His Plaything(11)

“Two willing participants? You might want to count again. Use your fingers if it helps.”

An evil smirk pulled at his mouth as he shook his head slowly. “Come on. Don't think I didn't see you staring at my dick earlier.”

Every cell in my brain screeched to a halt. I opened my mouth to deny it, to call him a stupid pervert or retort with a witty comeback or anything. But not a single word came out.

“You made sure to get a good, long eyeful before you scampered off. Now, why would a healthy young woman do that?” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Hm? Could it be that even you have physical needs?”

I finally choked out, “Y-you don’t need to talk about me and needs in the same sentence.”

“Hey, you don’t have to get defensive.” Ignoring my splutters completely, he went on, “This doesn't have to be a big deal. It's just sex.” He turned toward me, his eyes smoldering, and I felt myself heat up again. “No strings. Whenever we want.”

I had lapsed back into speechlessness. He set his beer on the coffee table and relaxed into the couch. “The way I see it, this would be a win-win. I've been with enough women to know what the hell I’m doing.” His hand slid up to the top of his thigh. I swallowed, unable to look away from his zipper. Was that just a fold of denim, or was it a growing bulge? “I can make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

“S-stop it,” I mumbled. I didn't want to hear more. Or rather, I desperately wanted to hear more—but I didn't want to want it.

He waved his hand almost lazily. “Well, anyway, my point is: We can both work off some tension. And you can have your damn nookie-free zone.” He grabbed his bottle again and took another sip of beer. “The offer's on the table. That's all I'm gonna say. When you decide, you know where I'll be.”

Yeah, I did. I knew exactly where he would be—never more than a few short yards away, never letting me forget the images he'd put into my mind. Parading his gorgeous body in front of me. Undressing me with his eyes. Even now, I could smell his fresh, masculine soap. It was different from his earlier musk, but still intoxicating. How could I concentrate on anything when I could feel his presence in the air itself, like a living promise of sex? How was I going to go about my normal life with Nixon permanently at the edge of my awareness?

More importantly, why hadn't I told him to go to hell yet? I should have already been down the hall by now, screaming and slamming my bedroom door. My brain must have gone on vacation. That was the only explanation for why I was still sitting here, listening to Nixon's crazy proposal with eyes wide and jaw dropped. Sure, we had made an unexpected connection over dinner earlier, but all the little heart-to-heart moments in the world couldn't make this idea okay.

“Y-you're basically my stepbrother,” I managed to spit out at last. “Wouldn't that be fucked up?”

He shrugged. “If we're related, it's only on the slimmest possible technicality. So … no, not really.”

“Yes, really!” I was getting frustrated. How could he still not understand me? It was like we were both looking at the same paint chip and seeing two different colors. “Cynthia is my stepmother, so when she married Russ, he became my stepfather. Do the math.”

“What about Emma and Ford? Nobody cares that they're together.”

“I, uh… ” Honestly, I hadn't given their situation all that much thought. I'd just accepted it as the way things were. But it was true that, on paper, they were much more closely related than me and Nixon…

I shook my head. That train of thought was dangerous; I needed to get this conversation back on track. “This is about us, not them,” I insisted. “It doesn't matter what you think. I consider you my stepbrother, so that's all there is to it.” Maybe if I said that enough times, he would start to believe it—and the responsible part of my brain would wake up and chase away all these filthy thoughts.

“Hm. Fair enough. Still, though, it's not like we'd be breaking any laws.” I didn't answer, and Nixon rubbed his stubbled chin, quiet for a moment. Then he abruptly asked, “How many men have you been with?”

What the fuck? Outrage ripped through me, leaving me gaping and blinking at him like a fish out of water. Where did he get off asking something like that? How dare he! But when I drew a breath to yell none of your goddamned business, what came out was, “One.”

A slow, lazy, downright sinful smile curled up his lips. He looked like a cat that had just spotted a bird with a broken wing. Like he had me right where he wanted—and he'd toy with me at his leisure. “Really?” he purred. “In that case … I can show you things you've only dreamed of.” His voice lowered to a near-groan. “You'd be so fucking tight around my cock, Avery. I'd probably have to work you open with my fingers first, until you were soaked and shaking and desperate for me. Then I'd slide in nice and slow, letting you feel every inch, before I got rough… You wouldn't know what hit you.”