Forbidden Stepbrother Read online

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t tell my dad, otherwise he’d freak out about me going into strange men’s houses to see them half-naked, sprawled on a bed.”

  His eyes shot up. During the last years, hearing news from her through his mother was a double-edged sword. A small part of him enjoyed hearing Tiffany thrived in her profession. But, most of him, didn’t want to think about her. Traveling constantly for his show helped.

  She laughed. The jovial, hearty sound filled the air like oxygen to his lungs. “Chill. Most of my clients were women. I didn’t give the happy-ending type of massage.”

  He sighed. “Well, good for you. But I still decline your offer.”

  “It’s just an innocent, harmless rub. If we step on eggshells around each other tonight, and who knows, maybe even tomorrow, it will be hell. Why won’t you let me help you?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  Because we just had sex. His cock twitched. The possibility of her hands on him, her fingers kneading his flesh, caused his stomach to curl. She’d see him fully on display. Vulnerable. He still had a deep scar on the side of his leg, where his upper limb met the socket. The marred skin represented a memento of that dreadful night.

  “Fine,” he said, his lips barely letting the reluctant word escape.

  “You won’t be sorry. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  His stomach clenched. “The bedroom?”

  “I can’t give you a massage on the sofa,” she said, like the suggestion to move to the bedroom was the most natural thing in the world.

  Damn it. At this point, he’d almost rather continue in pain. Or he could take a pain killer and let it all be over with. But if he refused her help again, she’d suspect he had an underlying reason. After all, he’d spanked her. He’d been inside her. Why couldn’t she help him get rid of an ache?

  The bedroom it is.

  Chapter 5

  Tiffany gave the airy bedroom another glance of approval.

  The wood burning in the fireplace gave more than enough light for her to appreciate the lush surroundings. A large, wooden four-poster bed occupied center stage, adorned by a thick bedspread and a few soft pillows. A couple of nightstands and a reading corner with a nice chaise longue and a lamp completed the space.

  She had grabbed a few personal items from her suitcase and placed them on the nightstand. After the shower, Santiago had gotten dressed and probably moved his things to the office. However, his scent still lingered. Masculine. Powerful. Down girl. You’re helping him. That’s it.

  As much as he tried to downplay it, she had seen his face tightening with pain. And now, by giving him a massage, in a strange way it seemed she opened yet another door for the redemption she dreamed of for so long.

  She had told him to wait in the hall while she gave the room the finishing touches.

  She opened the door. “You can come in. Undress to your comfort level and cover yourself with a sheet. Then lay face down and relax. I’ll be back in a moment,” she told him, and flashed him a smile she hoped made the situation a lot less awkward. He gave her a glance, before nodding and entering the room.

  When the door closed behind her, she used her flashlight to guide her way to the end of the hall, and checked on the cat. She decided to call her Louise, like the lake, until she found the pet’s owner.

  Louise curled up on the sofa, still wrapped in the towels she’d given her. The water bottles she’d warmed on the stove helped, too. Poor thing. She could have died.

  “Wish me luck, Louise. I may have oversold my massaging skills,” she whispered to the cat, and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

  Louise leaned into her caress and purred lazily.

  “Stop it. You’re just saying this because I saved your life.”

  She stood, and sucked in a breath. It had been her idea, so why the fear? Because he will be sprawled on a big bed. Many miles from any other human being. If we have sex again, no one will ever know. Her devilish alter ego encouraged her, but she shook her head. He ached, and she would give him a hand—no pun intended.

  Standing in front of the door, she knocked, adamant she would make this as professional as possible. Go away, dirty thoughts. She heard him saying something, probably a “come in”. Her heart thumped so loud it was hard to distinguish the other sounds.

  The logs burning in the fireplace, plus the candles she had lit earlier gave the room a romantic vibe. The intimate lighting outlined his body, and as she walked closer and grabbed the body lotion she had set on the nightstand before, her throat thickened. Wow.

