Mockingbird (A Stepbrother Romance) (14 page)

That felt… good.

I arch my back a little, shifting in his lap, and he groans as his cock grinds against my stomach. I wiggle my butt and he lands another stinging smack on me, and I shudder. It feels good, like a tart taste, or dipping my toes in ice cold water.

"Again."

His hand hits my rump, and then slides up my back, along with his other one. I wriggle as he pulls my shirt up all at once, pulling my arms up with it, and he twists the cloth and pulls it tight, so only my mouth is exposed and my arms are trapped next to my head, and I'm not wearing a bra and I feel so
naked
. He keeps the cloth knotted in one hand and pulls me close to him, only the thin cotton of his shirt separating him from me, his skin from mine. I'm shivering, not from cold, but just because I'm
naked
. He can see my bare chest. I've never… I even kept myself covered up in the locker room.

His mouth brushes mine in an almost kiss, and his voice is in a whisper so soft I feel it as much as hear it.

"Shy, aren't you?"

I nod, just a little. As much as I can.

"Why? You're beautiful."

A shudder rolls through me and my gasp turns into a kiss as his lips meet mine. The shirt slides up as he tugs it loose and, heart pounding like a fist against my ribs, I let it fall to the floor and sit topless in his lap. I open my eyes as he holds my sides, slip my arms around his head and kiss him, harder. His hair is silky smooth in my fingers, his skin warm. He squeezes my butt with both hands and I wince, a little sore from where he smacked my rump. I like it anyway.

Everything like this is new. I've never had anyone pay attention to me like this before, touch me like they wanted
me
to feel pleasure from it. He keeps kissing me and his hands work their way up, until he holds my breasts in his hands, lets them slide against his skin. He runs his thumbs under them, and the skin there is so sensitive I can't help it, I break out laughing.

"You're not wearing underwear," he murmurs in my ear.

"No," I admit, breathless. "I'm not."

"I wonder why. Did you think I was going to do something to you?"

He turns me in his lap and his hand slips down the front of my shorts, between my legs. When his finger runs along my slit, it makes my whole body tense up. I shudder and press against him, slip my arms around him. His finger eases back and forth, back and forth, and I realize how wet I am. It's soaking through the light cotton of my shorts.

Then he starts to press his finger inside me, and I feel a shudder through his body. It feels so weird, but
good
, feeling him move deeper and deeper, and it's only a finger! He trembles with excitement, kisses my cheek softly and sniffs my hair.

For the first time since I met him, he sounds nervous. "Are you, ah, are you, um…"

I swallow, hard. "This is my first time." The words are heavy with a certain assumption.

His other hand cradles my head, and I shift in his lap. His finger slides inside me and he starts to slowly, lightly rub his palm against my clit. Oh God.

"I want you to cum for me," He murmurs in my ear.

I hug my arms around him. "Please."

His finger works as his palm rubs, and I start grinding on his hand, riding him almost. I clutch his shoulders and shudder, it feels so
good
.

"Take off your shorts."

I scramble to get them off, slide them down my legs and then I'm buck naked on his lap, my left ass cheek red from being spanked. He grabs the shirt and spreads it on the couch, drops me on it, and falls to his knees in front of me.

Oh.

I slide down, rounding my back, and rest my feet on the floor. When he runs his tongue over my pussy I cry out, gripping the edge of the couch in both hands. Oh my God. Just when I thought I couldn't handle that, he really starts, running his tongue over my slit as I writhe on the couch. I can't help myself. I throw my legs over his shoulders and sink my fingers in his hair, and it's like he's reading me, like he can
feel
it when I'm getting close, and slows, so it fades, then pushes me harder. His mouth isn't enough. He slips his finger inside me again as his lips and tongue move hot and slippery over my skin, as he sucks my clit.

I can't take it anymore. I curl up around him, panting, gasping for breath, trying to hold back the noises that boil hot in my chest and scrape out of my throat as I cry out and arch
 
back into the sofa, begging him for more, more, please, don't stop. He doesn't until I get so sensitive I have to twist away from him, and he slips up onto the couch next to me and pulls me against him as I shudder and my legs twitch.

