His Plaything Read online

  He folded his arms across his massive chest, his ice-blue eyes boring into me. It was absurd, but in that moment, each of his bared biceps looked as wide as my head. Could I sit in the crook of his arm like a porch swing? Could he hold me up by the waist while he fucked me against the wall? Then I realized that I was staring and he had said something to me and I needed to stop thinking with my clit already. I blinked at him like a moron. “Sorry, what?”

  “This isn't going to fucking work,” he repeated.

  Right. I'd been here for ten minutes, and we were already having roommate issues. I nodded, clearing my throat in an attempt to clear my mind. “Couldn't agree more,” I replied.

  He looked slightly surprised for a second, as if he'd been expecting more of a fight. But his expression set hard again when I continued, “I don't want to see that shit when I come home. If I'm going to live here, you can't be bringing home strange women and screwing their brains out all over the apartment. It's gross.” Forcing myself to look him in the eye, I folded my arms and straightened my back to match his posture. He couldn't live like a caveman anymore. And if I had to lay down the law sooner or later, it might as well be now.

  Chapter 3

  Nixon

  All I could do was stare. What the hell did she just say to me? Half of me wanted to strangle my new stepsister … and the other half wanted to fuck her senseless.

  Now that I had the chance to get a good look at her, I saw that I'd guessed wrong about what she would wear—some weird one-piece thing like sleeveless, dark green coveralls. But somehow, she managed to make it look good. The parts covered by fabric just drew attention to the soft, smooth skin that wasn't. Her pale neck practically begged to be bitten. With her low heels and high belt, her legs looked about ten miles long. Even her most innocent details hit me right in the dick. I imagined her pink-glossed lips pouting open with pleasure, pink fingernails gripping the bed sheets or clawing at my back, pink toes curling as she came hard. How close was her cunt to that perfect satiny bubblegum color?

  Dammit! Keep your eye on the ball, Nixon. No matter how fuckable she looked, I had to shut down her bullshit right now. Some bratty chick wasn't going to barge in here and boss me around. I shook my head sharply, staring her down. “Sorry, but this is my place and my dick. I'll use both however the hell I want.”

  “Being roommates doesn't work that way!” she fired back. “I have a right to eat and sleep and do my homework here. This is my place, too.” She hadn't even hesitated. If nothing else, I had to grudgingly admire her balls. But that was all.

  “If I'd had any say in the matter, this wouldn't be your place.”

  She faltered for a second, then glared with renewed grit. “Your dad just married my stepmom, remember?” She raised her thumb and pinky to imitate a phone and fake-sobbed, “Boo-hoo, Nixon won't stop covering the apartment in skank juice. It's not my fault I have to live with him. Why is he so mean?'” Her voice returned to normal. “I complain to Cynthia, she complains to Russ, and Russ crawls so far up your butt—”

  I held up one finger. “Okay, first of all: Don't you ever call Pam a skank again. She's a cool girl. In fact, she's a grown-ass woman, which means she can screw whoever she feels like. Even if she weren't my friend, she wouldn't deserve your catty trash-talk. So grow the hell up.” I paused to relish the look of shock on Avery's face. “You see the pattern here? How other people's sex lives are none of your fucking business?”

  “It becomes my business when you and your friend—” She spat the word like she was trying to get the taste off her tongue. “—roll around naked all over my home. People have to eat on that table!”

  I threw up my hands. “Then I'll wipe it down when we're done. Easy solution. Glad we had this talk.”

  “That's not even close to what I meant, and you know it! All your … stuff needs to stop. No more random bimbos in the apartment. No hot sex on every horizontal surface.” She flicked her wrists in a quick nope-nada gesture, making her bracelets chime and her chest wobble. Goddammit. “It's just one semester. I won't be having sex, either, so I think you'll survive.”

  I couldn't decide whether I wanted to laugh or punch the wall. Like hell I'd keep my dick dry for another seven weeks. Another fourteen weeks, if I counted the training mission I'd been assigned for after my leave ended. I'd been waiting since last November and nothing in the world could keep me another second. But I had to admit, Dad had interfered in my business enough for one day, and I'd really rather not turn my condo into a war zone. I didn’t want to constantly be at odds with Avery... So I had a dilemma on my hands.

