The One

His deep brown hair is messy yet perfect, with a swath of mud smeared over one unshaved cheek above where a dark beard covers his jaw. The glimpse of his torso where the shirt is open exposes cut muscle topped with a balance of dark chest hair. I’ve never thought about it before, but right now, my fingers twitch thinking of running them over the broad expanse of muscle, feeling the texture of his hair on my palms.

His face is pure carved testosterone, with years of hard work outside giving him a rugged take-no-shit countenance.

“That’s your new step-brother, Van.” My mother giggles. “I can’t wait to meet him tonight when we have drinks. Hamilton had to persuade him to come out here. That’s what I mean; Van is a total workaholic just like you. But God, if I wasn’t already engaged to his father…”

I don’t hear the rest of her sentence.

The room around me fades, and I bring my legs together, crossing one over the other and trying to contain the moan caught in my throat from the spontaneous orgasm I just had right here next to my mother.

Three

Van

FOR THE FIRST TIME in my life, I wish my fucking cock wasn’t so big.

There’s no way on God’s green earth she’s not going to see it.

As soon as she walked in the room, my struggle to keep the erection of a lifetime under control was already lost, and I don’t know if I’m ever going to get it under control again. Ever since I saw that damn picture of her just yesterday, I’ve had a semi-boner, and my heart always feels like it’s either about to stop or beat out of my chest.

I tossed back three little bottles of Jack Daniels on the plane to see if I could calm whatever this is that has taken over me in the last twenty-four hours.

From a fucking picture.

Of my soon to be step-sister. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, maybe I had a stroke.

Which, speaking of step-sisters, I wasn’t surprised when Kara’s response to my invitation to come with me was a string of four-letter words followed by a good, hearty laugh. I understand. I tried to do the right thing; I don’t blame her either. I drove six hours home to drop off George, then headed to the airport.

I’m perfectly able to admire a beautiful woman, sure. It’s not that. It’s that I haven’t been affected by one in so long, and never—fucking never—like this. Not even in person.

Even my dreams last night were filled with her. I jacked off three times while trying to ease the ache, all to no avail. It’s not just lust. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but it’s not just a need to get off.

She’s younger, a decade plus a handful if I’m guessing right, but fuck none of that matters.

She’s everything I see in this room. The whole world is condensed down into that one girl I’m watching from a distance, and I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m going to do.

Now, I’m standing here in the hotel bar while my father and his new bride-to-be sit at a table with her, talking about the small wedding they have thrown together on such short notice.

I toss back the rest of the Crown and Coke as my father gives me a nasty look, nodding his head for me to come sit down. I knew this moment was coming since he and I got here a half hour ago, but now that she’s here all my worst fears come true.

She’s more stunning than the picture. More affecting than seems humanly possible. I’d hoped she’d walk in, and whatever the fuck got a hold of me from the photo would release in the stark light of reality.

Wrong.

So. Fucking. Wrong.

I steady my breathing as I make my way to the table, watching her nearly white blue eyes flit toward me then back to my father. She’s raking her hands down the tops of her thighs. A robin’s-egg-blue straight skirt paired with a half transparent white lace top tied with a loose bow on a high collar decorate her like a masterpiece. But what nearly takes my feet from under me are the black patent leather, ankle strapped six-inch heels that adorn her tiny feet.

The tight control of the rest of her outfit, and the way it’s been paired with those shoes that scream ‘fuck me’ has the backs of my thighs tight as I fight to keep from falling to my knees, spreading hers and dining on the heaven that is between her legs.

She’s classic — a total contrast to her mother, who is exotic and dressed more like a teenager. The years between them are slim, making them look like best friends rather than mother and daughter. I’m closer to her mother’s age, and that difference spins a strange, protective, paternal tornado inside of me.