My Billionaire Stepbrother (7 page)

Chapter Eight

It takes approximately one second
for me to decide I’m not leaving. This is my chance to act out all my fantasies
with Remington Wilde, and I will be damned if I will let anything stop me. He
wants me, I want him; we’re adults.
Yes. Yes. Yes. Do it. Do it. Do it.

Remington reaches for me and grabs
me, his hands huge over my waist, relentlessly snatching my body into a kiss.
For the first time since meeting him I don’t resist the lust, simply letting
the waves of desire and excitement build up from our mouths to our hips. My
body melts into him, writhing in anticipation. His arms are like a vice,
squeezing out all thoughts of escape.

It’s too late now. I know as soon
as we kiss that this is going all the way, past inhibitions and taboos. This
passion, this lust is mutual; my stepbrother and I are lovers now, tasting and
wanting and sucking at each other like ravenous animals. His tongue lashes
under mine, aggressive and firm, giving me a taste of what’s to come.

“Oh, Rem, please, don’t tease me.”

“Tease you? I’m not. I’m not.”

His hands frantically push my shirt
up and over my head, then rip off my bra. My breasts fall bare against him
until his hands cup me, tugging and kneading my flesh until it’s hot and
smooth. I moan, feeling my nipples harden under his fingers. He kisses my neck,
my ear, rolling my nipples in his fingers and grinding his cock against my
hips.

“God I want you,” he groans.
“You’re mine now.”

“God you think you own everything.”

“Maybe I do.”

His kiss becomes more like a bite,
snarling, hungry. His fingers dig into my shoulders and hips, sealing our
bodies together. I can feel him hard, pressed against my sex, ready for me. As
we kiss our hips grind together, slowly at first, building in heat until I
literally can’t stand my pants any more. Even though the fabric and the thick
seawater, the friction of his dick on my clit is making me crazy. Soon I’m
gasping and trembling, coming undone in his arms.

“Yeah baby,” he moans. “Come on
baby. You’re mine. Show me. Show me everything.”

“Oh god!” I cry, shuddering, my
skin filling with goose bumps. He leans back, watching me, his eyes hooded and
heavy. He smiles as I dig my nails into his shoulder, surrendering to a wild,
ripping orgasm that makes the whole world ripple before my very eyes.

“Oh god oh god! Yes!”

“Yes,” he murmurs, grinding his
hips, holding me firmly against his cock. “Fuck, I don’t know what it is about
you, but I have to have you. I have to have you now. Come on baby. Come on. Say
yes.”

“Yes.”

“Say you want my cock.”

“I want your cock.”

“I want your pussy. Give it to me.”

“Yes. Yes, god, yes! Anything.”

Our lips meld together and I feel
Remington’s hands fumbling with my jeans. It’s an awkward dance, but somehow we
manage to rip them off in the waist-deep water, and now I am bare from the hips
down. His shorts follow suit, and now we are both completely bare. I look down,
seeing our naked, hungry bodies through the glimmering surf. In the hazy sunset
light, he looks like a god – a well-hung sex god!

“Oh god,” I moan, stroking him.
“You’re so big.”

“Come on,” he murmurs, stroking my
face, trailing his fingers down to my breasts. My nipples spring up hard
between his fingers. “Don’t tease me.”

I grin, letting him stroke my
breasts as I wrap my hands around his shaft, mentally calculating. I neglected
to mention that this is my first time with a man, but I see no sense in telling
him that now. Still, he senses my hesitation and laughs.

“Come on, I won’t hurt you. Come
on, baby. Open up for me.” He kisses my neck again and I feel myself melting,
panting, needing. He squeezes my breasts, lets his cock slide gently along my
fingers.

“I know you’re ready,” he whispers,
biting my ear. “I know you want it. Take my cock. Take it. Come on.”

