A Taboo Desire

I know I should be angry about the presumptuousness of my stepbrother to be. But I'm not. I feel flattered instead, and that is what makes my anger flare—but not enough to retreat to the relative safety of my room. No matter how wrong this is, I need to find out something that I'm not even certain of myself. I need to confirm that he really is a pig who treats women like shit, or discover that there is more to him than meets the eye. Even then, he'll be family soon. Still, I don't want to think about that, and I know I'll never forgive myself if I hide in a room where all I'll do is dream of him.

"Mr. MacCarty is waiting for you," the driver says. I nod and say nothing. He opens the door and waits, his face expressionless. I wonder how many women he’s picked up like this—a depressing thought that hurts my heart. I don't look at him when I get in, ass first and then my feet. Staring straight ahead, a prisoner of my own biology, I sink down in the leather upholstery and wait for the inevitable behind black glass and steel.

When we arrive, I feel stupid, nervous, and courageous all at once. High on hormones, I get out when the door opens, and I see them:paparazzi. I had totally forgotten about them. They haven't forgotten about me, though; nor do they waste time slinging questions and remarks at me. I ignore them.

My dress feels so light that it feels like the breeze makes direct contact with my skin and I have to struggle to appear cool while hurrying inside on heels I want to kick off.

The driver does his best to shield me from the cameras, guiding me inside and to the private elevator. His face is stoic, never betraying a single emotion. I wonder where Steve MacCarty found him.

"Just another day at the office for you, right?" I say, just to break the silence on the way up. He doesn't answer and I don't try again to engage him in small talk. When the elevator doors part, I'm treated to the sight of more shiny happy people than I care to ever meet. The place is loaded with them. Young people.Old people. And any age in between. Rich people. All of them. Their common denominator. Rich and spoiled.Made beautiful by any means possible. Some heads turn my way, and my face burns when I see interest light up in their eyes.

I should have stayed home. This is not my crowd and I know it. Like a stray cat, I'm absorbed by the mass of bodies. The air is heavy with artificial fragrances and music that is too loud for my liking; I'm already eyeing for balcony. I'm perspiring so badly that I'm glad the dress leaves my back bare - it would be clinging to it if it didn't. After too many “Excuse me” and “Pardons” and apologetic smiles, I set foot on a balcony that offers a perfect view of downtown Manhattan. A balcony with its own pool and a jacuzzi that is occupied by more shiny happy people. At least the air is fresh and there is room to move.

The skyline is lit up by too many light bulbs, and looking down the railing offers is like staring down a canyon that offers the view of ants walking on the sidewalk and toy cars on the road. I'm so absorbed by the view that I don't notice him when he walks up to me from behind. That's a mistake I soon learn.

"Sis," he says, and I freeze. My heart doesn't. It thunders. My clit throbs and heat spreads with it as its center.

"You're invading my personal space," I say without thinking. I don't know if I should kick myself for that or not. But the truth is that I'm angry over the liberty he is taking, not lovestruck. Well, that too. But the anger is taking the lead and I haven't decided yet if that is a good thing or not. But who cares, right? I just want to prove to myself that I can rise above the hormones and gain control of my own biology.

"And I love it," he says, slipping his arms around me, embracing me from behind. I'm grateful I don't have to see his eyes on me, but I can feel them just the same. Maybe that is just paranoia, but the effect is the same: my core temperature goes through the roof.

I listen to him breathing me in deep, taking in my smell in the same way that I do—his is musky and manly—and every muscle of my trembling body tenses when he presses himself hard against me. Just then I feel something press against my back. Something hard. That should piss me off even more, and it does. It also makes me horny as hell.

I sound needy when I ask him what he is doing. My pride tells me I should lift my feet and ram the heel down on his foot, to prove I'm not one of those women he is used to. I ignore the impulse in the hope of something better. Something less dramatic.

"I want you," he says, so casually that for a moment I'm not certain I heard right.

