Billionaire Stepbrother Enemy

So wait, let me get back to Halloween. When we moved to the mansion, I had to switch schools since we were in a different district. It was a really wealthy district and I didn’t know anyone, didn’t fit in…but I’d been invited to a Halloween party and I was really excited and wanted to make a good impression. I got all the stuff for my costume including some really expensive makeup, but when it was time to get ready, the bags of stuff were gone. Totally disappeared.

Then Scott tells his dad that I went shopping and spent all this money and then lost the stuff, and Randy gets really pissed off and grounds me for being irresponsible. And then, that night as I’m moping in my room, missing the party I was sure would be the most fun thing ever, Scott comes in and tells me he took my stuff and threw it away. And his face was like stone when he told me. Like he had no feelings at all. Not playing a prank that went wrong, but I’m talking cold like a freaking sociopath or something.

That was just one thing, and maybe it sounds childish and not like a big deal, just one stupid party. Okay, fair enough. But what if shit like that was happening all the time, every single day? And you felt literally persecuted in your own house, which doesn’t feel like your own house anyway? And your mother is all taken up with her new husband so she’s not following what’s going on, and your stepbrother…your stepbrother is your enemy, not your ally.

Your arch-fucking-enemy.

I’m dreading dinner tonight. I can’t get out of it, since the whole point of my being here is to spend some time with my mom. But the dinner table here in the mansion is definitely one of the places where I have the biggest backload of crappy memories, where Randy used to explode over god knows what while my stepbrother needled me to the point of insanity. And also, my stepfather has this thing about dinners being sort of formal. Even on a weekday, you have to dress up and look nice. No pants. Makeup required. It’s totally fake and stupid and it makes me resentful as all hell.

But surely I can keep it together just for a few more days, and then it’s back to my real life, where I’m the one making decisions. I may not have caviar on my table but I can eat dinner in a bra and panties if I feel like it.

Tonight, I pick out a short swirly skirt and a pair of Louboutins my mom just bought me. I know how her mind works. She’s still feeling so guilty about the years we were poor, and she tries to make up for it by buying me fancy stuff now.

But the thing is, I don’t hold being poor against her. She was doing the best she could after my father disappeared. And while I admit I do love these shoes (because they are awesome), buying me fancy stuff now has nothing to do with the past. In my opinion. So yeah, I’ll wear the Louboutins tonight and I’ll enjoy the fuck out of them, but Mom, don’t get it in your head that they make up for subjecting me to the Caulters.

Because nothing can do that.

I clip-clop down the over-the-top marble staircase and go into the living room, where a maid is passing hors d’oeuvres and getting everyone cocktails. This is on a weekday, mind you, and we’re not celebrating anything. Except maybe old Granny pushing up daisies, I don’t really know. Maybe there’s inheritance money coming—I’m not in the information loop to know one way or the other.

I take a glass of Cristal, which apparently flows like water in this house. Scott’s not there yet, and my mother and stepfather are arguing in a corner of the room so I have the hors d’oeuvres all to myself.

Tuna sushi. Yum.

I’m chomping on a too-large mouthful when Scott shows up. His suit is impeccable, his hair still damp from the shower. I know he smells amazing, that dizzying mixture of expensive cologne and manly aroma, and I vow to keep my distance, out of smelling range.

But to get out of sparkly-eye range, I’d have to leave the house.

He’s doing it again, looking at me with amusement, his eyes all…inviting. He must be up to something.

“Hey Ainsley,” he says, smiling at me. “You’re a sushi fan?”

My mouth’s still full so all I can do is nod. Also I’m backing up to try to maintain distance but he just keeps coming closer.

“I go to Japan on business at least once a month,” he says. “I should take you sometime. There’s this place right on the water, where you see them catch the fish—wild fish, not farmed—”

Luckily this is one huge room because I’m still backing up, trying to get out from under his spell. But if I thought staying ten feet away would keep me safe, I was apparently wrong.

Because oh my fucking god. He may be my stepbro, the guy who drove me crazy as a gangly teen—but now he’s a man. And I mean…a hunky, panty-drenching man. If you know what I’m saying.

Ainsley, get a hold of yourself this instant. (I know things are bad when I start talking to myself like I’m my mother.)

“Stop backing off,” says Scott, his voice stern.

“Oh, like you’re my boss?” I answer. But I’ve run out of room and I feel the wall behind me.

He comes up to me, close. As expected, my knees get all wobbly.

Dammit.

“Ainsley,” he says, his voice softening just a little. “We really do need to talk. I’m not leaving until we do.”

“Suit yourself,” I say. “I’m going home tomorrow, and sorry Mr. Tycoon, but I’m not sure I can squeeze you in before then.”

Um, squeeze him in? Oh lord, would I like to, would I ever like to. I’d like to squeeze his rod right in my wet pussy, is what I’d like.

Ainsley! Get a grip!

Scott grins at me. “You still like picnics?”

“Huh? Uh, sure, who doesn’t?”

“I remember how when we were kids you used to eat outside whenever you could. You used to drag me out to eat lunch under the apple tree, remember that?”

“No. No apple tree,” I say weakly, because now that he mentions it, I get this flash of pulling him through the backyard with a basket over one arm like I was Little Red Freaking Riding Hood, and then smoothing out a blanket under the apple tree, loaded with blossoms….

Our parents are completely wrapped up in their argument. Scott and I glance over at them, and then we look at each other. He’s standing so close we’re almost touching. The sexual tension between us is so intense I swear we’re about to spontaneously combust or something. His lips—they don’t look cruel now. They look beautiful, sculptural, delicious. I feel myself falling towards him….