I obey, spreading my legs for him.
His kiss suddenly becomes tender, adjusting to my fear, and soon I forget to be
afraid. Everything but his touch fades away; I only know the way the tip of his
cock is sliding around my clit and burning me until my legs can’t stay
standing, the way the wetness of my body and the wetness of the ocean make him
slick and smooth against my slit, the way the slow sweet rhythm of his foreplay
is making me ache to have him inside me.

“Come on Veronique. It’s ok baby.
Come on.”

I love the low sound of his groans
of pleasure. I love the way my body fits against his as I shudder and moan,
lost in ecstasy. He guides his cock in a slow circle around my clit until I am
shaking and gasping.

“Oh god, Rem, I can’t, I –”

Trembling, another orgasm starts to
build and my legs buckle, but the ocean makes it easy for Remington to take my
weight. He lifts me easily, his big hands cupping my thighs, and floats me
until I am balancing on top of his dick.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, sis.”

He thrusts, fulfilling his threat.
His cock rams inside me with a force and carnality that sends dizzy euphoria
straight from my head to my toes. Everything – my nipples, my lips, my pussy –
throbs and tingles with fiery fullness.

“Jesus!” I shout.

“Yes!” He growls. “Oh yes!”

He pulls out only to slam into me
again. He is taking his time but also flaunting his power, the thrust
agonizingly long and simmering with heat. The pressure and fire build between
us as my body opens for him again, relaxing into the thrust until he is so deep
that we are both shaking and gasping in each other’s arms, wet and wild.

“Yes! God! Yes!”

“Ah baby, oh yeah girl. Come on.
Give me more. Give me more.”

At the pinnacle of his thrust he
pulls down on my hips, locking me against him, and moves in a tiny circle
inside me. I can feel him from every angle. A low moan growls from my gut,
building to a roar.

It’s animal, the way he’s moving in
me. The circle quickens but he doesn’t let up on the pressure or the depth.
He’s stroking parts of me inside that I didn’t even know I had. I realize he’s
claiming them, claiming me, stamping his seal deep, deep in.

As we roll together he bites me on
the lip, the stinging almost-pain sharp and heady. Now we’re kissing as deep as
we’re fucking, his tongue searching out my mouth as his cock searches out the
rest of me.

“Mmmm,” he moans. “Mmm yes, oh yes.
Yes baby. You’re so sweet. You’re so good. Come on. Yes woman! Yes! Yes!”

He pulls out and thrusts in again,
then again, gliding smoothly and firmly in and out of my body until we’re
moving in sync like a humming machine. Grunting with each thrust, we ride each
other until our breath is ragged. My hips instinctively rock away from his
body, my back arcing, increasing the angle and of him inside me. He sucks in
his breath.

“Yes! Do that again.”

I oblige, my hips finding a rhythm,
toying with him inside me. When I roll my hips back towards him my clit rubs
against him, making us both shudder.

“Oh!”

It’s a discovery that makes me
happier than buried treasure. I do it again and again, rubbing myself frantic,
taking his cock deeper and deeper. We’re building momentum, the friction
against my clit and the deep pounding of his cock assaulting my senses from
every side.

Remington moans and kisses me,
wrapping both his arms around my shoulders, and holds me steady while he pounds
out my brains, pounds out everything in the world except his cock. His cock.
His cock! Yes!

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Oh god! Yes!”

“Rem! Rem! Oh!”

“Fuck! Oh!”

He thrusts once more and shudders, tossing
his head back, our bodies exploding together: I feel his cum hot and sticky
inside me, the warmth spreading through my veins like fire as my body clamps
down and throbs over him.

“Oh god!” I moan. “Oh yes!”

My first time and three climaxes?!
This can’t be real.

This can’t be.

This.

Oh god, it is! Remington’s cock is
still inside me and I can feel my inner muscles spasm around him, reluctant to
let him go. He is holding me against him with the force of desperation, his
pleasure still playing out over his handsome face. Letting myself move, I slide
my wet breasts over his chest and kiss his neck, burying my face against his
chest. Waiting for my heart to stop pounding.

Oh god. It happened. It’s
happening.

I just had sex.

For the first time in my life.
In a tropical ocean.

