Stepbrother Tormentor 1 of 2: A Steamy Romance (3 page)

Looking up with a hopeful expression, Anthony asks his mother if he and his brother can dive in too.

"No, that's only for grown-ups, sweetheart," Aunt Diane says, barely able to keep the corners of her mouth from preventing the grin that is already there from growing any bigger. Clearly as entertained as the kids, she is civil enough to try not to be obvious about it.

"Don't wait for me with the festivities," I say through clenched teeth, forcing my back straight. That's what I read in an article: posture is everything. Even when you feel miserable, just changing your posture can change the way you feel. It isn't helping, though. Holding my head up high, chin in the air, I set off without thinking.

All I know is that I need to get the hell out of here. Fast. Pronto. Now! To get to the car is at least a twenty minute walk. Awesome. With a little luck, a total stranger will see me and snap a picture to put it on Instagram. Ha ha ha. Yes, this really is shaping up to be a day to remember. The kind you instantly want to forget. The sort of day that makes you wish you had dementia. 

"Stephan, why don't you go with your sister?" Dan says. Words that make my heart come to a crashing halt, only to reboot, thundering away like crazy. Breaking out in a cold sweat, my voice sticks in my throat. I think of the horror that a twenty minute walk represents. Then changing my soaked summer dress for whatever Mom decided to pack, and another torturous twenty minutes back. If I had known, I probably would have preferred to drown. "And bring the picnic basket on the way back, son."

Not watching where I'm going, my feet stay stuck behind the root of a tree and I'm on my way down again. Fuck. I pride myself on never using the f-word, as in
ever
. But that is the only appropriate word, given the situation. Fuelled by all my anger and frustration, I shout it as loud as I can. A loud and resounding "Fuck!" that echoes all along the river, loaded with two months of pent up anger and frustration. 

The silence that follows when I hit the earth is short-lived, fast chased away by more raucous laughter from the kids. And I don't have to look up to see that my uncle has decided to join in, no longer able to pretend none of this is funny. 

"Oh my," Mom says.

Too angry to move, my face pressed against the earth and my ass high in the air, I wonder exactly how much rotten luck a girl can have. And, as if to underline how hopeless I truly am, my mind just has to conjure up the image of that bare and well-muscled tattooed chest and
him
positioning himself behind me. Blood rushes to my face and neck when I imagine his hands on my hips and his cock against my contracting private lips, a moan escapes from the back of my throat that is instantly followed by panic when I realize that all eyes are on me. Including
his
. Those intense blue eyes that reduce me to the intellectual level of a vegetable. No, just a woman with a hopeless crush; in
heat
.

"Need a hand,
kid
?"
he
asks coolly, and I just feel my heart break. Hopelessly in love with a guy who couldn't care less for me. It is all I need to explode, the unshed tears I didn't even realize were there spilling over as I scramble on my feet. Facing my tormentor, I'm beyond caring about the pained and angry expression that stares back at me in the shades that look down at me.

"I hate you," I snap, like I've never snapped at anyone before. Each word sharp enough to create a crack in his cool demeanor. But I feel no satisfaction when his face pales and the smirk is replaced by a thin line, his lips pressed tightly together. He takes a half step back, as if I've physically hurt him. As if. What does he know about pain? He isn't the one with the impossible love standing right in front of him, always taunting him the way he taunts me, with his condescending remarks and body language. I do. Every damn day of the week since he decided to show up and, oh wait, ruin my life, just by being himself.  

Instead of relief, my outburst only makes me that much more miserable. I know he doesn't like me, but that doesn't mean I enjoy this war that seems to be the only option between the two of us.

Mom sounds pained and worried when she says my name, and now I only feel that much more miserable. And Dan looks like he's ashamed of it all; he is, but I don't know if it is due to my behavior or that of his son. Maybe both. Even the kids are quiet, staring at me and not yet certain if this is all a source of laughter or not.

