Authors: Kim Linwood
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
A Stepbrother Romance
Sep 24th, 2015
Copyright © 2015 Kim Linwood
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A Stepbrother Romance
’m too young to feel this old.
Throbbing dance music blasts through the crappy frat speakers so loud it sounds like it’s playing through a vat of oatmeal. I can’t believe the plaster hasn’t been shaken right off the grimy walls yet.
Even so, someone’s shrill voice cuts through, “Where the hell is she? Let me in! I know she’s in there.”
While I’m trying to figure out what I’m doing in this shithole, some jackass is desperate to get in, holding the door open. If he wasn’t screeching like a little girl I probably wouldn’t even be able to hear him. I wish I fucking couldn’t. He’s whiny, he’s annoying and worst of all, he’s driving all the hot chicks that are keeping this party bearable away by letting in the cold air. He could at least close the fucking door.
A couple of not-quite-falling-down-drunk frat thugs are trying to keep him out, but it’s like watching toddlers fight in a sandbox. Lots of pushing, shoving and yelling but nobody can land a punch to save their lives.
If he’d been sober, he could’ve pushed right by them, but the fifth of Jack in his hand is almost empty, and that shit had to have gone somewhere. By the slur in his whiny voice and the way he sways while trying to stay upright, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where.
I’d laugh if it wasn’t fucking February and cold enough to freeze my balls off. If they don’t settle this soon, and by that I mean in like the next five seconds, I’m going to settle it for them, just so I can defrost my nads.
Eventually he gives up trying to get in, and just yells at the top of his lungs, “Claire! You can’t fucking kick me out like this!” He’s not even wearing a jacket, but maybe he doesn’t have anything left to freeze off. Sounds like he’s already handed his manhood over to some chick.
Jesus Christ, what the hell am I even doing here?
Were our frat parties always this lame, or has my chapter just turned into the reject pile in the years since I graduated? They used to be fun. It’s supposed to be an alumni party, but I don’t recognize anyone. Maybe all my old buddies knew something I didn’t.
There’s nothing for me here other than free watery beer, and now I can’t even drink
in peace. Sure, these are my old stomping grounds, but I’m starting to remember why I was so goddamn glad to get outta here. Fucking Neanderthals.
“I know you’re in there!”
Oh for fuck’s sake. He’s still going, and his voice is like nails on chalkboard.
Slamming my beer down on the makeshift plywood coffee table, I pull myself to my feet. I crack my fingers and loosen up my neck. Anyone who gets between me and the damn door is going to get their ass handed to them. It’s been a few years since I stepped into a ring, but I’m pretty sure I can still flatten any of these idiots.
That’s when I see
floating through the room like a fucking angel.
Fuck, she’s hot. Deep red hair. Button nose and sexy, full blowjob lips. And shit, her curves. They go for miles. Her perfect tits threaten to spill out of her tight top, while her short, loose skirt flutters like it’s just asking me to flip it up to show off that gorgeous ass.
This whole night might end up worth it if it involves her, my dick, and a whole lot of screaming my name. When I let her up for air that is.
Change of plan. I’d rather fuck than fight.
She’s coming towards me, and I spring into action, putting my hand out and flashing her my widest spread-your-legs-for-me smile. It’s a well-practiced move, and one that’s been scientifically proven to drop panties. Except this time. She strides right past me, like I’m not even there, leaving my hand hanging.
Well, there’s a blow to the old ego. What the fuck?
“Michael, shut up.” Her voice is vibrating with anger, and loud enough to compete with the heavy bass. Even pissed off, there’s an underlying musicality to it, a sweetness that I want to taste, to savor. Alright, so maybe I’m hearing what I want to hear, because there’s nothing sweet about the ice cold glare she aims at the drunk trying to get in. It’s even colder than the outside.
His eyes snap to her with the intense tunnel vision of someone who’s completely wasted, then widen in recognition. The furious goddess who just floated past me must be Claire. How the fuck did a sexy piece of ass like her ever end up with a jackass like this dork?
She stops well out of his reach and crosses her arms right under a magnificent pair of tits, her deep brown eyes shooting daggers. “Did you seriously think they’d let you in? Let alone like this? Shout all you want, but nobody here is going to listen. Calm down, turn around and slither back to whoever’s hole you just crawled out of.”
He shakes his head slowly. “You know what? You can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m fucking dumping you, Claire.” His words are slurred and hard to make out, but the gist comes across. He gestures clumsily, without coordination. “Yeah, I’m fucking dumping you. Bitch.”
Claire arches an elegant eyebrow, unimpressed. I want to trace the line of it with my lips as I drive into her from above. Fuck, I can’t remember the last time someone grabbed my attention like this. Right by the cock. I haven’t even touched her yet, and I’m hard as a fucking rock.
She continues, focused on her ex and totally unaware of the effect she’s got on me. “It’s too late, Michael. I already dumped
. I threw you out, remember?” She waves him off with a dismissive gesture. “Go home to... wherever it is you’re staying and sleep it off. Maybe you’ll remember why in the morning.” One last look, and she turns.
I love that. Soft and sexy, but not afraid to stand her ground. I wouldn’t mind that attitude aimed at me, not if it meant being able to fuck the sass out of her afterwards. Or during. I’m not picky.
“Don’t you fucking turn your back on me. Claire? Claire!”
What a sad fuck. Any chance he had left—which didn’t look fucking likely anyway—went out the window as soon as I got in the game.
They just don’t know it yet.