With Remington Wilde.

Chapter Nine

Remington Byron Wilde

North Island

The Seychelles, Africa

What has gotten into me? Ever since
I met my new “stepsister,” it’s like I’ve lost all sense of control and
devolved into a punch-drunk sex maniac, desperate for a taste of that hot
sticky honey only she could give me, hungry for one particular flavor that’s
rare and forbidden and completely out of my usual taste.

And now that I’ve had her, is my
thirst quenched? Is my idiotic lust satisfied?

Nope.

Fuck.

I don’t understand this. I can’t
quantify or label what is happening to me. I haven’t been this obsessive and
horny since…well, puberty. And back then, the heat I felt was directed at any
and all women, any and all of the time.

Not just one.

Not just Veronique.

And, being the seventh richest man
in the world, any and all women were available – any and all of the time.

For as long as I can remember, finding
satisfaction of the physical nature was easy as 1,2,3. It’s gotten to the point
where it’s boring. There were always women who wanted to do what I wanted.

And I always got what I wanted.

Too easy.

Because all those women? Basically
the same: gold-diggers, fame-seekers, fakers and self-promoters. It was easy to
use them, because I know deep down they were trying to use me too.

I’m just better at the game than
anybody else.

When you’re rich and famous your
whole life, you learn early on that you have to operate on a different playing
field; every mistake winds up in the papers, every indiscretion can cost the
family face and fortune. Sure, it’s easy to bury the consequences with money
and throw cash at all your mistakes, but it gets old fast. I realized quick
that very few people around me actually cared about me or see me as a real
person. I’m a concept, a headline: Remington Wilde, billionaire, tabloid
darling, eligible bachelor, meal ticket.

There’s no one trustworthy. No one
has my back.

No one other than my parents ever
passed even my most basic qualifications for the giving of true fucks;
basically, it’s always been easier to fuck with no fucks given. People – women
especially – were always more interested in what I have than in who I am. My
parents did their best to prepare me for the realities of the so-called gilded
cage.

Not that I’m complaining – it’s
great to be a Wilde, basically royalty walking the face of the earth in a
luxurious mist of money and mansions and power. Listen, I’ll be the first one
to tell you it’s great. Like, for my tenth birthday my mother gave me my own
private island in the Mediterranean.

An island.

In the Mediterranean.

I know I’m your standard
billionaire living in a different world than most people, but I also live in
Africa; it’s impossible not to know how unusual that is. It’s impossible for me
not to be aware of the differences between my life and the rest of the world.

It’s impossible not to feel a
little bit alone.

For my twelfth birthday, my father
took me on an actual Antarctic expedition.

In Antarctica.

At my sixteenth birthday party the
guests included princes and princesses of Saudi Arabia, England, Monaco, Sweden,
Morocco, Nigeria, Swaziland, Ghana.

Who has the royal United Nations at
their birthday parties?

And though it strictly traditional
and non-political, my mother’s family is indigenous royalty, ancestral kings
and queens of Africa. My father’s family – from England – were Barons. Power
and prestige flow through my veins on both sides.

All hail the Wildes.

More like, all harass the Wildes.

At the same time though, I do
believe money can buy happiness – never believe people who say otherwise. In
spite of the loneliness and the pressure, I’ll be the first one to admit that
my life is phenomenally awesome, spectacularly glamorous, dangerously and
deliriously rare and powerful and all of those things you’d guess – but it does
have its down side. Really.

Anyone else close to my position –
royals, billionaires, presidents, CEOs – can tell you the same thing: it’s
lonely at the top, because there’s only room for one.

As far back as I can remember, it’s
been drilled into me to keep my head level and my eyes on the long-term big
picture; I am a Wilde, and a Wilde’s life is different than others. My mother
and father always made sure I understood that while they loved me, very few
others would ever be able to see past the fame and fortune.
Be discerning
,
they taught me:
be skeptical, vigilant, and guarded with your heart. Be
smarter and faster than the users. Be prepared to be let down and hurt by the
motivations of others. Don’t let that affect your own health and success.

