Secret: A Military Stepbrother Romance (7 page)

Goddamnit, why her?
Why the fuck did I sleep with this girl?

The absurdity of even thinking that actually gets me heated as I stomp up the back staircase towards her quarters. So heated, in fact, that it doesn’t strike me that I should
knock
until I’ve already swung the door to her room wide open to the sound of her shrieking.

Well, fuck.

She’s wearing black lingerie. Well, at least I’m pretty sure she is before she jumps behind one of the thick posts of her four-post bed. 

“Hunter! What the
fuck
is wrong with you?”

“Hey, I was coming to see if you’re ready to go!” I say, turning away.

“Well close the
door!
”

“Fine, Jesus.” I growl, frowning as I step into the room and shut the door behind me.

“With you on
that side
, ass,” she hisses from her shitty hiding place. 

This time I turn back to her, and suddenly I’m forgetting I was even scowling as I just
stare
.

Jesus fucking Christ, she’s perfect. 

Okay, she’s glowering at me, and still ridiculously trying to hide behind the damned
bedpost
, but all at once, it clicks.

Yeah
, that’s
why I slept with this girl, because she’s a fucking knockout.

She
is
wearing black lingerie; this crazy hot lacy black bra that has
no
business being in a place as formal as the damned White House, and this black skirt-slip thing that barely covers her ass.

And
stockings.
Jesus Christ, the girl is wearing thigh-high black stockings.

And right then, every iota of self-professed professionalism goes out the fucking
window
. Right there, the badge, the oath, duty, and
all
that shit can go right ahead and fuck itself. At that moment there is one singular thought searing across my brain.

That I want to bend her over that bed, lift up that slip, and bury every inch of my cock deep inside of her.

I want to hear her
moan
like she did before. I want to feel her nails on my skin, feel her teeth against my neck, her hair in my hands and her breath across my lips. I want to feel her
come
like she did that night.

It all hits me like a freight train, like a sense of
need
like something an addict might feel. I’m standing there, alone, behind closed doors, with the first daughter of the United States, and I want to fuck the
shit
out of her.

“Um,
stare much?
”

“Huh?”

She’s blushing as she meets my hungry stare with her own gaze, her eyes wide and wild, her lips parted, and her cheeks flushed pink. My eyes drop to her legs — specifically at the lacy tops of those fucking sinfully hot thigh-highs —  and I all but growl out loud.

“I hate pantyhose, they’re always so itchy,” She says quietly, like she’s apologizing for the stockings.

Believe me, she has
nothing
to apologize for. 

“You shouldn’t
be
in here, you know.” Her voice is whispered, hushed, and it’s just enough sass to snap me out of it. I quickly shake my head and tear my eyes away from her legs. 

I clear my throat. “Well, time’s a-wastin’, princess. We have a schedule you know.”

She rolls her eyes as she crosses her arms across those perfect, lace-wrapped tits. “Like I’m going anywhere without clothes on?”

I sigh as I check my watch. “Okay, what are you wearing?”

“Excuse me?”

She’s still half behind the bedpost, and still scowling at me. Which, granted, she has every right to do since I literally just walked in on her in her underwear in her own room.

Doesn’t mean I’m not hard as fucking stone in my suit pants.

“Wearing; tonight. What are you planning on wearing to your mom’s thing.”

She nods at the navy-blue garment draped across the bed. “That dress, obviously.” She gasps and takes a step back as I march across the room, snatching the dress up as I move around the bed towards her. “Are you kidding me?”

I smirk. “Arms up.”

“
What?
”

I sigh and glance at my watch again before I plaster a big fake smile on my face. “Arms. Up. Let’s go, princess.”

“You
dick
, you can’t just waltz in here and
dress me
like I’m some sort of-”

“
Arms. Up.
Maddie
”

I realize as soon as it comes out of my mouth that voice suddenly has the same edge of dominance she’s heard from me before, from
that
time. The edgy, dark confidence and demanding voice that a girl who says “
Guess you’ll just have to tell me and see if I behave”
apparently elicits from m
e.

And I know she remembers it too, because suddenly it’s like it triggers something in her. She’s biting her lip quite suddenly, her eyes are flashing wide at me as she blushes and slowly turns away from me.

She raises her arms up high, and I almost want to groan out loud.

Fuck
, is she perfect. Like utterly fucking flawlessly perfect. The black lace of her bra straps cross across her back, and her long dark hair tumbles over one shoulder. That tiny little skirt slip is
barely
covering that sweet little ass of hers, and I clench my jaw as I imagine the thong beneath, since there’s no line.

