RICH BOY BRIT (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) Read online

  “You’re well prepared,” I commented.

  “You should always be well prepared,” he replied, sliding the condom onto his rock-hard cock. “You never know when you’ll meet a sexy as hell wolf, do you?”

  I opened my arms to him, gesturing him. I had never wanted so badly for a man to be inside of me. Losing my virginity, and the spattering of experiences after that, were nothing compared with this. I had never felt such heat, such intensity. My arms and legs, my hands, my feet, my breasts, my nipples, my clit and deep inside my pussy—all of it ached. All of it begged to be touched by the lion. He fell atop my, bracing his arms around either side of my head. I reached up and grabbed his muscles, feeling the curvature of them, how they bulged. He was built like a quarterback, tight and honed and muscular.

  The lion looked into my eyes. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  His cock slid into my pussy. It was so huge that all I felt for the first few minutes was a white-hot pain. He thrust into me slowly, opening my pussy, and then it got used to him and spread. It opened for his cock, and then the pain was replaced with pleasure, a deep pleasure that sent hot tendrils throughout my body. I gripped his arms harder, digging my fingernails in. “Fuck me hard,” I squeaked. “Fuck me hard.”

  The lion’s gaze turned to my breasts, his breath coming quick, his cock deep inside of me. And then he began to pound me. He forced his cock deep inside of me, pounding me hard, in and out, in and out so fast that I couldn’t distinguish any single movement. All I felt was burning. My pussy was on fire. That was how it felt, like everything below my waist was engulfed in flames. I never knew fucking could feel so damn good.

  I lifted my legs, pointed my toes, and bounced up and down no his huge cock. He fucked me hard. Sweat covered both of us, dripping from his muscular pecs onto my breasts, but I didn’t care. We were two animals, fucking madly. I moved my hands from his arms to his back, which was as muscled as the rest of him, and dragged my fingernails down his skin.

  “Yes,” he moaned. “Fuck, yes.”

  His voice was like a trigger. When I heard it, something fired inside of me. His cock pounded into my sweet spot, each thrust jolting heat through me. My pussy went super-tight around his cock, so tight that I could feel him forcing past the tightness to keep fucking me. I had never squirted before—I didn’t even know I could—but I did then. My head became heavy and I clamped my eyes shut and buried my face in his sweaty chest, pressing the wolf mask against his skin, and I squirted all over his huge, hard cock. He kept pounding me as I came, my screams muffled by the mask and his chest, and then he grabbed my throat, choking me.

  He released me for a short second. “Do you like it like that?” he breathed.

  I had never tried it like that, but the idea of the lion grabbing me, choking me, turned me on even more. “Yes,” I nodded. “Do it.”

  He grabbed my throat and I was utterly helpless. His cock moved fast, pounding me, and then I came again. I came hard, so hard that I didn’t even realize that he was coming, too, until afterward, until he rolled to the side and lay on his back.

  I leaned up in the bed, sober now, my limbs aching, panting like after a ten-mile run.

  “That was the best sex I’ve ever had,” the lion said matter-of-factly. It didn’t have the ingratiating, flattering tone that other men would use when saying something like that. He really meant it, I felt.

  “Me, too,” I said honestly.

  We said little else. When we dressed, we kept our masks on. Neither of us asked for the other’s name. I think we both knew that that would ruin it. This night had been something magical. Knowing who the lion was, knowing who the wolf was, would break the magic.

  Eli

  The morning after I met the wolf woman, with her perky breasts and her amazing figure, with her tight, hot pussy and her amazing ass which I could not get out of my head, I got a text from my mom saying she wanted to meet. I really could not get this woman out of my head. I’d booked the hotel room so I didn’t have to travel through the city at night when I was drunk, but I’d never imagined having amazing sex like that with a complete stranger. My nose was filled with the scent of her perfume, which was a curious and beautiful mixture of fresh-cut grass and rain.

  Before meeting Mom, I checked out of the hotel and rode the bus to my apartment in the center of the city. I was a second-year at Bristol University (I had left the halls and the animal-like living behind, mostly) and now rented a one-bedroom slap-bang in the middle of Bristol. I showered and changed, my lion mask atop my wardrobe in case I needed it again. Breakfast was a quick bowl of cereal and a huge mug of coffee to fight away the mild hangover.

  I never learned her name. That was what got me the most. I had spent a night with this woman without ever learning her name. It was horrible. I needed to know her name. I needed to know her. She was easily the best sex I’d ever had. When I’d told her that, I’d meant it. I was usually pretty calm, pretty laid back. I didn’t go crazy with anxiety when I had to give presentations at university, like some of my classmates did, and I wasn’t squeamish about talking to women. But when I thought of the wolf woman, I felt like a boy at a school disco. My palms became sweaty and I found myself staring at the floor.

