Prince Albert(117)

Delaney never texted me back; I guess she was too busy with whoever she's dating. Well, screw that. And screw her.

Stripping off my clothes, I drop them in a pile on the floor, turning on the shower before I wander back into the bedroom. I open the bureau drawer to grab new clothes before I head up to the house for dinner and – the drawer is filled with condoms, not clothes. What the fuck? One by one, I yank open the rest of the drawers, and it's all the same. Condoms, condoms, and more condoms, a rainbow of every color imaginable.

When I pull open the closet, a wave of condoms pours out on me. A piece of paper flutters to the floor, and I pick it up.



Wrap Your Tool



Maybe Delaney Marlowe does still have a sense of humor after all.

I find myself whistling as I remove my boot and take a shower. I'm even whistling as I dig through my suitcase for clothes because I don't know where the fuck my clothes are now. Delaney could have burned the lot of everything, for all I know. I don't know what kind of nutjob you'd have to be to do something like that, but I wouldn't put it past her.

I pull out my phone and send Delaney a text.



Got your present. I assume you'd like to use all of them? It's a tall order, but I think I can rise to the occasion.



I'm flipping through the channels on the television when she texts me back.



With the way you go through girls, I think you'll do just fine without any help from me.



With the way I go through girls. Shit, a couple months ago and I'd have gotten some use out of Delaney's little prank. Now, though…

I thumb absently through the contact list on my phone. There are a few chicks in my list, booty calls who've proven they can show up at 3 a.m. and leave the next day without being total psychos. I should be banging my way through this list. It's the only way to get Delaney out of my head.

I just don't know why that idea seems so fucking boring. Or why the prospect of screwing with my stepsister is so much more appealing.



* * *



When Delaney comes home from work to see me sitting in the leather armchair in her room, my feet propped up on the ottoman, reading a novel, a smile crosses her lips, but she quickly hides it. "What are you doing in my room?" Delaney asks. "Haven't you ever heard of privacy?"

"Well, that's not hypocritical of you at all, Delaney Marlowe."

"I didn't linger after leaving the condoms," she says. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough," I say, my gaze trailing down the length of her body. Delaney has a way of making even the most conservative outfit look sexual. She's not wearing those fuck-me boots this time, but the heels she has on make her legs look positively indecent. They're an inch too high to be appropriate office attire, putting them squarely in the category of being hot-as-fuck. Now all I can think about is her wearing nothing but those shoes.

"Long enough to what?" Delaney asks, exasperated. "What are you staring at?"

"Your shoes," I say.

She looks down at her feet, her hair falling forward, the way it did in my dream when she was on her knees. I have to shift uncomfortably in my seat at the thought of Delaney on her knees between my legs. "What's wrong with them?"

"Nothing," I say. "Everything's right with them. The heels would make perfect handles."

She scrunches up her forehead, wrinkling her nose at the same time, like she's smelling something funny. I don't think she knows she does it, but it's the same thing she used to do when we were teenagers. It's cute. She kicks her foot up and looks at her heel, then back at me. "What are you talking about, handles?"

Is she playing coy, or does she literally not know what I'm getting at? "They'd make great handles, if your feet were above your head," I repeat. "Would you like a demonstration?"

I stand up and cross the room, even though she waves me down.

"Thanks for that lovely image," she says. Her face is flushed red.

"You're blushing."

"Because you're vulgar," she says.

"Keep wearing shoes like that, and don't expect me to be civilized." I'm standing so close to her that when I breathe in, I can smell the scent of her shampoo again, cookie-flavored something or other that makes me hungry.

"I don't think you can be civilized," she says. "I'm not sure you have the capacity."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"I didn't mean it as one."

"I don't know," I say. "I think you like the fact that I'm vulgar."

"I think you're deluded."

"You're the one who filled my drawers with condoms," I point out. "It doesn't take Freud to figure out the meaning behind that."

Her eyes open wider. "You gave me a model of your…"