  Santiago never played American football, but he had the ass of a quarterback. His shoulders were broad, masculine and his weight indented the bedspread. Even though a flowery sheet covered his lower back, there was no ignoring his muscular thighs. She’d seen a glimpse of them when he stroked himself in the shower. A warm sensation coiled into her stomach, and she squeezed a generous amount of lotion on her palm. Focus, Tiffany.

  He had his head to the other side, where she couldn’t see him. Better this way.

  “Take a couple of deep breaths,” she said, and for a second she could have believed she worked at a world-renowned hotel and he had the body of a hairy old man. Ah. Wouldn’t life be simpler that way?

  He followed her order, without saying anything. Santiago didn’t chatter away when he wasn’t in pain, what made her believe he’d be all talkative when he ached? Small talk would help lessen some of the tension building within her.

  The moment her hands touched his warm flesh, a tingle traveled up her arm. She tried to ignore it, after all this was all about making him feel better.

  When Patricia had died, he had refused to talk to her—to let her explain, although what did she really have to say? We fought in the car because I found her drinking when she was pregnant. Besides, I didn’t want her to trick you into thinking she carried your child. I lost control of the vehicle in the rain. She and the baby died.

  “What slimy oil did you just pour on me?” he asked, jerking her out of her thoughts.

  She bit back a smile. “It’s Strawberry Delight. A body lotion.”

  He groaned. “Smells like I’m being smothered in red goo.”

  “There are worse things that could happen to you,” she said playfully. His shoulders tensed, and she focused on loosening the knots. He always had been athletic and chiseled, and after the doctors cleared him, he had gone back to training immediately. Well, it paid off. She applied more pressure on his shoulder blades, and he growled. Is he relieved, or displeased?

  He sighed. “At least the awful smell is distracting me from the pain.”

  “Why does it hurt? Have you done any different exercise lately to strain it?”

  “I’ve had a couple skiing lessons. I’ve come here to learn from the best instructor for lower limb amputees.”

  “Excelling at all the other sports isn’t enough? You need to learn how to ski, too?” she asked while she slid her hands down his smooth back. How easy to get distracted by the hard ridges of his body, and his hot skin compared to the cool lotion she applied. “I remember when we met. You played soccer,” she said, remembering when her father had brought her to the park to meet her stepmother and step-brother-to-be.

  “It was amateur, but I was good.”

  She tapped his back. “Yes. You had on a dirty jersey with the flag of Spain on it.” How could she ever forget? They were supposed to all go to lunch together, and Dad had insisted in meeting up at soccer practice.

  “And you asked me what that was,” he said.

  He still remembered? As a hormonal teenager, especially one who had never seen a man so beautiful, she had asked the first idiotic question that came to mind. “I knew it was the Spanish flag. I just couldn’t see under the dirt.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “I went to college, you know? I have a good job. I’m not a failure,” she said, and hated herself for how defensive she sounded. Her hands stopped massaging him, and she too
k a deep breath. Don’t screw this up, Tiffany.

  He turned his head in her direction, and slanted her a look. “I know, Tiffany.”

  She chewed her lower lip. Should she just agree or lay it all on the table? Hell, what did she have to lose? If they were getting along, why not ask him the question bugging her all those years. “Ever since we met you never tried to get to know me.”

  A long sigh escaped his lips. Evidence he didn’t want this kind of conversation. But, damn it. The man wore no clothes, and at her mercy which made it the perfect time to take advantage and talk.

  “I know enough.”

  She chuckled. “Really? Like what?”

  Swiftly, he propped his elbow on the mattress, and cocked his head so his eyes fell on hers. “You like all vegetables but onions. You must have some weird, unjustifiable self-consciousness about your legs, because you’re wearing jeans or long dresses every time I see you. Orange is your favorite color, but you hate the fruit. And a part of you wishes the owner of Louise never shows up so you can take her to New York with you.”

