Prince Albert

me back, when the door opens. I expect it to be the bodyguard, but it isn't. It's Chelsea.

"Shit. Can't I get two minutes of quiet?"

She pouts. That damn pout of hers has got to go. It's so fucking annoying. What is it with girls and pouting? It doesn't look cute; it looks juvenile. Delaney doesn't pout. The thought goes through my head and I want to rip it out of my brain. Screw Delaney and whoever she's hooking up with in Dallas.

"Do you want me to leave?" Chelsea asks. She walks over to me, stands in front of me with her hand on her hip and one leg jutted out to the side. She knows how to work her body, I'll give her that much. She's wearing this little red number that offsets her creamy skin and her black hair.

Do I want her to leave? I hesitate before I answer. "Whatever you're about to say, don't. It'll just make it awkward in the future, Chelsea."

She purses her lips, eyes me thoughtfully. But she doesn't move. "You're my client," she says. "Which means I'm at your disposal. And you look tense."

"I am fucking tense," I say. "When can we get out of here?"

"An hour longer," she says, stepping forward. I realize she thought that my saying I was tense was an invitation for more. "If you'd like, I can help you feel…less tense."

I should take her up on the invitation. Or take the other chick up on her invite for more. That would be the smart thing to do. That would be the Gaige thing to do.

But my phone is in my pocket, weighing heavy on my thoughts. And more specifically, Delaney is weighing on my thoughts. It's her I can't get out of my fucking head.

"Well?" she asks.

"Well, nothing, Chelsea," I say, my voice hard. "I hope I don't have to get a new manager at Marlowe because things got awkward between us."

Chelsea slides her palms down the sides of her dress, straightening the fabric. "I hope not," she says. "It would be a shame to lose you as a client."

Then she turns and walks out of the bathroom like nothing ever happened.

* * *

“I’ve always wanted you, Gaige.” Delaney unhooks her bra and tosses it to the floor, her bare breasts full in front of me. She shimmies out of her panties, shaking them from her thighs, the movement making her breasts sway.

I reach out to touch them, but she shakes her head, making a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue before she drops to her knees at my feet. Holy shit. I take her face in my hands, her skin smooth against my palms, and pull her face up to look at me. I can’t stop looking at her. I can’t believe this is Delaney – the girl I lusted after all summer, the girl I still can’t stop thinking about. Classy, breathtakingly beautiful, out-of-my-league Delaney Marlowe.

On her knees, her face so close to my cock I can feel her warm breath against my skin. Christ, my fucking dick is about to explode already.

She looks up at me, mischief in her eyes, then opens her mouth, touching the tip of her tongue to the head of my cock, where pre-cum already glistens on the tip. Her eyes never leave mine, and the fact that she’s looking at me the way she is, her mouth open, like she’s begging for it, makes me want to come already.

“Shit, Delaney,” I groan. “You keep doing that and I’m going to come all over that pretty little face of yours.”

“Promises, promises, Gaige,” she says. “You’re all talk.” She reaches between my legs to cup my heavy balls with one hand as she wraps her lips around my cock, enveloping me with her warm wet mouth.

“I’ll show you talk,” I start to say, but I can’t think as she works her magic lips, so I run my hands through her long dark hair, pulling her against me, forcing her to take me deeper. When she moans, the vibration from her throat reverberates up the length of my dick, and I want to let go.

I wake with a start, my heart pounding in my chest, sitting upright. Shit. A fucking dream about Delaney blowing me. That’s just great. My cock is as hard as a damn rock. I lay back against the pillow. Giving Delaney hell for pure entertainment value is one thing, but a sex dream about her is something else entirely. She’s made it more than crystal clear that she’s not interested in me anymore. And there are plenty of women who are more than willing to be on their knees, mouths open for me.

Wrapping my hand around my cock, I stroke my length, closing my eyes to conjure up an image of an open mouthed blonde with big tits, ready to wrap her plump lips around me. The problem is, I’m so fucking close already, thanks to my dream about Delaney, that it takes all of a minute to send me over the edge. And it’s not an open-mouth blonde I’m thinking about. It’s Delaney’s face I see, Delaney’s tits I can’t stop imagining, Delaney’s lips I picture wrapped around my cock. When I come, it’s because of Delaney.

This is going to be a fucking problem.