Or maybe no panties at all. Little miss First Daughter isn’t as sweet and all-American wholesome as she always looked during the campaign with her mother, or on the steps of the Capitol building during the inauguration. She might put on the perfect, clean-cut and elegant outfit, and wear the perfect hair to debates and stump speeches, and have that perfect little winning good-girl smile for the papers, but I know her other side.

I know the side that was wild enough to go to
that
place on that night for one specific reason. I know the side that fucks like a woman possessed and comes like a firework going off on the Fourth of July.

Which is why I’m suddenly wondering if I’m inches away from Madison fucking Adams without any panties on.

“Well?” She says it quietly, and I realize I’m just hulking behind her, staring at her with the dress in my hands. I grin,
so close
to just asking what she’s got on under that slip, before I decide that’s crossing a line.

Right, and helping your lingerie-clad stepsister get dressed is totally within the bounds of normalcy.

I clear my throat and just find myself nodding and raising the dress up, up over her outstretched arms, and down over her head. I give it a tug over her slender shoulders, and I watch as her breath hitches
just
a fraction as my fingers barely graze over the skin at the backs of her arms. And then I’m pulling it down, and she shivers as my finger brush against her back for a moment.

I’m in a trance as I pull the dress
slowly
down her body, taking
far
more time than I normally would. I realize I’m holding my breath as I linger with my fingers on the hem, almost like I’m stalling, before I give it a tug down over the swell of her hips. 

She steps away then, quickly pulling her dress down over that tiny black slip and over the lace tops of her stockings as she shoots me a furtive look, her eyes wild.

“So, uh-” 

It’s a moment. This is a
moment
, and for a half second, we’re frozen like that; motionless, eyes locked, and breathing heavy in the heat of the room.

The room with the closed door, no cameras, a big bed, and just her and me, with no one else in the world coming to worry about her so long as I’m here. 

You keep thinking like that and you’re going to have a VERY bad time with this job.

It can’t happen, and it’s not like it's
going
to happen either, it’s just my overactive libido and the effect this girl seems to have on it. This isn’t some conquest, or some rich sorority girl I can flash my war wound to and have her panties around her ankles in a second. 

This is the
job
; the job I’ve wanted for a long fucking time. The Secret Service is
hard
. Period. And even if it's all going to end when I’m barely through the gate thanks to my dad’s pick in women, that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up yet. The job is
supposed
to be a challenge. Okay, sure, it’s supposed to be a challenge in the sense of watching for outside threats, being vigilant, and keeping weird hours, not telling your cock to shut the fuck up about wanting to go balls deep in your charge.

Or your stepsister, for that matter.

But there she is, standing not three feet away in that navy blue dress. Just like the cream one from the other day, this one is doing a
shit
job of looking demure, or conservatively elegant.

It just looks plain
hot
on her. It looks like it was tailored for her exact figure, and yeah, it probably
was
, but that ain’t helping things one bit. It hugs the swell of her tits
perfectly
— almost
too
perfectly to be appropriate if you ask me — and it grips the curve of her hips in the exact way my hands are
dying
to.

But really, it’s that I know what’s on underneath — or maybe what’s
not —
that has me gritting my teeth and thinking all manner of dirty,
dirty
sinful thoughts about her and that four post bed beside us.

The beast inside of me
roars
as I take a step towards her, and before I can stop myself, my hand is on her hip, sliding around and pulling her towards me. She gasps, and those big green eyes go wide, but she doesn’t stop me. She doesn’t stop me as I slowly pull her against me, or when my other hand slides up to cup her jaw, tilting her head up to mine.

“We-” She swallows thickly, blinking rapidly at me as the pink flush creeps up her neck. “We should go,” she whispers.

And just like that, the spell and the momentary
insanity
is broken, and I quickly drop my hands and move away from her, blinking in the reality of the moment. 

“Yeah, yep.” I nod quickly, frowning as I jerk my wrist up and glance at my watch. “Yeah, lets go.”

CHAPTER   SEVEN

The tent is gorgeous, all lit up like a crystal ball sitting on the lawn of the White House. It’s surreal to say that, and truth be told, I don’t think it's ever going to
not
be surreal saying that. The White House;
I live at the White House.

Hunter was grumbling about security stuff earlier, but after the close call — the encounter — in my room, he’s silent as he leads me out the side door and across the lawn to the tent.

I want to forget what just happened; a lapse in judgment, another moment of temporary insanity where I let him get too close and let myself be taken in again. But it’s hard. It’s impossible, actually, because he’s
there
, physically, right next to me the whole night.

I’m trying to forget it, and trying to pretend the lingering feeling of his hand on my hip, his lips so close to mine for one brief second, the heat of him surrounding me, isn’t everything I’m thinking about as I smile for reporters, and Congressmen, and Senators. But it’s impossible.