Free Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance by Callie Harper Page A

small. How many
bedrooms did this place have? My father loved ostentatious displays
of wealth. Now that he had his third trophy wife, he’d really gone
for it. You’d think with almost 10,000 square feet we wouldn’t
see each other that often. You’d be wrong.
    Seemed like every time
I walked into the kitchen she was there, her glasses sliding down her
nose, her knee tucked up as she read some book. I wondered how many
men she’d been with. Probably not that many, but a girl that
fucking hot couldn’t have flown completely under the radar. Some
chess-playing geek had probably hit the fucking jackpot one night
after a long study session. For some reason the thought made me want
to hunt him down and rip out his heart while it was still beating.
Must be the protective brother instinct in me. Yeah, right.
    I had an exhibition
fight in four days. I needed to focus. And maybe I’d ask her to
come see me fight?
    §
    Thursday morning, 6
a.m., I got up to go for a run. In the hallway, I paused for a moment
outside of her door. Usually she got up at the same time I did. Five
days now sharing this house and we’d settled into something of a
routine. The walls weren’t exactly thin, but I was aware of her
movements. Too aware. I could hear her alarm when she woke up, her
soft footfalls down the hallway to the bathroom. Just keep on
walking, I’d think, just one more door to my room.
    She never did, of
course. After a few minutes she’d head back to her room and I’d
get up and brush my teeth, then dress for my run. I’d see her when
I got back. Except for yesterday when she’d nearly killed me doing
yoga, I’d typically see her sitting curled in a patch of sunlight
in the kitchen. She liked sitting over by the sliding glass doors,
and she liked tea instead of coffee. She ate plain Greek yogurt and
as a high-protein, low-sugar person myself I had to respect the
choice.
    We were like an old
married couple, right down to the fact that we didn’t speak to each
other. She mostly ignored me.
    But sometimes she’d
look up with a shy glance. Other times I’d catch her checking me
out. I knew I was a fine specimen. I didn’t even feel cocky
acknowledging it, it was just fact. When girls threw themselves at
you 24/7 you pretty much got the message—they liked what they saw.
Plus now I was honing my body into a machine, ruthlessly taking it to
the extreme limit, all hard muscle, not an ounce of fat. I knew she
wanted to take a look.
    I couldn’t help
letting her know that I knew. I’d give her a wink, flex a bicep for
her. How could I not when it made her pink right up? I couldn’t
touch her, she was my fucking stepsister. But I couldn’t resist
provoking a response, seeing the blush steal across her cheeks,
knowing she felt flustered and agitated because of me.
    Fucked up? Sure. I
never said I wasn’t fucked up. At least I’d managed to keep my
hands off of her. Except for the first time we met. And that time in
New York. Last night lying in bed, unable to sleep, I’d thought
about that night. We’d been in a hot tub, together in the steam
surrounded by the city. That night had given me something to think
about while I’d lain in bed, hand around my thick cock, stroking,
pumping, imagining it was her hand on me.
    I stood there outside
her door but I couldn’t hear a thing. Maybe she’d left early
while I was still asleep? Or maybe her alarm hadn’t gone off? Jewel
was wound so tight, if she ever overslept she’d probably never
forgive herself. The girl had more discipline than most of the pro
fighters at the club, and that was saying something.
    I could imagine
knocking. She’d open the door, her hair messy from sleep, rubbing
her eyes and yawning, her tits thrust against some little sleep shirt
as she stretched. She’d blink those big, green eyes at me and I
could see myself taking a step inside, running my hands along those
curves, crushing her against me before she even fully woke up. I
could take advantage of