  Her heart skipped a beat and she drew back. When she reached her teens, her mother kept telling her how hiding her thunder thighs was the solution for not having a thigh gap like the older girls at her private school. How did he know all this? From her Facebook account? No. He had never accepted her friend request. She kept gazing at him. “I-I’m going to hold the sheet up, and you can turn around all the way.”

  He followed her order, and she adjusted the blanket. He’d chosen to keep the prosthesis on his left leg.

  “Your leg.” She cleared her throat. “Would you like me to—

  “No,” he said in a rush. “Leave my prosthesis alone.”

  She imagined he would be more comfortable without the prosthesis, but decided not to stress him out. “How is the pressure? Can I go deeper? Or is it too much?”

  “You’re not too much,” he said, his voice a bit strained.

  She carefully pushed the sheet off his leg, still covering his privates but giving her more room to work. She focused her attention on the right side of his hips; even though his hips were narrow, they were also muscular and sexy. She made circles and her hands moved over his skin.

  You’re not too much. Was it a Freudian slip? She had asked him about the pressure. She kneaded his skin, making an effort not to look his way. She didn’t need to turn her head to feel his gaze watching her every move.

  She should have added a playlist. Some new age music or rainforest sounds could dispel the tension. But because of the lack of electricity, she needed to keep whatever remaining battery she had on her cell in case of an emergency. God. Her breathing became heavy, even though she wasn’t doing anything strenous. Thank goodness she had on the lotion, otherwise he would have felt her sweaty palms and that’d have been humiliating.

  She focused on loosening the tension in his muscles, and relaxing him. But, as she tried to look ahead to keep from looking directly at him, a bulge caught her attention.

  Oh God. No. A rock hard erection lifted the soft sheet. She bit the inside of her cheek. What was she supposed to do? Well. What she wanted to do and what she was about to do were two very, very different things.

  Ignoring it was ideal. This isn’t about me. He reacted in a perfectly normal way to a woman’s touch. So what? He’d masturbate like he had earlier in the shower. Or call someone when he got back to New York, or wherever he went after this trip.

  Although… she leaned forward, entranced by the solid member. Her lips parted, her mouth hanging open like she gawked at some world-class dessert.

  Food. Yes. Food was the answer. She’d revisit the pie in the kitchen, take the whole thing to bed with her. Stuff her flustered face later while laying on the same bed he laid on now. Forget about reading herself to sleep. She would be eating herself to sleep. Maybe both.

  She pushed down the lump in her dry throat. Shit. None of this went as planned.

  “Tiffany,” he said, and each tiny hair on the back of her neck stood on end, sizzling with awareness. Like the rest of her.

  She peered at him. His eyes were two sparkly black cannons, targeting her and ready to shoot. She licked her lip, but couldn’t tear her gaze away from his. Silver specks shone around his irises, and the contour of his handsome face tensed up.

  “Suck my cock.”

  Chapter 6

  When he heard himself, his bloodstream boiled. Suck my cock. While she worked her magic hands on him, he’d tried hard to resist her. He’d cursed his erection, willed it away, but his stupid dick never budged.

  Her eyes turned into turquoise pools. Maybe she didn’t anticipate his request. Maybe she did mean to give him an honest, innocent massage. And his filthy mind begged him to take it one step further. Damn it. He was sick. And turned on.

  Silence stretched between them, and her gaze darted between his eyes and his cock. Impatience frustrated him like a stubborn mosquito buzzing around on a hot summer day.

  At last, she shoved the sheet off him, and took him into her mouth. Holy fuck. Her mouth was heavenly, her full lips closing over most of him. He expected her to look away, but she kept eye contact, which only worsened his state of mind. A rush of blood shot up his rod. He jerked his head back into the pillow; far too excited. If he kept staring at her, he’d come in a second.

  Moaning, she shoved the rest of the sheet to the side, and started to play with his tingling balls.

  She stroked his length in tandem with her tongue lapping and swirling around him. This surpassed all the fantasies he’d had with her—the ones he’d stashed away.

  She moaned again, and he thrust his fingers into her short, richly textured hair. Massaging her scalp, he held her head so he thrust into her, in and out, mimicking the movement he wanted to do to her pussy. That he would do.

