Authors: Jillian Sterling
By Jillian Sterling
Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective
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MY BILLIONAIRE STEPBROTHER
This day could not get any more
surreal. Yesterday I was at school in Philadelphia, minding my own business,
Remington Wilde is standing in front
Yes, that one – the Remington Wilde
that was on the cover of Vogue and named People’s Sexiest Man Alive just last
The Remington Wilde featured in
Men’s Health as the Hottest Bod in the Universe.
The Remington Wilde considered the
World’s Most Eligible Bachelor after Prince William got married.
The Remington Wilde that has
famously broken the most glamorous hearts in the world and sexed up the most
exclusive clubs and resorts.
The famous one.
The dangerous one.
The rich, sexy, powerful one.
The HOT one.
He needs no introduction, I know
it’s him and feel the flash of white-hot recognition and desire fire through my
body with the velocity of an explosion as soon as our eyes meet. He’s looking
right at me, and I can see in his face what he wants. It turns my insides hot. He’s
a six-foot tall billionaire sex god with an enormous bulge in his pants and a
dangerous gleam in his eyes. God, I can’t look away from it no matter how red
my face gets – I can’t stop trying to picture him naked. That cock must be
No, Veronique. Don’t stare at
it. Look away.
He’s the kind of guy that women
throw their panties at. He’s the kind of guy women throw away their pride for. He’s
the kind of guy I’d throw away both my panties and pride for, but he is
completely off limits.
Did you hear that, self? OFF.
Because as of this moment, he is
officially my stepbrother: a total stranger, yes, but also my stepbrother.
Because that is how my weird little life works. My weird little life has just
taken a completely shocking, completely bizarre, completely unfathomable turn
to the surreal and sexy and complicated. My weird little life has just put me
in the path of the most infamous billionaire bachelor in the world, while at the
same time taking him off the table.
Well, one good long look can’t
Sweet Jesus H. Christ. That body.
That face. That…bulge. I really want to know if his last name is also an
accurate description of his bedroom talents:
. Because Remington
Wilde seems like he could drive me…wild.
I haven’t felt wild in so, so damn
long. And I want it so bad.
Look away, Veronique. Look away
now. Run away. Do not pass go. Do not fantasize about your stepbrother. Do not
think about his cock. Do not think about his…fuck.
He’s got a rockstar’s charisma and
a movie star’s charm, with an enormous dash of serious cash and all the alpha-male
entitled cockiness and sexy confidence that implies. Just standing near him
makes your breath catch. Damn, he even smells insanely expensive and sexy. I
can catch the scent of his cologne on the breeze – probably something custom
made, definitely something that makes me think of long, naked nights. Maybe it’s
Maybe it’s just him.
Maybe I need to lick his neck to
find out. Maybe I need to lick my way all down from his neck to his washboard
abs to his cock and…
Jesus. Down, girl. Get a grip.
No wonder Esperanza Grant, the
biggest movie star in the world, chose him over all her other boyfriends. Aren’t
they still together? Yeah Veronique, remember that juicy tidbit? Just another
reason he’s off limits: he’s not only your new stepbrother, he is dating a
woman a million times hotter and richer and more appropriate than you.
Still, a girl can fantasize right?
No. Bad idea. Terrible idea. No
fantasies. No fun.
But ohhhh myyyy godddd.
He looks like the kind of man who
knows how to satisfy any woman, anywhere, any time - and who isn’t afraid to do
it. He looks like my fucking wettest dream in the flesh – flesh, I might add, that
is perfectly sculpted, rock hard, and delicious. Is that a 6-pack I see through
his tight white shirt?
Oh god, how I want to find out.
He’s oozing sex. He’s oozing cool.
He’s oozing douchbaggery, too.
Maybe I can focus on that? Maybe that will make him less hot? Maybe if I
realize he’s a love-em-and-leave-em, wet and dirty, callous and rough…nope.
That’s just turning me on more.
That face. That suit. That BODY.