My personal life is just like
business. And I am very, very good at business.

Sex, I’ve found, is basically the
same thing.

It doesn’t really matter the
situation; I am good at getting what I want, when I want it, how I want it – at
the price I’m willing to pay. I made the Wilde Hospitality Corp richer. I made
myself even more in demand, using my personality to drive up press and wealth
and prestige for myself and my family, building a legacy. I’m always one step
ahead. I’m always in control.

Except with Veronique.

Damn Veronique.

Who is she? What is her deal?

Now, even with my cock still inside
her, I can tell the pattern of my self-control is breaking down. I just
finished fucking her and I want to do it again, right now, this second. I can
already feel myself hardening again.

This is unusual.

This is unlikely.

This is inconvenient.

I really didn’t need this right
now. I have enough going on, enough to deal with already. The last thing I need
is an ill-advised dalliance, a sexual fantasy fling with my new step-sister.

Oh god. What have I done?

This isn’t helping.

I’m only adding to my own problems.

Veronique is a problem.

So many problems.

My mother’s imbecilic second
marriage to this hustler needs to be resolved – speedily, and to my taste. It’s
not right to go from my father, a true gentleman, scholar, and member of the
British Peerage to this…this…low-life gambler LaRoux, this…stranger with his
money problems and his penniless daughter.

But I have to admit, that penniless
daughter of his…she interests me, more than I care to admit. Veronique has
pride. Spark. And yes, beauty – though that is not hard to come by in my world,
hers is unique: innocent and sensual, exotic and elegant all at the same time.
She is so un-self-conscious. She seems so genuine, so down to earth. There’s
something about her I can’t put my finger on, and the more time I spend with
her, the more intriguing she becomes. Not just hot, but actually fascinating.

Which is frustrating.

I don’t want her to be intriguing.
I want her to be easy come and easy go.

Or do I really want her to go?

And that’s all just a tiny personal
problem – plenty of business is sitting on my desk upstairs too, needing
attention.

I don’t have time to fool around
with my stepsister or sort through all this nonsense with my mother and her new
fling. This shouldn’t be taking up so much of my mental energy.

There’s the Governor’s Ball to
finish planning: a good way to lock in contracts for company expansion in the
Seychelles to two new islands. There’s the proposed merger with Hilton Corp.
And then there’s that pesky press scandal brewing thanks to my ex, a silly act
of pettiness on her part that will nevertheless require some strategy and
smoothing over with PR.

…There’s Veronique’s ass…

God dammit, Remington, focus!

With all the real life stuff on my
plate, I really didn’t need to go and fuck my new stepsister. God, the tabloids
would have a field day. My mother would have a heart attack. I need to get
rid
of Veronique and her father, not entangle myself just as deeply and stupidly as
my mother has.

Shit.

“Shit,” I repeat out loud.

“Mmmm,” Veronique moans happily, as
if agreeing with my amazement. She nestles into my chest, fitting in like a
missing puzzle piece.

Shit.

She’s misinterpreted the cause of
my curse. Yes the sex was incredible, but what has me floored is the feeling of
unease and hunger that still lingers even after my orgasm, the continuing and
increasing desire for her, her body, her company.

Sex is supposed to cure me of
hunger, not make it worse.

Where is the release? Where is the
relief? Even after fucking her I want to eat her alive. It’s as if something in
my core is gravitating toward her, a strange pull that I can’t turn off or
avoid. I don’t want to want Veronique the way that I do. How can I get rid of
this feeling, if sex doesn’t stop it?

What if it’s not about sex?

Shit.

“Shit,” I grumble again.

I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve
got to run somewhere safe and hide.

“I’m getting cold,” I lie.

“Cold? That didn’t warm you up?”

She laughs and nibbles at my ear,
causing heat to spike straight through my body. No. No. Nope. I can’t give in.
I can’t melt. If I let her turn me on again, I’ll be a slave to these feelings,
a slave to passion.