  But what if the solution was staring me in the face? My lips quirked as I eyed Avery with new intent. If I wasn't allowed to bring home strange women, and she wasn't having sex with anyone … maybe we could kill two birds with one stone.

  My eyes dropped down her body again. It was a gorgeous one, and it probably hadn't gotten a good, sweaty fuck session in a while—or maybe ever. I'd be more than happy to fill in for that duty. The personality inside that body seemed as stiff as a board, but then again … I didn't quite get the sense that she was stuck-up, even though her clothes looked expensive. But they were sexy as shit, so who was I to complain about that? She took care of herself and enjoyed feeling well put together. The designer labels sprinkled all over her clothes and the gold bangles on each arm told me that much. And her spitfire streak had been a nice surprise; she probably weighed a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet, but she hadn't hesitated to chew out a six-foot Navy SEAL built like a brick shithouse. A guy didn't meet that kind of girl every day. And I had to say, even if she pissed me off a little, I liked what I'd seen so far—and I wanted to see more. We hadn't really had much chance to interact during our week at the ranch. Now that we'd be living together, I definitely wouldn't mind getting to know her better.

  My train of thought derailed when Avery snapped, “What? Did I say something funny?”

  I must have been staring at her in silence. “Nope, just thinking,” I said slowly. Screw it—the only way to find out what's on the table is to ask. “So what do you propose?”

  “Huh? Didn't I just tell you what I wanted?”

  “And I said it was fucking ridiculous. But since you apparently weren't listening, let's get a few things straight.” I raised my eyebrows at her until I was sure she'd stay silent. “I just spent nine months deployed. Do you understand what that means? Thirty-six weeks under enemy fire, roasting alive in some godforsaken desert with only my hand for company.” She blinked her great big green eyes. Boy oh boy. If that level of bluntness had offended her delicate sensibilities, she was in for a whole new world. “And then I was visiting family at the ranch. You remember that part. Not exactly a prime opportunity for pussy-hunting.”

  Her innocent blush made me want to push even harder. Just how red could I make those cheeks turn? Holding my hands behind my back, I took half-step closer, leaning forward slightly to emphasize the height difference between us. Her long, curled lashes fluttered, and she wet her lips, breathing almost imperceptibly faster. I'd made the right guess; she was one of those women who liked being loomed over, got off on the alpha male vibe. In a dangerously low tone, I concluded, “So I was planning to spend the next two months getting re-acquainted with warm … wet … pussy.”

  “W-why are you telling me this?” she finally squeaked. Her eyes were huge pools in her bright red face.

  “Because that earlier fuck with Pam just barely took the edge off.” My lips quirked in a hard, hungry smile. “You said we'd be living together for an entire semester. That’s, what, four fucking months? We both need to get our rocks off once in a while, and I can tell you right now that my hand isn't gonna cut it. So if you don't want me hooking up with other women all over this condo … how about helping each other out?” My smile became a leer.

  “You … that … “ she stuttered. Emotions flashed over her face, too fast to tell shock from desire from anger. “That's disgusting. You're disgusting! We'
re practically related!” Her pitch climbed to a shriek. “Get out of my room!”

  Anger it is, then. Shit. Maybe that wasn't the best timing. I took her polite suggestion and turned on my heel. The door slammed behind me so fast it almost caught my ass on the way out.

  There was nothing I could do but take my blue balls to the shower and jerk myself raw. And now, I didn't even try to stop myself from picturing Avery under me. This is going to be a damn long four months.

  Chapter 4

  Avery

  My heart still pounding, I pressed my back against the door, and slid down to the floor as if I were trying to hold the thought of Nixon at bay. But no matter how pissed I was—at myself, at that manwhore and his horrible suggestion—I couldn't stop thinking about his body. I couldn't stop picturing him taking me. The sharp snap of his hips as he thrust in his long, thick cock up to the hilt. All his muscles rippling as he pounded into me with everything he had. His long, sinewy back, his washboard abs, his tight ass...