Why, god? Why me?
I know the second we meet that he
wants me and worse – I want him back, bad. So bad. Toe-curling, sweaty bodies
rubbing, up-against-a-wall, no-first-names-necessary bad.
I’m only human! What would it be
like to spend a wild night (or seven) with Remington Wilde, playboy of the
Western and Eastern world? To have those big, experienced hands on my body,
showing me the dirtiest moves he’s got? What would it be like to be naked with
him, to feel him hard for me – someone so powerful, someone so…hot.
Someone that’s fucked an Oscar
Someone that’s fucked a fucking
I want him to fuck me, too.
It’s not going to be easy ride,
figuratively or literally. Because, damn – when was the last time I imagined
riding a guy I JUST met?
How about never!
I’m not that girl. I am the responsible
girl. I am the hard-working, nose to the grindstone,
I’m not the lust-at-first-sight, wild-night-of-no-consequences girl. I’m not
the sexy girl. I’m not the tabloid cover girl.
I’m not Remington Wilde’s girl.
I have too much at stake to get
involved with anybody, especially someone like Remington Wilde.
But something about me is driving
me wild, propelling me toward him, making me hungry like a sex-crazed maniac –
I can sense it in the way his rippling muscles tense, the way his eyes track
all down my body. I can feel something, like a tangible pool of heat between
our bodies. In the air: actual chemistry.
And it’s scaring the shit out of
It’s not just the fact that I know
all about his girlfriends and sexploits from gossip rags. The man is a legend,
but it’s not that I’m star struck. It’s not that I’m stupid. And it’s not just
the fact that the moment we meet I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck of
hormones screaming for wild, animal passion.
It’s not even that he’s my brand
new surprise stepbrother.
All of these things I could deal
with. I could deal with his relentlessly hot body, his smoldering eyes, his
mocking grin, and the chills that shoot down my spine when he stands
just-barely too close to me. Worse things have happened to me that Remington
Wilde’s raw sexual magnetism. Worse things have happened to me than this
searing lust, this tongue-tied intimidation.
Like the fact that Remington Wilde
already hates my guts.
Or the fact that my family’s entire
future suddenly depends on his acceptance.
And that his acceptance hinges
entirely on my ability to smooth things out.
…all without tumbling into his bed.
It’s going to be a rough ride.
Let me back up to the beginning because, look: if I were Remington
Wilde, I’d probably hate me too. And if I were me, I’d probably hate Remington
Wilde. Which I do, by the way! He’s not the only one who gets to be a hater. I
hate him as much as I want to fuck him.
This is the problem.
It all started, like I said, with
me minding my own business.
It’s finals week, so minding my own
business involved a very delicate tightrope walk of stress, rehearsal,
sleeplessness, and coffee. Finals are no joke at the Curtis Institute of Music.
Nothing is a joke at the Curtis
Institute of Music.
Getting in to this amazing school was
the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life, or so I thought – then classes
began. It’s been nothing but work, work, work; perfection, perfection,
perfection. I know you might not think that becoming a classical musician isn’t
exactly a stable career choice, but if I can survive Curtis I can definitely
have a strong career. It’s all a part of my master plan to be the provider, to
gain respect from the world and independence from my family’s bumpy financial
The cello was one of the last things
my Mom gave to me before she died in a car accident when I was 10. She thought
of music – classical music – as the only art form that was honorable and safe
for a girl to work in. Back in Japan, where she was from, classical musicians
were very highly regarded and very well treated. She was a cellist herself but gave
it up to marry my crazy charming, erratic, and irresponsible Dad. My mom really
never had the chance to succeed – she, in fact, purposefully gave up her chance
at success to try her hand at love. I think part of her secretly wished she’d
found a way to do both.
I know I want both, but mostly
success – after a life of having little to live on but my family’s famous
“love,” I know the price of everything. I always thought that if I could use my
mom’s musical legacy to succeed, it would heal a lot of the past. I know she
would have loved to see me try.
