Vulture (a Stepbrother Romance) -(2)

She ignored me and kept sucking. I was about to pull out, ready to spray her face, when her hands kneaded into my firm ass and pulled me in deeper.

“Harvey Guyer! I knew I’d bloody find you in here!”

“Fuck,” I groaned drawing out the word as I came, my toes curling within the tight confinement of my dress shoes.

Sadie’s heels clicked across the polished floor as I pumped my load in the waitress’s wanting mouth, my cock spurting as I clenched my eyes shut.

After a moment of seeing sparks, my focused readjusted. Sadie stood with her hands upon her hips in front of me and the kneeling girl, who still had my dick in her mouth.

“Jesus Christ, Harvey. You couldn’t have taken her up to a room? It’s not like you don’t run the fucking hotel!”

Oh, right. Did I not mention that technically the waitress was also my employee?

I shrugged and tucked myself back in. The girl clasped an arm across her chest and wiped a mix of saliva and cum from her mouth.

“Who are you?” the waitress asked Sadie. Her eyes glared at the tall and incredibly hot woman who’d disturbed our little impromptu fuck session. It was funny watching the girl, her jealous hackles raised, as if she had claim over me just because I happened to stick my dick in her mouth.

“Oh, honey, don’t even think about taking that tone with me,” Sadie replied. She grabbed a paper towel, wet it and handed it to the woman still on her knees. “Get up, and here,” she sighed giving me a look that could kill—I’d pay for this later, I thought. “Take this.” Sadie slipped off her sequined blazer and handed it to the bare-chested creature who had managed to regain some semblance of dignity once she’d made it back onto her feet.

I moved to the basin and washed my hands. I watched in the mirror’s reflection as Sadie pulled out a wad of notes and handed them to frowning girl. Hush money. She tried to catch my eye, but Sadie sidestepped her, blocking her view, and made sure she had the girl’s full attention. I probably should’ve been polite and gotten her name, but by tomorrow it wouldn’t matter anyway. She’d be forgotten. She’d be fired.









“Did I ever tell you that you have spectacularly crappy timing?” I said as I dried my hands.

The girl was gone. It was a good job, too; I don’t think I could’ve stood looking at her pouty face for very much longer. Her features had crumpled, blood draining from her face, as Sadie firmly told her to get lost. The majority of her mascara had melted away, giving her the look of a very pathetic clown on an old fashioned black and white TV set.

“You should be happy I found you when I did. She was a nipple twist away from becoming your indentured sex slave.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Yeah, right, I forgot you love getting sued for sexual harassment in the workplace. Mind, she did have nice tits though,” Sadie said, grinning.

I shrugged. “They were OK, a little small. What did you want anyway? I know you’re not exactly into voyeurism, so…” We’d made our way out of the bathroom and were walking down the plush corridor towards the main ballroom when Sadie placed a hand lightly upon my arm.

“I would’ve told you sooner, but I’ve only just picked up your voicemails. It’s your stepsister, Sara. You’re needed at the hospital.”





2





Sara





Propping an arm on the windowsill, my knees tucked under me on the cushioned alcove, I indulged in the bright sunlight that streamed through the window. As I inclined my head to the side, letting a warm glow bathe my cheek, I lazily watched as early commuters passed by the kitchen window.

It was a perfect day.

Every day was a perfect day, on the outside at least.

Yet on the inside, I was always the same, numb and bored.

Perhaps today nothing would go wrong, a fresh start?

Why had I been so stupid to even think that? My mother always preached that you should never tempt the fates… but then my mother said a lot of things that I never really paid attention to.

Maybe I should’ve heeded her warnings. Listened to her more.

It’s too late now.

Turning my head around, my gaze lingered upon the mahogany table that took up the majority of space in the small but quaint kitchen and listened to the hurried shuffle above. A white lace tablecloth covered the table’s surface—one of my many attempts to showcase that I was the perfect little housewife—but underneath, myriad imperfections scarred the wood grain.

Reluctantly I rose and collected our breakfast bowls from the table. I’d rinse and wash them before the bits of cereal, those left at the bottom of the bowl, dried like cement and would need chiselling off.