  The pressure for release built within him. His stomach contracted, and he couldn’t hold it anymore. His body convulsed, and he didn’t fight the spasms. He spilled into her, and she took all of him. The fact she didn’t hesitate for a second—instead, swallowing his seed and sucking him dry—lit a fire in his heart.

  He wanted this woman again, and would have her. Once wasn’t enough. For the past few hours, she’d endured him pushing her away, his roughness, hell, she’d not only let him spank her but she’d suggested it. She sucked him because he’d ordered. Despite their banter, whenever it came to intimacy, she had given him every reassurance he held the upper hand.

  She withdrew him from her mouth and said, “You’re delicious.”

  No. He wanted to scream he’d been a coward who had treated her like shit for years and who had used Patricia against the attraction he felt for her. First, as a pawn to forget her. Then, as a reason to hate her—or to pretend to hate her—so he would keep far away from Tiffany Burrows.

  Shit.

  With his heart still racing, he propped himself on his elbows. When he sat up on the bed, she straightened up.

  “What do you want me to do now?” she asked.

  He held her elbow, then eased her down on the mattress. She moaned.

  “Why do you ask?” His gut clenched. If she thought she had to please him, but wasn’t really invested in making love to him, if desire didn’t rule her over all things, he’d walk out.

  “Because I want you.”

  Relief washed over him, loosening his limbs. “Seems we have something in common,” he said, and removed her pants and underwear. He wished the electricity were on, so he’d get a better view of her delicious curvy body. But he had to make do with the peeks he got from the candles burning on either side of the nightstand, and the flames crackling in the fireplace.

  She removed her bra and top, and threw them on the other side of the room. A nervous chuckle escaped her lips, like she didn’t want to show her eagerness.

  He scooted over farther on the bed, and traced her body with his hands. She lifted her chin, eyes on him. What a perfect woman. Vulnerability cloaked her like an invisible shield.


  He outlined her breasts, which rose and fell, as her breathing became harder. He bit back a smile, anxious to pull those mounds into his mouth. But first, he would touch her and feel her smooth skin and imprint in his memory just how lovely Tiffany Burrows was for him. Because there wouldn’t be any other opportunity.

  Once they returned to New York, he’d move forward with his life, and so would she. He couldn’t, in clear conscience, allow himself to have a happy ending with her.

  She moaned, and the soft, erotic sound brought him back to the present. All those years he’d denied himself the pleasure of sleeping with her because he’d believed he was a better man. A man who resisted sinful temptations—now, he didn’t want to be that man. He was attaching his pride to a rock, flinging it across a river, and watching it sink.

  The hollering from the wind outside increased, and so much snow slapped the window making the thick glass looked like a blank canvas.

  Touching didn’t suffice. He needed to taste all of her. Propping his elbows on either side of her, he dipped his head and traced a path of kisses along her soft, long neck. His tongue trailed down her collarbone, and she squirmed, thrusting her hips into him. Trusting him.

  Nudging her legs apart with his thigh, he ventured lower… and lower. Yes. Drawing back, he leaned and stared at her thighs. A delicious scent stemmed from them, and he dipped his head to check it out.

  With one finger, he made circular movements at the tip of her swollen clit. He heard the rasp of sheets. Her fingers curled around them, her head moving from side to side. Flicking the bud with his thumb, he intensified his claim of her. He circled her folds with his index finger, and her glistening essence coated his flesh. “You’re soaking wet.”

  “Aren’t you lucky?”

  “Incredibly so, mi amada.” He lowered himself until his head rested in between her thighs. He blew a breath over her skin, and she quivered. A smile formed on his lips.

  He continued to flick her clit with his thumb, while his tongue started to stroke her folds and savor her pearly cream. Hhmmmm. Deliciosa. Whimpers escaped from her mouth and rivaled the noise from outdoors. She shoved her hands into his hair, her fingers pulling his head closer.