A Taboo Desire

"I really don’t think this is a good idea,” I say hesitantly, not certain what else to say or what to think. I know this is inappropriate but I'm also aware this is exactly what I've secretly longed for, for so long. Still, now it is happening, all I can think of is what my mother and his father would say if they saw their kids in bed together. Soon to be step-siblings who are supposed to interact as such, not like desperate lovers.

I can just imagine what Dr. Phil would say. "What part of this strikes you as sane?" His eyes big and round, leaning in with that big bald head of his. The audience would nod their approval and my cheeks would burn scarlet. Mom would sit next to me, crying softy but loving the attention nonetheless. Steve, America’s most desirable bachelor according to the polls, would sit opposite me looking totally unashamed. He'd be there solely for his entertainment. The opposite of his father, who'd be working his jaw, staring straight ahead with barely-contained anger.

But I'm not on the Dr. Phil show, thank God. But I'm not in my own bed either. I'm in Steve's bedroom, the largest I've ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling glass covers an entire wall, offering a billion dollar view of downtown NYC. Tastefully decorated, no doubt by the best interior decorator money can buy. Red is the dominant color – a deep passionate red. The same color of the dress that lies at my feet like an old rag, set with many diamonds that reflect the little light there is.Enough to make out the feline expression on his handsome face, eyes burning with a desire that mirrors my own. If only he wasn't going to be my stepbrother.

Only moments ago that dress was still on. Shows how a single moment of weakness can make a world of difference. One moment you feel you are still in control, the next you look from the corner of your eye to catch your image in the mirror. What you see tells you that you aren't in control at all. Not so long as you are reduced to a pair of wet panties and red high heels, and in the arms of the man you told yourself you'd hate until the end of time. Not as long as your heart beats out of control, warmth exploding in your chest and belly with each beat.

Painfully self-aware of my nakedness and the excited state I'm in, I try to fight it. Fight off the undiluted passion that burns its way through my body via a network of arteries and veins, infusing every cell with the last thing I need. Left in its wake the ruins of the pride that made me decide to look down on him and hate him even before we even had met. But it is one of those battles that you fight solely for form. Just so you can later tell yourself that you didn't go down without a good fight.

That is all that is left for me: one final act of opposition before my inevitable surrender to the taboo desires for the man I love even though I don't want to. Not really—or maybe that too is just more of the self-denial I've used as a shield against the aching need that burns in his eyes as much as mine. The same passion that has been there since I first laid eyes on my now seriously inebriated hunk of a stepbrother.

When he says my name it is with a richness of feeling that compliments his musky smell and the warmth that beats off his body, the intensity in his eyes. I sigh, deeply enough for my breasts to rise, stiff nipples tightening even more when they rub against the fabric of his suit, and for the first time in my life I want to tear a guy's clothes off. Not take them off. Tear them off and any bitch who gets near? She’d better be willing to fight for him. That's instinct. Not reason. Not social-conditioning that has me wanting to hate him for the womanizer he is. That's instinct, and it makes a woman temporarily insane. That would be me and I'm trying to fight it.

A shiver runs down my spine when I think of the moment of surrender ahead of me. But not yet. You surrender too soon and it'll cost you in terms of pride. A fight like this? No matter how hopeless it is, you have to drag it out until every fiber of your body and soul is spent. Then he can have me and do as he pleases. In the morning, my pride will rise from its ashes like a Phoenix reborn, and I'll feel ashamed and weak. But one night in the arms I need will be worth the price.

He kisses me again. Hard. Like a conquering warrior, determined to leave his mark on the new ground ahead of him. His blood engorged member presses equally hard against my soft flesh through his pants, while our tongues find each other shamelessly.

Part of me wants to blame him for the sorry state I am in, but it isn't as if I'm entirely innocent. I wish. Driven by jealousy and heartache, I'd taken a page from Mother's handbook and thrown my inner seducer at him as if life itself depended on it. That is why I came here tonight, ignoring my pride as much as my reason. Instinct led the way to where I'm fast approaching—the point of total surrender to 180lbs of clean muscle and bones, and the face of a Hugo Boss model, and judging from what I feel pressed against me, something hard that is sized way above average. God, I'm hopeless.

Thinking of the alternative, returning home—defeated by pride—for another lonely night alone in a bed that feels too spacious, I wrap my arms around him even more tightly.

