Kim Vs. Stepbrother

"Well, Kim," he says. "I was just about to head out and call it a night. But maybe you want to keep it going?"

I would.

I honestly should.

Just say fuck it to the world and go have a night of no strings sex.

But here's where I get lame.

"I have to catch a train tomorrow to go to the Hamptons for a party this weekend," I tell him. "So no late night for me, and that's what it would get to."

I can tell somehow that Alicia and Ashley have dropped their guard.

I don't know if they heard me, or they see my body language, or his, but they're okay now to enjoy their men.

You can bet your bottom dollar that if I were going home with him tonight, my sisters in arms would be checking him out and interrogating him non-fucking-stop.

"I got a buddy in Babylon," John tells me. "Gimme your number and maybe we can get together."

I can do that.

I give it to him.

He gives me a kiss on the cheek.

"See you around, Island girl,” he tells me and I smile.

Maybe Mr. Right Now is actually right around the corner.

God, it's so great to be young.

2

Cody

Can you feel the humidity in the air? I’m just standing here in the middle of the dance floor, but the air around me seems like something out of a fucking rainforest. These girls are surrounding me like savages, rubbing their bodies against mine, and they’re so fucking wet you can barely breathe around me.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Comes the voice of a girl from just behind. I turn around, nursing the 15-year-old whisky in my hands, and face her. Oh, what do we have here? She’s a petite brunette, a dress too tight for her own good, and lips that are just fucking begging for my cock.

“Cody, right?” she asks me, coming up to me and pressing her voluptuous tits against my body. They feel like plastic fake tits and, judging by their size, they probably are. What’s with women these days? I don’t fucking mind it most of the time, but it seems like most women nowadays are all silicone and no flesh.

Where are the fucking natural wonders? I mean, just look at me, twelve-inch cock dangling from between my legs, and I can fucking assure you it’s all natural.

“That’s me, yeah,” I say, running my hand down her back and resting it over her ass.

“What do you say we go back to your place?” she mewls, swaying her body at the rhythm of the music and rubbing her tits against my chest.

“What do you say we don’t go back to my place and you buy me a drink?” I ask her, waving my now empty glass of whisky in front of her face. Her eyes widen, and then she frowns; not the answer she was expecting. Well, babe, we can’t always get what we want, right? Besides, this is like the fourth girl tonight coming up to me like that. This shit gets tiresome. That’s why I just shot her down. I didn’t want or need her to buy me a fucking drink, and, to be honest, I doubt she could even afford what I’m drinking.

“Bon voyage,” I tell her as she steps back from me and ambles down the dance floor like a predator in heels, looking for some fresh meat to dig her claws into. You’re probably wondering why I’m not fucking the living daylights out of anyone by now, but the truth is that I just can’t be fucking bothered tonight. That doesn’t sound like Cody Brooks at all, right? But that’s me.

What, never heard of me? I’m a fucking rock star here in Manhattan, babe. That’s why these girls are all dancing around me as if I were some kind of God. My nights out are legendary, and I’ve lost count of how many girls I’ve fucked. It’s not my fault, really; women can’t get enough of my twelve-inch cock, 8-pack washboard abs, and ripped frame.

You know what pisses me off, though? Most of them care more about the money than they care about my cock. Yeah, that’s right, I’m fucking rich. Since it somehow seems like you’ve never heard of me, let me explain: I’m Joseph Brook’s son. Yeah, that one, the hedge fund manager.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve made a fortune all by myself. I invested the $100k my father handed me down and turned it into a few millions. And that just a year after I got stateside from Iraq, where I was handing out justice to terrorists by way of a M4 rifle that earned me two Silver Stars; you can swing by my bedroom to check them out any time.

Let me recap it for you: army hero, wealthy, twelve inch-cock. And I’m only 27. So, really, I can’t blame women for fucking loving me.