for nineteen.”

His voice cracked. It was the first time I’d seen look awkward. Ill at ease.

I liked the effect I had on him.

He looked at his watch.
 

“It’s almost midnight and I’m beyond full,” he said. “We have one more stop to make before calling it a night.”

That sounded fine to me. I didn’t want the night to ever end.