The press would have a field day if they got the smell of this. The son of billionaire steel magnate Senator MacCarty seduces the daughter of billionaire socialite Belle Trisky on the eve of the wedding between their parents that will turn them into stepbrother and stepsister. Kinky. Just what the networks need to boost the ratings, alright. The press would have a field day if they ever caught wind of this. Also the last thing I need. Being my mother's daughter is enough of a challenge as is; no need to make it extra exciting. But that is reason talking, and I'm running on instinct. Primal instinct, triggered by a primal need that I can't escape. Not that I haven't tried.

"What? Again?" I don't know if I should laugh or cry when Mother announces she is getting married again. "That'll be what? Your third marriage, in how many years?"I know exactly how many but I want her to say it. Predictably, Mother doesn't answer. Smiling gently, she turns her doe-eyes on me, as if genuinely non-plusses her why her one and only child could possibly be upset. "Six years," I say. "Three marriages in six years! Don't you think it is time to give it a rest?"

Saying the words, I realize something I never thought of before: it means my forty-two year old mother—the serial-divorcer—probably gets more action than I do. Shit. I blame Mother for my reluctance to date. I’m scared that I may become like her or discover I already am like her. When I marry, it'll be forever. That's the gameplan.

"And ten months," Mother is kind enough to point out, now pretending she is studying her perfectly manicured nails.

That's my mother for you. She's like the Spider Woman; trapping rich men in a web of artificial charm that no doubt she feels is real. Not that she kills. No, she just drives men crazy with her big blue eyes and the girly voice that to me sounds ridiculous for a woman her age, and curves that are part natural and part plastic surgery. The best money can buy.

Porny kind of curves that a certain kind of man go crazy over. Crazy enough to marry her

, after a few months of dating—if that. The kind of crazy that convinces perfectly sane and successful men that marrying her is the smartest decision ever, despite a track record that would make any sane guy run for the hills. Instead, they fall at her feet with a love-struck look in their eyes.

Three marriages in six years and ten months. That made for a grand total of five marriages in twenty-three years. I have no idea why she lasted so long in her second marriage; her first was a short lived one when she was nineteen, but those were the only stable years of my life. After Dad decided that enough was enough, the court assigned me to Mother and I still hold that against them.

"So, who is it this time?" I ask exasperatedly, not certain I want to know but I know it is the question she wants to hear and I've grown used to indulging my mother. Plus, I am curious who she managed to ensnare in her web this time.

Dad showed up four years after Mother's first marriage went on the rocks. Their marriage lasted sixteen years, and he deserves sainthood for lasting that long. They divorced two months before I turned sixteen, and it felt like it was the end of the world. Little did I know that the worst had yet to come. With a hefty alimony to sponsor her new project, Total Make Over, Mother moved us to Houston for breast implants and to ingratiate herself with the posh community, to which she took like a fish to water.

She managed to stay single for exactly seven months before marriage number three was marked on the agenda. The guy was old enough to be my grandfather, and there was no way I was going to call him Dad. At first, I thought Mother had finally come to her senses, when I learned she was filling for divorce. "The age gap makes it so much harder than I'd imagined, dear." Sure, you couldn't have figured that one out sooner? She walked away with a fortune. So I guess she got something out of it after all.

Thirteen months later, I was introduced to my next stepfather to be. At least the guy was age appropriate, but that was as far as the good news went. A self-made billionaire, and a total control freak, who thought he could take my life over. Dad had one talk with Mr. Control Freak over Skype, and I don't know what Dad said to him, but he left me to myself soon after. Thanks, Dad!

Marriage number four lasted almost three years. Just long enough for mother to throw a gossip rag dramatically on the breakfast table one morning, all crocodile tears. "How could you do this to me, John? How?" The front page showed John leaving a 'gentleman's club' in the company of two daringly dressed ladies who looked barely legal. The look of horror on John's face more than made up having to put up with his unbearable presence for three years—I guess he could already see his net worth being slashed. According to the prenuptial, agreement, Mother was entitle to half his estate in case of a divorce if he cheated on her.

Mother didn't seem particularly upset by it; if anything, she was positively beaming. Figuring she had learned her lesson, I didn't think she'd go through the motions again. Not this soon, at least.