Billionaire Stepbrother Enemy

“Oh, who cares,” Scott says, shrugging. “And hey, maybe any publicity is good publicity, right?”

“Absolutely not and you know better,” my stepfather says. “Ainsley, how about you quit dragging Scott off to give him a blowjob or whatever it was you were doing so he can get his head straight and get back on track.”

“What did you say?” Scott’s face is doing something I’ve never seen before. He is furious, his eyes dark, his shoulders flexing. I think he might hit his father, I mean really hit him.

But my mother steps in between them. Always the peacemaker, and you know what? Sometimes peace is not the best thing. Sometimes stuff needs to get fought over.

We end up getting right back in the limo and going home. No point trying to have the picnic, not with my stepfather practically foaming at the mouth and yammering on about whatever is on his phone, and not with Scott on the verge of killing him for what he said about me.

It’s weird. Okay, yes, I admit there’s plenty of attraction between me and Scotty. But we haven’t actually done anything, so I don’t know where my stepfather is getting his ideas. And who says things like that anyway about his children—and right to their faces? Nobody who isn’t one click off of crazy, that’s who.

Boundaries, people.

And ironically, I don’t have the faintest idea about how to give a blowjob. Not that I’m going to be volunteering that nugget of info.

And yes, I called him Scotty. Because he’s adorable, so there.

Remarkably I’m not feeling that disappointed about missing the picnic. Having the ’rents there sort of got in the way anyhow, and it’s just the fact that Scotty thought of it that’s so wonderful. When I think about him going to all the trouble and expense of planning it, a kind of warmth spreads through my body like I haven’t ever felt before.

And I’m having such dirty thoughts! Like where in the mansion could we go for a little privacy, where my stepfather won’t come barging in?

So I spend the ride back looking out at the farms whizzing by, not paying any attention to what anyone is saying, lost in my daydreams of seeing Scotty with his shirt off. With his pants off.

…fanning myself here…holy fuck, I want him bad.

When we get back to the mansion, Scotty and his father disappear. He doesn’t say anything to me before going off, and I start to feel a little slighted before I remember that he’s apparently got a lot of shit to deal with right now.

But then Mom has to stick her nose in. “I’m sorry about the picnic, Ainsley,” she says, scrolling on her phone. “But I do think Randy has a point. Look….” And she holds her phone out for me to see.

There, in living color, is an image of Scott with his arm around a dude.

They’re both naked.

And there’s another dude with his head in Scott’s la

p. Like, not resting there. But doing something.

The headline says: TECH TYCOON ENJOYS GAY ROMP.

The whaa—?

Now, let me be clear. Gay, straight, in between—I don’t give two shits one way or the other. Unless you’re my man. And if you are, I don’t want you hound-doggin’ around with anyone else, period.

Now I do know somewhere inside my scrambled-up head that Scott is not my man. Not yet. We’ve shared a couple of kisses is all. But do you hear the sound of those brakes squealing? Yep, that’s me, throwing my booty into reverse and getting the hell out of this mansion of insanity.

I told you I was inexperienced, and that’s true, but something I haven’t explained is that I have some pretty old-fashioned ideas when it comes to getting close, getting intimate. Like, it’s not just playing around. Not just for fun, just to get off. Maybe my potty-mouth is misleading, and because I sprinkle the f-bomb around I seem like the kind of chick who’s into sex play. And please understand, there’s not a thing wrong with it, I’m not judging anyone who’s into that.

Not even Scott.

But it’s not my thing. It’s not for me, and the last thing I want to do is cross that line with Scott, to hook up with my stepbrother only for a night, only for some quick physical pleasure.

Nuh unh. Not gonna happen.

I want so much more than that. Maybe you’ll say it’s corny—but I want a big whopping serving of love along with my cock. In that photo—he does look all kinds of awesome with his shirt off. And I wish it were me his arms were wrapped around, and not that hunky blond with the narrow waist and ripped six-pack.

But that’s life.

Next I feel a kind of chill coming over me, like my feelings are getting iced over. That’s what happens when I get hurt. But it works for me. The hurt is all bundled up and out of sight, and now I’m able to move on and do what needs doing, which right now?