Step Stalker

When she reaches out and threads our fingers together, giving me a patient, coaxing smile, I follow after her as if in a trance. “Our rooms are right next to each other,” she murmurs back at me. “I hope you don’t mind the adjoining bathroom.”

I’m screwed.

Chapter Two

Lula

He’s even more perfect in real life.

At least, on the surface.

I’ve been looking at pictures of Vale since our parents married. His image is framed all over the house. Graduating from the naval academy, receiving commendations. The front page of last week’s New York Times has been laminated and magnetized to the refrigerator.

California SEAL Fires the Kill Shot Heard Around the World reads the headline.

Another picture is there, too. Vale in his starched uniform covered in medals, his jaw firm, eyes serious. Back at the airport, though, I got a glimpse of the man beneath the tough military man exterior. He didn’t like the attention and definitely wasn’t comfortable in the large gathering of people. I could almost feel the nerves running roughshod through his system.

What has this man been through? I can’t even imagine.

Every time I pictured our reunion with Vale at the airport, I saw him striding toward us confidently. Extending a hand to his father and slapping the older man on the back, making a jocular joke for the cameras. I never expected Vale to be stoic, limping, eyes tortured. Holding the bag over his shoulder in a white-knuckled grip. There is more to him than a granite-jawed hero—although he is definitely that, too.

I’ve never met someone in real life with so much presence.

So much outward strength.

In this town, he’s considered a god. The paragon of male perfection. Rife with muscle and power and intelligence. He jumps out of helicopters into foreign oceans, dismantles bombs, goes for days without sleep. He towered over everyone in the airport, his arms so thick with muscle they could barely be contained in his jacket. His blue eyes are riveting. Intense. His brown hair cut short, along with his trimmed beard. He’s polished to a shine, while on the inside, I can almost hear the broken pieces of him rattling around. I know it’s odd to hold my stepbrother’s hand, but I couldn’t help it. He needed someone to steady him. And he held it all the way home from the airport, connecting us across the backseat, those blue eyes fixed on me the entire drive.

Which leads me to my problem.

Letting out a breath, I close myself in my bedroom and lean my forehead against the door, willing the dewy heat plaguing my skin to subside. What is happening to me? Am I simply nervous from meeting Vale, a world-renowned hero? Or is it something else?

On the drive home, I turned wet between my legs.

Embarrassingly slippery.

Meanwhile, my mouth is dryer than desert sand.

I’ve read about female arousal. Of course I have. I’m going to school in the fall to study Eastern medicine. Meditation. Alternative therapy. I’m well-acquainted with how the human body should behave. I just never could have planned for my first ever sexual, feminine response to come courtesy of my stepbrother. Highly inconvenient.

You. Are. His. Stepsister.

Sure, he might have held my hand tightly, occasionally brushing his thumb over my knuckles. Sure, his gaze might have meandered down to my breasts on the ride home, remaining there long enough to create the damp sensation between my thighs. But he’s just a solider who has gone a long time without female companionship. It isn’t like we grew up together. Nor are we related by blood. Obviously, nothing can happen between us, but I don’t blame a man with that much masculinity for feeling lust over the female form.

Even if I’m surprised he feels it for me.

My mother has been talking for weeks about all of the women she’s going to introduce Vale to. All kinds of debutantes and daughters of their successful friends. And all of those women have one thing in common. They’re rail thin. Svelte. A very different body type than my own—and my mother loves to point that out. She always has. Clucking over my jean size or suggesting I go for more walks. Truth is, I do go for a lot of walks. I love being outside and I want to love my curvy figure. It’s just really hard to fully enjoy my extra padding when I’m constantly being told it’s a negative thing.

There’s a muffled click and I lift my eyes to the door that leads to our adjoining bathroom. Vale’s shadow moves underneath, followed by the running water of our shower. My pulse picks up at the image of Vale stepping beneath the spray, water coasting down over his thick pectorals, dampening the dog tags hanging between them. The soap suds traveling down in rivulets to his buttocks, so high and firm. And in front…