CHAPTER TEN

DELANEY

I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark. The quiet in the house is practically deafening. My father and Anja went to bed right after dinner. Or rather, Anja was inebriated and my father escorted her to bed. I don't remember Anja being a lush a few years ago, but maybe my memory of things is just that clouded. What I remember about Gaige seems to be clouding my judgment now, making me think about our past.

Gaige slides his finger underneath my chin, tilts my head up toward his. “Tell me you want me,” he says, his voice low in his throat.

“I can’t.” My voice catches, and I look away from him. “We can’t, Gaige.”

“Because of our parents?” With his other hand, he reaches for a tendril of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. His touch sends a shiver up my spine. It’s all I can do to stand there, unmoving, when what I want to do is to tell him yes. I want to tell him to bring his mouth crashing down on mine. I want to tell him to yank my skirt up around my waist, to thrust himself between my legs and inside me. I want to tell him to throw me down on the ground and fuck me, right here.

But I'm nervous. It's not going to be my first time- that honor goes to my tenth grade boyfriend. But he's the only one I've been with, not like Gaige who's been with lots of girls. What if I don't measure up?

“Of course not,” I say. “We’re not even related.” But I’m lying about the fact that we’re stepsiblings not being a big deal. Maybe it wouldn't be a big deal here in Dallas, but I can’t even imagine the kind of drama it would cause in Manhattan. My mother would be horrified. I can already picture her face going white, the hand that clutches her cocktail glass shaking as she realizes her only daughter is hooking up with the bad boy stepson of her ex-husband. She’d blame it all on my father. I should have known that sending you to Dallas for the summer would be a mistake, she’d say.

I’m beginning to think it was a mistake, too. Do I really think that all of the running around, the late night talks about life outside in the garden and stolen kisses in the hallway, is a good idea?

At least, I feel that way until Gaige slides his finger away from my chin and grips a handful of hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me toward him before I can even register a response. A pang of pain surges through me, but he brings his mouth down hard on mine, muting my yelp, and the pain turns into pleasure as his tongue finds mine.

He’s touched me before, of course. There has been lots of touching – tentative at first, that first kiss outside after we'd stayed up until 2 a.m., drinking beer Gaige stole from the kitchen and talking about life. Half-drunk and delirious from fatigue, I leaned in close to him, touching my lips to his. That was all me, the first kiss. I initiated it. I kissed him. That first kiss was teasing, tentative, joking almost, the kind of kiss that happens when you're unsure what the hell is going on between you.

That kiss was nothing like this one. This kiss is lust and passion and the pent up frustration that comes with all of the kissing and touching that's led to nothing except more kissing and touching. This kiss holds the promise of much more.

I give in to him, my body melting against his, desire flooding every inch of me, flowing through my veins. I’ve wanted this all summer long. I wanted this since the moment Gaige

looked at me. No matter how much I’ve tried to deny it, I haven’t been able to stop fantasizing about him. I tried to hate him, I really did. It seemed like it would be easy. But then we became friends. And I found myself liking him.

I’m terrified of wanting him.

And the thought of being with him, completely with him, makes my body stiffen. Gaige feels it immediately and pulls back, holding me at arm’s length. My lips throb from his bruising kiss.

“What?” he asks. “Still think we can’t?”

“I – I’m not sure,” I say, my fingers touching my lips where he kissed me. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

“Gaige!” Anja calls from down the hallway, and I start to step away, but he catches me, his hand gripping my arm with such ferocity that I think he’s going to leave a mark.

“Meet me tonight,” he says.

I shake my head. “No. We can’t.” But I can’t help but ask. “Where?”

“The guest house,” he whispers. “No one is out there. We’ll be alone.”

Even now, four years later, when I think about that night, I can still taste that last kiss on my lips. How fucked up is that?

The phone buzzes again, the screen glowing in the dark. It's a notification from one of my social media sites, and I feel a pang of disappointment that it's not Gaige. Opening my text messages, I re-read the last one from Gaige: Friends with benefits?

Gaige has some nerve asking about my dating life, when he's in Las Vegas right now. He's probably texting me while some girl has her mouth wrapped around his cock.

His cock…

I glance over at the closed closet door, knowing what's behind it. Only Gaige would gift-wrap his fucking dick. I'm sure his idea of a present is to gift-wrap the real thing. The image of Gaige O'Neal, naked, a big red bow tied around his cock, flashes in my head, and it makes me laugh for a second. Except that it's hotter than it is funny.