"Just have fun without me," I sob and rush off. Ignoring Mom and Dad calling after me, I half run, not caring if I'm making a fool of myself or not. Why should I? It seems that's all I'm good at. Making a big fool of myself.

Stephan

I really fucked up this time. But I have to. There doesn't seem to be a middle ground for the two of us. It’s either fire or ice. Fire isn't an option. But that doesn't mean I'm enjoying playing the role I'm imposing on myself. Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt when I see her stride off fast on her long legs, sunlight reflecting on her pale skin. And as much as I'm hurting and hating myself, my body can't help but respond to the sight of her wet dress clinging to her body, my cock stirring when I take her in.

If she were any other girl, I'd be able to drop the act and I've thought of what that would be like: unlike anything I've experienced before. That's for certain. But she isn't
any other girl
. She is my
stepsister
.

A girl who is unintentionally funny, with a clumsiness that makes her endearing. A natural beauty who doesn't need makeup to stand out, even though she doesn't seem to be aware of it. And she's a smart girl, like her mother. Those sparkling green eyes of hers never miss a thing, and one look and you know she is always thinking, a furrow between her eyebrows as she unconsciously plays with a strand of her blonde hair. Then there is the way she blushes, not half-measured, always coloring the porcelain white cheeks a deep flaming red.

There's a warning in Dad's voice when he calls my name, and I don't have to ask to know what he wants of me: make it up to the crying girl and be fast about it. He throws me a stern look, and I can't say I don't deserve it. I'm angry at myself and don't have to guess how he feels about his one and only son. What a disappointment I must be to him. I may act tough, but that's more habit than anything else. It’s not meant to be taken as a sign that I don't care about others. I do. But growing up where I did, you were either tough or at least acted the part. Thing is, right now my tough act is the only shield I have to hide my feelings.

The looks they throw me are of either disappointment or sadness, and I can't say I blame them. I'm blaming myself, though. But I'm too practiced at hiding what I feel to show it. I even succeed at throwing up my hands, as if saying, "I don't have time for this. Time to babysit the kid."

"Right," I say, my legs already moving, secretly eager to be near her. I know they think I'm rarely at home because I'm an unruly teen, a cocky nineteen-year-old, but it’s really because she’s there. Imagine how I felt when she told me she was family. That's when I knew that deciding to move in with my father and his new family had been a really bad call. If I were strong, I'd move back in with Mom, but I'm not strong enough to resist her draw. 

Watching her as I catch up with her, I curse myself for the excitement that makes my cock stir. Still, part of me is happy at the thought of her nearness.

"Cass, wait up!" She doesn't. So I move faster until I'm only feet behind her."Bad form," I say, my way of working up to an apology. "My specialty. The only kind I now." 

"Leave me alone," Cassandra says. As always, I'm struck by her natural grace, which stands in stark contrast to the clumsiness that always takes me by surprise, and my cock stirs again. The thin material of her dress clings to her and I can make out her panties and the two perfect half-moons of her ass-cheeks. Inwardly cursing, I look away. 

"I'm sorry," I say forcefully, grabbing her by her wrist.

Turning her head, physically dragging me along as she forges on, she tells me to leave her alone again, and I feel I'm being cursed. Each word stings me, and I'm grateful for the shades that hide my eyes. She'd see a whole different me without them.

Refusing to let her go, even though I know that would be the best thing, I feel myself soften at the sight of her wet hair clinging to her cheek when she looks at me over her shoulder, my guilt peaking when she turns her eyes on me, narrowed to slits and loaded with a pain that I'm keenly aware of I'm the cause of. I want to say I'm sorry again, and explain why I'm such an asshole to her, but my voice is stuck in my throat.

Stopping dead in her tracks, she turns her body too fast, no doubt to give me an uncensored piece of her mind, and while my mind tells me I should stop, my body moves forward, like a comet unable to escape the gravitational field of a planet. Mars crashing into Venus. The moment our bodies make contact, I know I'm done for.