She stops, her brows knitting angrily. Her perfect tits rise and fall in time with her angry breathing and for a moment she gathers herself. Then she turns, her mouth already opening, probably to give that creep a piece of her mind. I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. I can’t fucking wait.
That’s when he gathers himself and shoves past the wobbly frat guys at the door. You had one fucking job, wobbly frat guys. One fucking job.
He grabs her arm with more coordination than I’d give him credit for and growls at her, “C’mon. We’re gonna talk. I’m not letting you humiliate me like this.” He pulls hard, yanking her off balance.
She strains against him. “Let go of me! What the hell are you doing?”
Even wasted, he’s got too strong of a grip for her to pull away. His face twists in an ugly grimace and he sneers. What a fucking waste of oxygen. The guys playing at being bouncers back up, keeping their distance. Apparently door duty ends at the door.
“I’m taking you back to our place, and we’re going to fix this.”
I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to do, but I’ve heard lines like that before. They’re always trouble.
Claire looks like she feels the same, a little sliver of fear crossing her face for the first time. Her voice shakes even though her words are strong, “Michael, there is no our place. Not anymore. Not ever again.”
“Claire. Come on, baby. Of course there’s our place. Let’s get out of here.” He yanks her forward a step.
Time to make a move.
I step up behind him, bringing all of my bulk to bear. “I’d let go if I were you.”
ho the hell is this musclehead?
I’m sure I don’t know him, because there’s no way I could forget anyone who looks like that. His black t-shirt is painted onto his huge, muscular torso, covering his chest but not hiding even one tiny ripple of muscle. Yum. I’m not quite sure how he got the shirt on in the first place, but I bet women would pay money to watch the process.
Colorful tattoos wind their way down both of his arms, a mish-mash of spiky abstract designs melding with demons, predatory animals and busty women. They disappear into his short sleeves, and I want to categorize and identify each one like I’m doing a special for National Geographic on North America and the great endangered male badass.
Broad-shouldered and easily a head taller than my worthless ex, he’s snarling like a biker god of vengeance, and he’s just stepped in to save me.
Michael totally forgotten, I let my gaze explore up towards his face until I find myself looking right into the deepest, darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re staring right back at me with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter. I could lose myself in them and they would just swallow me up.
It’s probably only a moment, but a whole eternity seems to pass before he looks away and I can breathe again. His full lips are drawn into a straight, angry line, his jaw tense and his dark eyebrows knit below a nearly black shock of unruly hair. A shiver shoots down my spine, and something much hotter pools between my legs.
He looks freaking amazing.
“Get the fuck out of my way, man.” Somehow Michael has remained unimpressed. Even sloppy drunk, he
to realize he’s woefully outgunned. Right? This guy can crush him.
“I’m not the one in the way. You are.” My guardian angel flexes, his muscles rippling under his shirt and his tattoos dancing across his skin. “Obviously she doesn’t want to go with you, and I’m making sure the lady gets what she wants. Let go of her and fuck off.”
Michael’s normally a pretty sharp guy, but tonight, alcohol’s not doing him any favors. Instead of doing the sensible thing when a thug twice his weight and all muscle tells him to let go, Michael puts his hand on the guy’s chest and pushes. He might as well try to move a tree, or a building. “Move,” he says, like he’s Harry Potter and knows the right spell.
He’s not, and he doesn’t.
“You don’t seem to understand me.” Tattoo Guy’s hand drops onto Michael’s shoulder, thick fingers gripping him firmly. “I’m going to use small words, just to be sure your tiny pickled brain gets it. Let. Her. Go. I
Somewhere deep inside Michael’s alcohol-muddled mind, a connection is finally made. He looks up and blanches, taking in the pure bulk of the man looming over him. His grip slackens around my arm, and I tear away with a sharp tug, freeing myself. His hand hangs in the air for a moment as if he hasn’t even noticed me gone. Maybe he hasn’t.
Tightening the grip on Michael’s shoulder until he whines in pain, Tattoo Guy leads him roughly towards the door. Michael’s feet only barely keep up, uncoordinated and unsteady. One of the frat brothers helpfully opens the door, and I shiver at the fresh blast of winter air. With a powerful shove, Tattoo Guy launches Michael through the door, where he blunders straight into a snow drift, white flurries exploding into a fine powdery cloud around him as he lands.
“And stay the fuck out.” My hero slams the door without waiting to see what happens.
For a short moment I can’t help feeling sorry for my ex, but then I remember why I threw him out in the first place. Any pity I have evaporates immediately. The jerk deserved it, and more. But unless he has a death wish, he’s no longer an issue. For now anyway.
My savior’s still facing away, giving me a moment to admire his back. It’s just as nice as the front. Clearly defined shoulder blades, and his torso tapers down to narrow hips and a really great ass. If there’s an ounce of fat on him, I don’t see it. I almost reach out to touch him, but while I’m far from sober, I’m not quite
What’s with me tonight? I’m not usually impressed by the gym-rat types. I can’t remember the last time someone had me weak in the knees, especially from looks alone. He’s got to be a total ass to make up for that physique. Because no one’s that perfect, right?
I’m still gawking like an idiot when he turns. Perfect.
“Hi.” His perfect lips curl up at the corners.
I look up at those deep blue eyes and fall right into them.
I might be in trouble.
n hour later, and there’s no might about it. I’m definitely in trouble.
I mean, not like naked-hanging-from-the-ceiling trouble, but I’ve reached the chatty stage of drunk and even though he’s being nice about it, I’m waiting for this guy to wise up and ditch me for someone with less baggage.