His Plaything(17)

At least there were advantages to living like a hermit. By Thursday, I'd already finished all my reading for the next two weeks. I decided to give myself the night off. With everything I'd been through lately, I deserved a little treat.

After dinner, I went home for a quick shower and curled up in bed, still wearing my fluffy robe. I propped myself up on some pillows and pulled out my e-reader. My favorite author had released her latest steamy romance novel almost a month ago, but what with my life turning itself inside-out, I still hadn't read very far yet. But luck was with me tonight. It looked like the story was finally getting juicy:

There was no scandal in tending to a wounded warrior, Jayla tried to tell herself. She had purchased Garrett's skill as a mercenary to win back her father's throne. It was only fair that she clean the injuries sustained in her service. Her royal sense of duty would stand for nothing less. But her fingers trembled on his body, glistening with sweat in the campfire's light.

Ooh … I could almost picture Garrett's lean, taut muscles. Or was he more buff, like Nixon? The sexy mercenary had been introduced way back at the beginning and I'd long since forgotten exactly what he looked like. Definitely battle-scarred, though. Did Nixon have any scars? I hadn't seen any, but maybe I'd been too busy staring at his cock to notice. I forced my attention back to the story. Damn, I'd skipped over a couple paragraphs without even noticing.

She couldn't deny what she felt for Garrett—or fail to notice the way he looked at her. It would be so easy to let him take what they both wanted. But she had promised to marry Duke Wagnaf in exchange for his aid. When she was once more the princess of Orvany, he would become her prince.

That day was so very far away, though. And right now, Garrett was so very close.

She leaned into his touch, her boldness surprising them both. Garrett wasted no time laying her down by the fire. Their lips met in the first wild kiss of many. His hand slipped under her skirts and she gasped at his deft torment. “Please,” she begged, “I'm more than ready.”

My breath coming a little faster, I let one hand wander, sliding into my robe in imitation of Garrett's touch. The other hand kept scrolling:

Jayla moaned as he filled her. His sure, swift thrusts struck deep into her center. It felt so good to finally close the gap between them—a pleasure so intense, she could barely draw a breath to cry out. But cry out she did. Before she knew it, she was coming undone around him.

“I'm not finished with you yet, milady,” he breathed into her ear. Her blood stirred again at the promise in his husky voice. If only for one night, she would surrender herself to passion.

Soon I lost all track of time, absorbed in the characters' forbidden lust and my own need for relief. Slowly but surely, my mental image of Garrett morphed into Nixon—his dark hair and piercing blue eyes and sculpted body. By the time I realized it, I was too far gone to care.





Chapter 9

Nixon



It had seemed at first like I couldn't freaking get rid of Avery. But after breakfast on Saturday, I turned around while washing dishes to see a suddenly empty chair. And she stayed AWOL for almost an entire week. I could count the number of times I'd seen her on one hand—one very tired hand, thanks to her no-nookie rule—which for some unknown reason I was actually following. What the fuck was going on with that woman? Did studying the history of lipstick, or whatever the hell her classes were about, really keep her this busy? Was she cooking meth in her bedroom? Or was this little disappearing act just some passive-aggressive female bullshit? My curiosity was killing me.

Finally, on Thursday night, I came home from goofing around with Fox and Logan to find her bedroom door shut. She never did that unless she was hiding in there. I stowed my sandy shoes in the boot tray and walked closer to her door. I could hear noises coming from inside; they were very quiet, but she was definitely home. If I wanted to confront her about why she'd been avoiding me, it was now or never.

“You alive?” I called. When no answer came, I frowned. No way she can't hear me. I started to open the door. “C'mon, Avery, we need to talk abou—”

The words caught in my throat. I stood there like an idiot, still holding the doorknob, unable to believe what I was seeing.

My stepsister was sprawled over the bed, her creamy thighs spread wide—and her hand buried between them. Raw lust jolted through me and my cock throbbed to instant, painful hardness. She looked like a Playboy centerfold ripped straight from my wet dreams. Eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, cheeks stained pink. Her robe had fallen open to reveal her stiff nipples and slick pussy lips. She worked herself almost frantically, two glistening fingers plunging deep inside while she rubbed her clit with the heel of her hand. The sound of her finger fucking herself harmonized with her whimpers of desperation. She hadn't been crying out in bliss, I realized through my fog of arousal. She was frustrated and unfulfilled. Struggling after relief that was always just out of reach. Had she been just as horny as me this whole time?