"Excuse me?" I say. A shiver ripples through me when his lips brush the skin of my ear, the hardness pressing against my back growing in size, and I become aware that my breathing is dangerously deep and fast for a woman who has set her mind on playing it cool. There is nothing cool going on between my legs, or in my chest or head. The woman I'm familiar with is disintegrating and being fast replaced by a stranger who is running on carnal desires and needs.

"Steve, want to introduce me to the beauty?" a stranger says too loudly. Turning my face, my cheeks burn as I check the stranger with one eye. He seems familiar but I can't place him. Tall and blonde, green eyed, and with the build of a professional athlete, he walks over with natural grace, a grin splitting his handsome face in two. Then it hits me. It's Andrew Smith. Shit. And he called you beautiful, a little voice at the back of my mind whispers.

"Sally, I'd be careful of him,"Steve says. Still pressed between my stepbrother to be and the railing, anger flares again, together with a physical need for his touch that drives me crazy. Pushing my future stepbrother away, I have to press myself harder against him than he presses against me and heat explodes like a supernova between my legs when I feel all that hardness stir in response. Gasping, working my jaw, I force back a sigh.

More than a few eyes are turned my way as I step away from Steve MacCarty, my heart violently protesting. "Sally," I say and hold out my hand for Andrew, pure social conditioning taking over.

"My sister," Steve says, mirroring Andrew's grin.

You wish, I almost say. Instead I just smile when Andrew takes my hand, and to my surprise he bends and kisses the back lightly and for a little too long. Not that my vanity minds. Oh no, the woman in me is flying high. I wouldn't call myself ugly, and I'm no stranger to some attention, but there aren't many guys like Steve and Andrew. Those rare male specimens that are just too perfect. Both rich.Both too damn handsome to be of any use. They both tower over me and it seems every eye in the vicinity has found me. Thanks, Sally! Great way to screw yourself over.

"Sister?"Andrew says with a tone that insinuates things that leave me lighthearted and in need. Damn me. I should have buried myself under the blankets and binged on an old TV series.

"Stepsister," I say, too quickly and too unsteadily. "If Mother doesn't change her mind." That was meant to be sarcastic, but it doesn't sound like it. I'm about to excuse myself and trade the dozens of eyeballs on me for the safety of the private elevator.

There is nothing like the solitary confinement an empty elevator offers when you are at the receiving end of too much attention, is there? It is where you can blow your nose at the volume of t

he mating call of an elephant, drop the forced smile and hiss “Bitch!” or call yourself stupid. When the doors slide open, though, you wear your everyday expression again as if nothing is the matter.

That's what I was planning when two things happened. No—three. Like the universe itself is conspiring to lead you where your heart and body want to go, not your pride. It all feels like happening at once but I know that isn't true. It is all a chain reaction. Steve's hand feels strong and unapologetic when he steps up next to me, too close, landing like a bird of prey on my left ass cheek. My body straightens as if struck by lightning, eyes wide and jaw dropping. Before self-righteous indignation can kick in, she appears. The bitch.

She looks even more gorgeous than on the covers she is on. Perfect. One look is enough to know she knows it. For a second her brows rise, as if asking Steve what he thinks he is doing. That is all that is necessary for my possessive instincts to kick in. Reason wasn't really dominant for the greatest part of our existence, was it? No, pure instinct that was honed to perfection over millions of years of evolution in the most dire conditions—draughts, earthquakes, volcanoes spewing lava, tsunamis, and the greatest enemy of all: fellow man competing for game and resources.

Resources like the perfect male specimen stood next to me.

We didn't survive all that by being reasonable. We survived because, when push came to shove, it were those instincts that propelled us into action at the right moment. Reason is for pussies, instinct tells me, ready to scratch the bitch's eyes out. Maybe I could throw her over the railing.

So I don't object to the hand, I even lean into Steve a little instead and lock eyes with the bitch, flashing fire. Her smooth approach loses some of its momentum and eyes that were first on me and then on Steve are now focused solely on me. Her eyes narrow and her jaw is set and focused.Smart woman. She knows this isn't between her and Steve, this is woman versus woman, and the price is the guy I should be running from. Instinct. Not reason.