Heat rushes through my body at the thought of Gaige's touch, and I try to put him out of my head. Thoughts of Gaige don't need to occupy my head. I might have known Gaige years ago but a long time has passed since I saw him last, and he's changed. Hell, I've changed. Neither of us are the same people anymore.

I've matured.

When an idea pops into my head a minute later, I can't help but giggle. What I'm about to do is definitely not mature.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

GAIGE

Fuck, it's good to be back. Closing the door to the guesthouse behind me, I head straight to the bedroom. Maybe it's just my damn leg, but it's been a long time since I've been as exhausted as I am now. Parties and girls and booze used to be fun – what could be better?

Delaney never texted me back; I guess she was too busy with whoever she's dating. Well, screw that. And screw her.

Stripping off my clothes, I drop them in a pile on the floor, turning on the shower before I wander back into the bedroom. I open the bureau drawer to grab new clothes before I head up to the house for dinner and – the drawer is filled with condoms, not clothes. What the fuck? One by one, I yank open the rest of the drawers, and it's all the same. Condoms, condoms, and more condoms, a rainbow of every color imaginable.

When I pull open the closet, a wave of condoms pours out on me. A piece of paper flutters to the floor, and I pick it up.

Wrap Your Tool

Maybe Delaney Marlowe does still have a sense of humor after all.

I find myself whistling as I remove my boot and take a shower. I'm even whistling as I dig through my suitcase for clothes because I don't know where the fuck my clothes are now. Delaney could have burned the lot of everything, for all I know. I don't know what kind of nutjob you'd have to be to do something like that, but I wouldn't put it past her.

I pull out my phone and send Delaney a text.

Got your present. I assume you'd like to use all of them? It's a tall order, but I think I can rise to the occasion.

I'm flipping through the channels on the television when she texts me back.

With the way you go through girls, I think you'll do just fine without any help from me.

With the way I go through girls. Shit, a couple months ago and I'd have gotten some use out of Delaney's little prank. Now, though…

I thumb absently through the contact list on my phone. There are a few chicks in my list, booty calls who've proven they can show up at 3 a.m. and leave the next day without being total psychos. I should be banging my way through this list. It's the only way to get Delaney out of my head.

I just don't know why that idea seems so fucking boring. Or why the prospect of screwing with my stepsister is so much more appealing.

* * *

When Delaney comes home from work to see me sitting in the leather armchair in her room, my feet propped up on the ottoman, reading a novel, a smile crosses her lips, but she quickly hides it. "What are you doing in my room?" Delaney asks. "Haven't you ever heard of privacy?"

"Well, that's not hypocritical of you at all, Delaney Marlowe."

"I didn't linger after leaving the condoms," she says. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough," I say, my gaze trailing down the length of her body. Delaney has a way of making even the most conservative outfit look sexual. She's not wearing those fuck-me boots this time, but the heels she has on make her legs look positively indecent. They're an inch too high to be appropriate office attire, putting them squarely in the category of being hot-as-fuck. Now all I can think about is her wearing nothing but those shoes.

"Long enough to what?" Delaney asks, exasperated. "What are you staring at?"

"Your shoes," I say.

She looks down at her feet, her hair falling forward, the way it did in my dream when she was on her knees. I have to shift uncomfortably in my seat at the thought of Delaney on her knees between my legs. "What's wrong with them?"

"Nothing," I say. "Everything's right with them. The heels would make perfect handles."

She scrunches up her forehead, wrinkling her nose at the same time, like she's smelling something funny. I don't think she knows she does it, but it's the same thing she used to do when we were teenagers. It's cute. She kicks her foot up and looks at her heel, then back at me. "What are you talking about, handles?"

Is she playing coy, or does she literally not know what I'm getting at? "They'd make great handles, if your feet were above your head," I repeat. "Would you like a demonstration?"

I stand up and cross the room, even though she waves me down.

"Thanks for that lovely image," she says. Her face is flushed red.

"You're blushing."

"Because you're vulgar," she says.

"Keep wearing shoes like that, and don't expect me to be civilized." I'm standing so close to her that when I breathe in, I can smell the scent of her shampoo again, cookie-flavored something or other that makes me hungry.

"I don't think you can be civilized," she says. "I'm not sure you have the capacity."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"I didn't mean it as one."

"I don't know," I say. "I think you like the fact that I'm vulgar."

"I think you're deluded."

"You're the one who filled my drawers with condoms," I point out. "It doesn't take Freud to figure out the meaning behind that."