A Stepbrother Romance
By Celia Loren
Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective
All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
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QUARTERBACK BAIT
A Stepbrother Romance
By Celia Loren
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Elven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter One
Ash
“FUCK!” I cried, as a second—then third—ice cube slipped down the back of my tank top, gliding along the canal created by my shoulder blades. Pain and pleasure co-mingled on my spine as the opaque shards shot off my ass and onto the floor, where they instantly began to melt into pools. I whirled around to slap my girlfriend Melanie upside the head, pinning her for the culprit—but when I turned, I saw someone else. Someone strange, yet achingly familiar. Him.
“You looked hot,” he said, bending to close the distance between his mouth and my ear. “I acted on impulse. Please don't be mad.”
“It's you,” I blurted, realizing in the same breath that this wasn't a completely appropriate remark because we'd never been introduced. I'd simply been watching him from across the room as he was shaking the brown hair out of his eyes. Or raising his muscular arms overhead, into a stretch. But instead of squinting at me like I was a lunatic, the ice-cube-dropper smiled with half of his mouth and both of his eyes. Someone jostled him from behind, and he took a single step closer, pushing himself into my orbit. The trail of moisture was slick and cool on my back, but just as suddenly became hot again. He leaned forward and touched me, his fingers dancing lightly across my elbow.
“I've seen you around,” I elaborated, flicking a purple strand of hair out of my eyes. The purple streaks were the latest in a series of ill-advised rebellions, meant to make me—an otherwise mousy girl—stand out in a crowd. But I apparently, miraculously, didn't need any help in that department. Because here he was, talking to me.
“I've seen you around,” he countered, affirming that this was probably a dream. I watched the beads of sweat bloom along his forehead, pushing away from the dark roots at his scalp. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a superhero chin; yeah, of course I'd seen him around. He was the hottest guy at this shitty house party, no contest. Searching his face, I discovered a dimple, lurking in the crevice of his left cheek. I bit my tongue with glee at this small signifier that he was a human, with an endearing flaw.
Somewhere back on earth, an iPod DJ put on a 90s throwback jam—something I recognized from one of Anya's mix CDs. Steal my sunshine...something something. His face broke into a loopy grin at the chorus, and he rolled his eyes.
“I fucking hate this song.” His fingers fastened around my elbow, and his eyes asked the question first. “Wanna dip?”
I pretended to quick-scan the room for Melanie, knowing all the while that not even the girl code could stop this ball rolling. I shrugged coolly, then nodded assent. His fingers fluttered down my arm, then grabbed my hand. He turned and pulled me toward the door.
I followed him through the hallway like Eurydice—a quiet, hopeful ghost. He never once turned back. After we'd woven through a dozen drunken hallway stragglers and two corridors, we landed at an industrial door, marked with red stencil: “ALARM WILL SOUND. ROOF ACCESS RESTRICTED.” He turned to smirk at me before placing the heft of his round, muscular shoulder against the frame. And when the door finally creaked open, the alarm didn't sound—which made me laugh. It was like the whole world was complicit in this...whatever. Giddy, I took the stairs two at a time behind him, sneaking glimpses at his taut ass as we climbed. There was first a narrow staircase, and then a rusty ladder. He whistled all the way up.
“Ta-da!” he cried magnanimously, spreading his arms as soon as I'd thrust my head into the air. And there was Austin, sprawled out around us like a postcard. The low buildings and the heavy air seemed to bend over the rooftop, like fruit-bearing trees. Seeing me struggle with the final rungs of the ladder, he leaned over. He encircled my waist with both forearms and hoisted me up and out. I felt my nipples firm against my top as our chests smashed together. The air briefly abandoned my lungs. We were both dampened with sweat, and I could feel the meaty expanse of his pecs, his abs, the coiled splendor of his engaged sinews wrapped around me. I let myself be deadweight in his arms for a second. (Okay, more than a second.) And when my feet touched ground again, I held myself against him. I allowed my hips to suggest the slightest pressure against the crotch of his jeans. I told myself—that suddenly tiny part of myself that still clung to reason and social mores—that it was the alcohol, even though I'd only had one-and-and-half Mike's Hard Lemonades.
He tilted his head back and smiled, not releasing his grip on me. For the first time, I braved full eye contact. I searched his rich brown irises for some shade of explanation, but the only thing his gaze contained was joy. Joy, and just a tinge of mischief. And a passing resemblance to some movie star...that guy from Mad Men, maybe. His palms drifted down my back.
“This is a pretty involved...move,” I murmured, pressing my lips together as soon as the words were out. “You do this a lot? Bait a girl with ice cubes and then drag her to a roof?”