  I wanted to groan out loud with sheer frustration. Just the thought of him was enough to make me ache. I never thought I could be so horny and so angry at the same time. Why did my body have to have a mind of its own? Why did his body, that perfect Mister Universe hunk, have to belong to my douchebag stepbrother?

  A door slammed, and I heard pattering water from the bathroom. Was he in the shower? I swallowed thickly at the image that sprang to mind. The spray would run in rivulets over his broad shoulders and bulging pecs, all his hard angles of muscle and bone, down to his …

  I let my head thud back against the door. Not too hard—just enough to express my sudden hatred of the universe. Then I forced myself to stand, sliding my back up the door. I had to get my mind off Nixon before I completely lost it. Trying to ignore whatever noises were coming from the shower, I took my first real look around the room I'd be staying in for the next four months.

  It was almost half as big as the entire London flat I'd shared with two other girls. On my right was a queen-sized bed with a carved headboard and attached nightstands, dressed in crisp white linens. A wide, shallow closet with mirrored sliding doors occupied most of the left wall. Along the opposite wall was a tall bookcase, a computer desk under a pair of double-hung windows, and a bureau. All the furniture was made of beautiful toffee-colored teak—a matched set that must have cost thousands of dollars.

  I pursed my lips. I'd never tell him so, but I was impressed with how clean, orderly, and classy it all was. Guess that's another perk of living with a military guy … he can't claim he doesn't know how to keep things neat.

  Wait, another perk? I meant a perk. Just one. I definitely hadn't started a mental list that began with “sweet Lord he's ripped” and ended with “holy shit a man who knows how to dust.”

  Now that I thought about it, actually, my new room was almost too neat. The subdued colors and spartan furniture felt depressingly impersonal, like a hotel suite. But I'd fix that as soon as I started putting away my stuff. Maybe put some art up on the walls. This place would feel like home before I knew it.

  I kicked off my Gucci kitten slingbacks, wiggling my toes into the soft blue-gray carpet, and opened both windows to let in the fresh ocean breeze. Then I unzipped my suitcases and started carefully unearthing layer upon layer of clothes, shoes, and makeup. It had taken some pretty creative packing to fit everything I needed. And all this stuff would only last me for another month or two—when the seasons changed, I'd need to drive over to Dad's place to switch out my wardrobes. That would probably suck up a whole day of studying, since Irvine was about three hours away by car. What fun indeed… I hope it stays summer until after midterms.

  I started finding homes for all my babies in the bureau and closet, letting myself be absorbed into the simple, repetitive project. Hang up and smooth blouses and skirts. Re-fold and stack shorts and pants. Underwear in one drawer, socks in another. Shoeboxes lined up according to color and heel height. Soon my hands were moving unconsciously as my thoughts drew me in.

  Just one more precious weekend, and I'd be back sitting in a lecture hall. It would be awesome to see all my school friends again. And I'd been looking forward to taking that senior capstone class in fashion journalism since I signed up last spring. Hopefully my hair-and-makeup elective wouldn't take too much time away from it; only one professor taught it during fall semester, and she was infamously tough. If I really had to, I could probably cut corners in Market Analysis. Not like I was going into the business side of the fashion industry anyway. I giggled to myself as I set up my jewelry tree—I could definitely coast through American Sartorial History. I'd been obsessed with vintage styles since the day I discovered high fashion.

  Sometimes it was still hard to believe that I was going to graduate in just a few short months. At least I would be if I didn’t let myself get distracted by a certain roommate—who apparently couldn’t keep his dick in his pants—while I was trying to study. I frowned as that woman crossed my mind again—Pat or Penny or whatever? No, her name was Pam. I'd been surprised when Nixon leaped to her defense like that. Who would've thought that such a player actually saw his conquests as human beings?