"Holy shit, " I purr, turning, awkwardly. I press against him. I want him. I want
him
. More. I stick my hand down his pants and grab his cock, and he undulates on the sofa.

"Wait."

"Why?"

"I don't… I didn't bring protection, I wasn't planning to…"

"I want you."

"Not yet."

"Then let me…"

He unzips his pants and I hold his erection in my hand, staring at it as I stroke my hand up and down his length. It feels rough, and the skin catches against mine, so I lick my hand to make it slipper before I start again. The slight of it stirs something in him, and the tip of his cock flares bigger. It's just an impulse, I don't know why I do it.

I take him in my mouth, resting my head on his stomach as I suck and stroke. It feels weirdly soothing, and I feel…
possessed
when he rests his arm over my back, and uses his fingers to tug damp strands of hair away from my mouth as I suck him and slide him through my lips and stroke him.

He likes it. He doesn't take long. He groans and arches into the couch, pushing up, thrusting through my hand,
 
his body tight as a whip, a coiled spring. It's almost like he's in pain, and then…

When it's over he goes limp, a little smile on his face. I sit up, and he looks at me.

"I'm supposed to swallow it, right?"

His answer is a kiss. God, if somebody caught us like this.

Chapter 9: Apollo

God help me.

I can't stop touching her. It's not just the afterglow, the exhilaration. She's
perfect
. Those few moments will be etched in my memory forever. Her shyness, the subtle way she was afraid but still bold as I peeled off her clothes, and begging me to
spank
her.

As she curls up naked against my side, I want nothing more than to lay her down and take her, thrust inside her and feel her shudder and writhe with pleasure, feel her tighten around me as she peaks, over and over and over until she passes out from pleasure. I want her to be mine forever.

What am I doing? I can't do this to her. I can't. The way she's touching me now, stroking my chest, nestled under my arm. When I look down she looks back at me with, what? Adoration?

How can something so awful be so perfect? How can she not sense that I'm here to destroy her?

What am I going to do?

Oh, great. She's asleep.

She starts snoring. Even that is endearing. She looks like an angel when she's sleeping. Her hair is all tangled, she's flushed and sweaty, and so gloriously naked, her big breasts resting against me, her skin so silky as she breathes in her sleep. She snorts and shifts and the snoring stops, but her breath tickles my armpit. It's never been like this before. We didn't even go all the way and all I want to do is wrap my arms around her and protect her. She looks so
delicate
like this, something truly rare and precious.

It takes some doing to detach from her, but I manage it. I lay her down on the couch and wrap her up in a blanket, and she curls up into the fetal position and settles there. I tug my shorts back up and sit next to her, wondering what in the hell I'm going to do about this. I don't want to hurt her.

I sag, my head falling into my hands, and feel the world spinning around me. This was such a mistake. I should have just left when I had the chance, and now… now what is she going to think? The way she looks at me, nobody has ever looked at me like that before. She sees me, if that makes any sense.

She keeps rubbing her feet together. Her toes must be cold. I pull the blanket over them and she stops, makes a soft sound, and stills in her sleep.

Time to go, Apollo. Get up and walk out, call her later.

I'm supposed to search the house for the codes but I don't even know where to start. I can't bring myself to leave. I should go somewhere, do something.

Somehow, I manage to sit there for an hour or more, staring at nothing. No answer presents itself to me. What am I going to do?

Then she wakes up. She yawns, looks over, and smiles, wraps the blanket around her wonderfully naked body and downs the rest of a can of warm, probably flat orange soda, and puts her head on my shoulder. Her arm slides around my waist.

I know, rationally, I need to pull away from her. I can't. I hold her back, lean back into the sofa and look past her.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

I flinch. You're damn right I'm lying. I'm here to rob you. You're the means to an end. This is just a job.

Except it isn't anymore.

The concern on her face only makes her more beautiful. Then she does it. She touches my cheek, runs her hand over the stubble and smiles.

"Talk to me. I don't know anything about you."

"What is there to tell?"

I have a cover story. We went through it together, point by point, but the details are slipping away from me now, like trying to grasp too big a handful of sand. I can't tell her the truth.