A slave to her.

And Remington Wilde is nobody’s
slave.

I pull myself out of her, resisting
the impulse to hold her. The wave of tenderness that washes over me is out of
the ordinary and makes me feel even grumpier, more defensive. Who is this girl that
after one fuck I want to hold her? I never do that. I never get close.

I never want to.

“We should go home,” I say.

She looks at me with an open face
that already makes me feel guilty. I wish I could tell what she’s thinking.

“Your bungalow or mine?”

Her boldness and sweetness surprise
me, giving me an unwelcome burst of pleasure. Knowing she still wants me too
fills me with an intense longing that frankly scares the shit out of me.

God, I still want her. My dick
throbs with lust at the possibility of continuing our tryst, soaking up as much
of her as physically possible. Instantly my mind is filled with fantasies of
twisting our bodies together in the king sized bed, in the Jacuzzi, in a
hammock, on the rug by the fire pit.

It is easy to imagine going on a
sex holiday with Veronique and never coming back – never wanting to come back!

From the moment I saw her at the
wedding, I wanted her. It was physical, yes, but also something else – the
challenge, the anger, the power play between us.

Forbidden lust. Unwise impulses.

Danger.

I have to admit myself that I
haven’t won. If anything, I’m losing control. Right now, Veronique has me in
the palm of her hand. Now that I’ve opened this Pandora’s Box of pleasure, how
can I ever close it again?

I have to fight back against her
power over me. It’s now or never.

A strategy occurs me, a way to
scare her off. I push her away and make my voice harsh.

“We’re not going home together,” I
bark. “You will go to your bungalow, I will go to mine, and we will pretend
this never happened.”

As soon as I say it I am ashamed,
not just because it dishonestly contradicts my own desires but because it’s just
mean to Veronique. But I can’t think of anything else to do – I have to get
away from her, I have to get to a safe distance.

Fast.

I step away, pushing Veronique back
to arm’s length, and begin to fish around for my clothes. I can’t look at her.
I stand myself.

The kayak has drifted several yards
down the beach before tangling up on some rocks. It gives me an excuse to wade
away from Veronique, get my facial expression under control and take a deep
breath.

When I turn around again with the
kayak trailing behind me, Veronique hasn’t moved. She’s standing, naked, in the
same spot; the tide laps gently against her waist as she watches me with an
inscrutable face, preternaturally calm. Her body is so gorgeous. She looks like
Aphrodite rising from the sea, sensual and still and somewhat frightening.
There’s power in her. I have to look away to keep myself in check.

“I can’t pretend this never
happened,” she says, her voice surprisingly firm.

Of course not,
I think.
Neither
can I. What human being could?

But I am not going to let her know
that.

“You’ll have to,” I grunt, more to
myself than to her. “Exactly what other option is there? Our parents have
caused enough drama without us adding to it.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little late
to worry about that? We’ve done the deed.”

“Well then you’ll just have to grow
up and deal with it.”

“
Deal
with it,” she repeats,
staring at me like a sphinx. “Are you ok?”

Her question hits me sideways. I
was expecting tears or begging or seduction – the clingy desperate posturing
most women do when they sense I’m blowing them off. But this is new. I don’t
know what to do with Veronique’s calm, reasonable tone, or those huge eyes that
seem to pierce through my attempts at an uncaring façade.

“What do you mean?” I stall.

“Are you ok? Because you’re
acting…”

“How am I acting?”

“Well I was going to say weird, but
then I realized that wasn’t true. I’ve seen you do this a lot.”

“Do what?”

“Freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You are freaking out.”

“I’m not –”

“At least, I hope you are freaking
out, because if you’re not, you’re being cruel. Which is way worse. But if I’m
right, you are doing the thing where you purposefully act like an asshole to
protect yourself and get what you want. Which is what in this particular case –
to pretend we didn’t just make love in the freaking Indian Ocean? To pretend
this wasn’t a big deal? To protect your own pride or macho ego, or what?”