  But that little scrap of chivalry didn't make him any less of a tool. I wasn't asking for anything unreasonable here. I had a right to feel comfortable in my own damn apartment, and that wouldn't happen with random naked women filing in and out all the time. Maybe pulling the “tattle to Mommy” card had been a bit much, though? I quickly rejected the notion—he'd pushed me into it. If he didn't want to talk about boundaries like a reasonable adult, then I just had to sink to his level. A man-child like Nixon would never take me seriously if I didn't give him an ultimatum.

  Why was I even letting him cross my mind again? I shouldn't care at all.

  Still … now that our first disagreement had ended with yelling and slamming the door in my roommate's face, I couldn't help second-guessing myself. If push came to shove, I could definitely count on Cynthia's help, and I was sure that Emma would back me up, too. She might even be able to persuade Ford to take my side. But at the end of the day, I had four classes left to ace and nowhere else I could afford to live. So something had to give. And I wasn't sure what yet … or who.

  It's not like he's your real brother, my hormones helpfully suggested. He's not even your stepbrother. His dad is married to your former stepmom, which makes him Emma’s stepbrother, not yours. What the hell do you even call that, your stepbrother once removed? How could it be wrong if there's not even a word for how you're related? But I firmly told myself that this was a no-go. I didn't think of Emma as an ex-stepsister, or even a stepsister at all—just a sister. The only one I'd ever had. And after Mom died, Cynthia had treated me like her own daughter. So if my unofficial mother married a new husband, that guy's sons were my stepbrothers. Except my hormones weren’t getting the hands off memo, and I wanted to scream.

  Instead, I stretched, squeaking as my back popped. I'd been unpacking for over an hour. But there was still a good chunk of daylight left, and God knew I needed to get out of here and clear my head. Maybe that little beach I'd seen on my way over here was still open? I could dip my toes in the lapping water, let the sun warm and loosen my sore muscles. Try to get back into the positive groove I'd been rocking before that caveman had stolen all my zen. Yeah, that sounds like just what I need … and I know exactly what to wear.

  I dove back into the closet for my favorite swimsuit: a poppy-red bikini with tiny white polka dots, composed of a halter top and a high-cut bottom. I'd nabbed it years ago at a thrift store specializing in retro pieces. I changed out of my now-wrinkled jumpsuit and into the bikini, checking it out in the mirror for a moment. Look at that, I told myself sternly. You're Marilyn Monroe. You are cute as hell. You can handle anything.

  After I found my white fluffy towel and the crappy thriller I'd started reading at Heathrow Airport, I was ready to go.

  Out there. Where Nixon was. Jesus, get a grip. I forced myself to suck it up
and strut into the living room like I owned the place.

  Hearing my footsteps, he turned around where he was sitting on the couch. “Hey, you—”

  He cut himself off, and I froze. I could feel his eyes tracing every curve. Hell, I could practically read the dirty thoughts running through his mind. My skin prickled like he was right next to me, even though I was still in the hallway.

  But all he said was, “Don't stay out too late. Dinner will be on the table at seven, whether you're here or not.”

  No crude comment? No interrogation? And he was going to cook? Was this an alternate universe? “Oh. Uh … ” I started. Suddenly, though, I didn't care enough to question it. If he wanted to pull his head out of his ass and cook me a free dinner, then hooray for both of us. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Then I rushed out the door and down to the beach. I had only three days to relax before diving back into school. Hopefully I could still make the best of them.

  Chapter 5

  Nixon

  Although I stepped out of the shower a little calmer, I still had no game plan. What the hell was I supposed to do with this girl? Dad told me to be hospitable, so feeding her would be a good start. Can't really go wrong with dinner.

  I threw on some pants and took a quick inventory of the fridge and pantry; I didn't feel like going to the store again if I could help it. Corn tortillas. A bag of frozen shrimp. Rice. Salsa. Avocado. Seafood tostadas and Spanish rice? That was nice, right? Even if it wasn't, she probably wouldn't care; somehow I doubted there was good Baja-style food in London. But what did she like to drink? I scrounged around more and found a bottle of white wine from God only knew when. Sure, whatever. That was always a safe bet for female-friendly booze.