The tough act falls away from me like the burden that it has become, leaving me free of the self-imposed prison that would never allow for the smile that spreads and the arms that wrap themselves around her waist. Pressing her hard against me, air flows in my chest and the feelings I've been trying to run from burst to the surface as my cock grows hard fast, pressed against her belly.

There are no thoughts when I bring my face down as she disarms me with the hope that shines in her eyes, her lips slightly parted and dangerously close. It isn't until I feel her warm breath on my skin that I snap out of it. My conscience kicks in with a vengeance, reminding me of who it is I'm holding in my arms, about to kiss. But there is relief too. I may be
bad
but I'm not
that bad
. Not bad enough to want to do this to her. Not her. Pulling away, I steel myself, fighting off the impulse to ignore what my conscience tells me to do when I see the hope in her eyes die, fast replaced by the hurt that I'm trying to spare her.

To her, I must be Mr. Jackass. Too cool to hang with his stepsister. Too cool to love her. If only she knew she is the one I think of and the reason I go out each evening. Drinking to take my mind off her, partying with girls who don't even succeed at entertaining me on more than just the level of basic desire.

"Sorry about that." Stepping back, I look away.

"Me too," Cassandra says softly. Too softly and with too much feeling. I prefer the anger. The anger hurts me less.

"Let's go," I say, more brusquely than intended. "Don't want you to catch a cold in those wet clothes," I add, trying to sound friendly.

We don't talk until we've arrived at the parking lot, and that's where we catch the wrong sort of attention. Guys like me, that is. Trying hard to prove how tough they are. Though and stupid. And I know exactly where it will lead to the moment I see them eye Cassandra with the lust that I’m only too familiar with.

There are three of them. Them and the beaten down truck they drove in, and the crate of beer in front of them.

"Want me to warm you up, babe?" the tallest says, after giving me a glance over and deciding that he'll risk pissing me off. Like the jerk that he is, he spreads his arms and makes a thrusting motion with his hips. Predictably, his friends laugh. Just as predictably, I tense up, my body preparing for the attack, when Cassandra touches my arm. If it weren't for that, I'd have charged already. 

"Don't bother," she says.

"Yeah, don't bother,
sissy
," the jerk off says, and they laugh.

"Stephan," Cassandra says with a warning, standing dangerously close to me. The deep furrow between her eyebrows tells me how worried she is, and again there is the bodily impulse to grab her, pull her close, and kiss those soft lips. Instead my body decides to take my pent up frustration out on the ones who deserves it.

She calls after me again when I storm off, but I don't listen; I have anger to unleash. Anger for being in love with the one woman I can never have, and I just found the guys who deserve the beating. Honing in on my target with eyes that I know scream murder, I feel the adrenaline kick in.

"What?" the jerk says as he watches me approach, trying to make it sound like a challenge but without the confidence he needs to make an impression. There is fear in his eyes, though. And a nervous tremble that he tries to hide by puffing his chest. We both know how this game is played. He'll pretend he isn't shitting his pants right now and is betting on me being all show too. Too bad for him, unlike him, I'm not the kind who freezes up. The kind who is all words and no action. Not unless he is certain that he will come out as the big winner, but I can see he doesn't feel like he will. Nor do his friends look too inclined to take me on.

There's a crunching sound when my fist slams into his face, and I feel his nose cave in under my knuckles, blood gushing out instantly in copious amounts. His cry is loud and his hands go to his face as he stumbles backwards, slamming against the front of the truck.

"What the fuck?" one of his friends says, and I'm already turning a forty-five degrees to catch a punch meant for my face on my shoulder, countering it with another straight smash that lands firmly on the side of his head, snapping it to the side. The upper cut snaps his head back and I follow it up with a jab to his jaw that sends him down to the ground. I never realized that I had this fury in me until now.