That is why I worked my ass off to
apply and get into the only top music conservatory with free tuition. That is
why I’ve staked my life on this crazy dream – a job that gives me passion and
stability, respect and independence; a career that will allow me to finally be
my own person while also still supporting and helping my Dad.
A girl can dream.
Don’t get me wrong: I love every
second of school, but it hasn’t been exactly conducive to having a sane
personal life. Especially because I am one of those students who desperately
need to succeed, every waking moment since I started my course has been about the
Curtis Institute of Music and the cello. Curtis and cello. All day, every day. I
need to be perfect. I need to excel. Because at the end of this I need to have
an excellent job.
If I don’t succeed, no one else
will do it for me. There’s no trust fund, no safety net. I am overworked and
tired and cranky but on track to achieve my goals.
Last night I worked a double at
Paddy’s, the college bar where I earn my rent money. I’ve mostly supported
myself – and my Dad – since I was old enough to get my first job at 15. I work
about 8 shifts a week at the bar and practice cello about 40 hours a week on
top of my classes. Yeah, there’s no sleeping. And this fateful morning I am on
edge and running late for rehearsal when my phone starts buzzing.
I had just swung my cello case onto
my back – no easy feat – and was delicately propping myself against the wall to
lock my apartment door when my pocket vibrated and scared the bejeezus out of
me. But I instantly knew who was calling.
There’s only one person who calls
“Hi Dad,” I grunt, balancing the
phone between my shoulder so I can twist my keys in the lock. “I’m running late
for rehearsal, but I haven’t heard from you in a while. How are you?”
There’s a distant clicking sound in the connection, like
he’s calling from a payphone in the 1940s. Which, knowing my Dad, is slightly
“Kiki baby! I’ve missed you! Your Daddy loves you. How is
your taking-over-the-world plan going?”
He calls me Kiki. I’m 21 years old and I still don’t have
any idea why.
“It’s going great Dad, I’m in the middle of finals. Pretty
crazy busy –”
“I know, I know baby. You work so hard. Listen, something
has come up and it’s terribly, terribly important. It’s life and death serious.
I need you to believe me, drop everything you’re doing, hop on the plane and
come out here.”
It feels like the breath gets knocked out of me as the
familiar anxiety and helplessness descends. My Dad loves me more than anything
else in the world but has no idea of his effect on my emotional wellbeing, and
it’s this kind of shit that has made me the paranoid type-A control freak that
I don’t even know where he is. How
could I possibly drop everything? Doesn’t he realize how important my work is? My
Dad is a poker player, and whenever he calls me it’s from a different time
zone, asking for some very serious favor. His emergencies are as commonplace as
the electricity bill.
“Dad, we’ve talked about this before. I can’t just leave
school. School is my priority right now. I’m doing it for both of us and I
can’t just drop everything, especially not during finals.”
But his voice is grave in a way I’ve never heard before.
“I’m not asking you for money and I’m not asking you to do
something risky. I am asking you, as your father, to listen to me and obey me
this once. This is like nothing that has ever happened before, this is not a
joke, and I am extremely serious. I need you to get to Philadelphia
International Airport by 10am, terminal B. When you go to check in they will
point you in the right direction. I need you to do this for me, Kiki. I need
you to believe me, not over-think it, and just do what I ask.”
My stomach goes cold as my mind tries to tally up the
possible causes of his cryptic request. Is he in trouble? Is he dying?
“Dad, are you ok? Should I be calling an Embassy somewhere?
Are you in jail?”
But the line is hissing and fizzing, garbling like a message
from deep space. Is he in deep space? I wouldn’t put it past him.
“Already arranged…go to the airport…10am…important…”
Then the line goes dead.
Seriously, in 2015, when does the line garble and go dead? What
the hell is going on?
I stare at my phone, adrenaline spiking through my veins.
What could possibly have happened that my father would have already arranged a
plane for me for 10am? That’s really soon, isn’t it? I check the time.