walked into my hospital.”
His hospital. Goody two-shoes. Anger flared in my chest and I inhaled it,
welcomed it, used it to clear my vision and see my stepbrother for what he
really was. He was an arrogant prick. He always had been, and he always would
But was that all Slade was? Didn’t I
have fond, vivid memories of all the other things he could be? His tender
caresses. The heat of his mouth when it found my throat. The way he used to
steal kisses on my cheeks and forehead in the halls. Those were the memories
that gave me pause, that made me believe that Slade Jarvis wasn’t just my
dickhead stepbrother. I wanted to believe, so desperately, that what he’d once
felt for me was real, even if at the end, it had been tainted by anger at his
If I was being honest with myself,
that was what made Slade so hot—that cockiness. It was what made him
successful. And I tolerated it because I knew it was just the tip of the
iceberg. It made my panties wet, but what had always kept me coming back to his
bed was everything else I knew about him.
I’d seen straight through his
shit-eating grin and Devil-may-care attitude when I was eighteen. Seven years
later, I could see through it again. Because when push came to shove—when there
was something really, actually important on the line—Slade dropped the act.
Just like a few minutes ago, when he’d looked into my eyes with all that worry,
all that concern, and told me he didn’t mean to hurt me, that he was sorry,
that he would have stopped if I’d asked him to. That was the real Slade Jarvis.
That was the guy I’d fallen in love with.
Could I do that again?
“Don’t,” I breathed, the conflict in
my mind raging on beneath a veil of desire. I shook my head at Slade. “We
“We can,” he answered, the words
thick like sweet molasses in his mouth. “We’ve done it before.”
My eyelashes fluttered without my
consent. “And look where that got us.”
Slade pressed into me, his erection
strong against my taut lower tummy, and I gasped. I had never quite gotten over
his cock—its fullness, its length, the heavy scent of it. Suddenly I was
thinking about the way I’d wake him up with secret blow jobs or how he’d drive
it into me when it rained, my screams rivaling the claps of thunder outside our
home. He drove me to madness with that cock once, and he could do it again. I
was sure of it.
My breasts hitched beneath my robe
and Slade pulled it away, revealing my pebbled nipples peeking through the thin
fabric of my cami. He said, “You always left my bed satisfied, Iris. And the
couch. And the table. And anywhere else I fucked that sweet pussy.” With a
barely-there touch, he dropped his hand to the silk belt shielding my lower
body from his view and tugged. I should have stopped him. I should have
wrenched away and fled to my room. But the truth was that I was aching to know
how his fingers would feel between my legs, how the sweep of his thumb on my
pussy lips would give me goosebumps.
I was aching to give myself to Slade,
the man who satisfied me in a way only he could. The man who knew the deepest,
most sinful parts of me. The man who’d spoiled me with his divine cock.
My robe fell open and Slade’s lustful
gaze dipped to the creamy tops of my thighs, then higher up to my lacy boy
shorts. He smirked and touched a single finger to my pussy through the fabric
and came away wet.
“This for me?” he asked.
I nodded wordlessly. My skin was on
fire, begging for his touch. Another heavy throb resounded through my body as
Slade touched me there again, teasing along the patterns woven into my panties.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say who
you’re so wet for.”
“Slade,” I gasped as a last-ditch
rebuke, but just a little more pressure from his finger and he’d found my clit.
I arched so hard my head hit the wall and Slade chuckled, tapping
Charlotte MacLeod, Alisa Craig