"Where are you even from?"

"Bayonne. I grew up in a housing project with my mother."

"Housing project? I thought…"

"That we're rich? I guess we'd have to be, to be donors, or whatever, right? My father is. My mother wasn't. He wasn't around when I was younger."

"That's awful. Where did he go?"

"He never told me," which is almost accurate. My father's life before he took me into it is a void. I don't know how much, if any, of what he's told me is true. What he has told me amounts of a few scant details, pieces of a puzzle that don't always fit.

I wrote off the inconsistencies as indicators of truth, to be honest. The real world is never perfect, things never make absolute sense. That's the foundation of a good lie, knowing the difference between something that makes too little sense to be true and something that makes too little sense to be false.

My deep breath turns into a sigh.

"She got sick. Lung cancer."

"Did she smoke?"

"No. Didn't help."

"Oh." Her hand presses to my chest as she rubs her cheek
 
into my side. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"I'm still sorry. That's awful. How old were you?"

"Thirteen. Dad came for me then. Took me under his wing. I think Mom got word to him somehow. He came and took me after the funeral. I didn't have anybody else. Mom was an only child and her parents were dead."

"Why didn't he help you while she was alive?"

I have to roll that question around a bit. You know, I don't know the answer. He didn't have to be there. He could have at least sent money, kept us in better conditions, done something about her care when the insurance dropped. It was like he never checked on us at all.

"I don't know. I guess he took me in because he felt guilty."

"You seem a little distant with him," she sighs. "Look, I…" her voice catches, just a bit. "I like you a lot, but I don't know about him. I may be fighting with her but she's still my mom. Is he going to hurt her?"

I pull her close to me.

"I don't know. I think he feels stronger about her than he wants to admit."

That much is true. He's been acting off this whole time, ever since the last job. I don't know if it's affection for Carol or not.

"He doesn't sound like a nice person. Leaving you two alone all that time…"

"He had his reasons."

"Sounds like you trust him."

"Yeah."

She yawns. "Did he teach you how to fight?"

"Yes. He taught me how to do all sorts of things."

She looks up at me with wide eyes.

"Uh, not that stuff. That's… experience."

"Oh.
Oh
. Oh my God." She sits up, pulling the blanket over her full breasts. The gesture is so endearing and demure I can't stop staring at her. "How many?"

"Uh, a lot. I didn't really count, I mean it's not something I brag about…"

She's staring at me now, her mouth open a little.

"I'm… I did it safely. You don't need to worry about that."

She swallows, her throat bobbing. "This isn't some kind of a game, is it? You're not just messing with me, are you?"

"No. No, I swear. There's something different about you, Diana. I want to tell you everything, but…"

But if I tell you everything, you'll throw me out of the house and never speak to me again, and probably call the cops. That's if you don't stab me for my trouble.

"What is there that you're not telling me?"

"A lot," I whisper.

I'm not sure what I'm expecting. Anger, maybe, but her hand rests on my back and rubs in slow circles. Not in a sexy way, like she's trying to arouse me. It's comforting. She puts her head on my shoulder.

"You can talk to me. I'll listen."

"I don't know what to tell you."

I swallow. Something about saying that hurts more than it should.

She pulls the blanket up to her neck and sighs a deep, sad sigh. "Are you going to leave?"

"No. I"ll stay if you want me to. I just…"

"Nobody needs to know what we're doing for this week. We can sort things out when they get back."

Yeah. We can sort things out when they get back.

I'll give Dad a chance. Lay it out. I can't do this to her, I can't let this happen to these people. They don't deserve it.

"So," Diana murmurs, "Are you going to spend the night, then?"

"Yes, I am."

"Good."

She rises and shrugs out of the blanket, grabs her clothes and walks to the stairs. I hate to see her leave, but I love to watch her go. All I can do is stare, open-mouthed. She cradles her breasts in her arm as she walks up the stairs, and I lean forward to crane for a better view of her perfect ass swaying as she makes her way up. Then I leap up and follow her. I want her so bad I can taste it. It sings in my veins like fire, hammers in my chest. It's like I've been crawling through the desert and she's a glass of water, and all I have to do is drink.