  I rode the bus to the café, climbed off, and waited just outside. It was a Saturday morning, and Bristol was alive. Students were everywhere, gamers with baggy t-shirts and long shorts, glamorous women with expensive handbags, determined students with glasses and tons of books cradled precariously in their arms, and then the non-students, the single mothers pushing prams and the men in suits with sausage rolls from the bakery in one hand and their smart phones in the other. The street where Mom wanted to meet me was one of the quieter ones, but I could see through the glass that the place was still half full. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. But her body, the way she moaned, the way we had just done it . . .

  I shook my head, as though something as simple as that could shake the thoughts of this woman away. “Yeah right,” I muttered, heart still pounding with the thought of her, palms sweatier than if I’d just spent two hours at the gym. Mom didn’t seem to notice, however—Annabelle Finch was wearing a colorful dress that made her look like an aging hippie (in a good way). Her hair was long and flowing and only tinged with slight bits of gray here and there. She rose to her feet with her long dress flowing around her like an aura.

  “Eli,” she smiled. “You made it!”

  “Yeah, Mom, I made it,” I said.

  I loved Mom, of course I loved her, but she did lean toward the melodramatic at times. Take right now, for instance. Her face did not only light up at the sight of me. It was like a supernova exploded behind her eyes. Light bloomed from the sockets and exploded out of her. She seemed like the happiest person in the world. One of my roommates in first year had jokingly asked: “Your mom is on drugs or something, right? I’ve never seen someone so happy.” I’d told him that she wasn’t, but I understood why he thought she might be.

  She threw her arms around me in a huge embrace and kissed both my cheeks. I wiped them and made an urghhhhhh sound, which made her laugh, as it always did. When we sat down, I was a bit calmer. My heart was still beating quickly, but I was able to relegate it to the background. The setting was not appropriate for the kind of thoughts I was having. I pushed myself into the room, into the moment. But always, in the backgrounds, a constant stream of thoughts ran through my mind:

  I didn’t get her name. She was so damn sexy. I wish I could see her again. Who was she? She could be anybody. Maybe that’s why it’s so hot. Why, why didn’t I get her name?

  “You seem distracted,” Mom said. “Is something wrong?” She tilted her head in that you-can-tell-me pose.

  “The party finished late,” I said. “That’s all.”

  “So nothing’s wrong?”

  “Nope,” I lied. Except that I met the sexiest, horniest, dirtiest woman in the world last night and had the best
sex I’ve ever had and I don’t know who she is! But that’s not the sort of thing you tell your mother, is it?

  “Goodie!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. People from the adjacent tables turned their heads. Scenes from childhood filled my mind, of my mom being way too loud in public places. It had embarrassed me when I was younger, especially in my early teenage years, but I had gotten used to it now. I didn’t shrink in my chair, as I would have back then. “Because I have some news!” she went on, in the same chirpy tones.

  “Oh, yeah? What news?”

  “I’m seeing somebody!” she laughed, flashing her teeth. “His name is Andrew, Andrew Wright. He lives in America, but he’s down here for some business thingy—I don’t know exactly. I’m not exactly the business type, you know.”

  She looked at me expectantly. She often looked at me—at everyone—like that, with an expression that waited for laughter. And then you felt that you had no choice but to laugh, because she was looking at you so seriously. I laughed the fake laugh I’d perfected throughout childhood. She nodded, apparently pleased, and launched forth into her description of the man. Even if she was annoying, and she was, a little, seeing her so animated, so alive, was infectious. I found myself smiling with her.

  Andrew was a businessman, but he liked art. They had met at Mom’s art show last year, when he’d been in Bristol for another ‘business thingy’ and had kept in touch via web chat since then. Now he was in Bristol for the whole summer: he and his daughter. “I want you to meet them,” Mom said, her eyes bright with excitement. I smiled back. I couldn’t help but smile back. “Please, please, say you will!”

  “When is it?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight!” I hadn’t any particular plans. I was just surprised by how short she’d left it. But I shouldn’t have been, I thought after my initial shock. Mom didn’t just look like a hippie. She was pretty hippie-ish in her outlook on life, too. I nodded. “Of course I will,” I said.

  I couldn’t say no to her when she was this ecstatic. It would be like shooing a yapping puppy away. But I would have said no in a heartbeat if the woman from last night had somehow found me, if she had somehow gotten my phone number and texted me. Yep, in a heartbeat.

  That woman . . . in my mind she was like a never-ending explosion of fireworks. Every time I thought of her I got hot.

  And I didn’t get her goddamn name!

  Jessica

  For the first few moments after waking, I was sure it had all been some mad dream. It didn’t feel real in the slightest as I sat up in bed, my eyes crusty with sleep, my head pounding slightly with wine, my body aching, my pussy sore, the sounds of cars and people filtering into my hotel room. No way, I thought. No way did last night actually happen. But the wolf mask looked up at me from the floor, with eyes that were a little judgmental, telling me that it really had happened. I, Jessica Wright, was in England, and had gone to a masquerade party, and had fucked some guy whose name I didn’t even know.

  Nervous, mouse-like Jessica, who was still struggling to speak up in English class and still had to try hard to make eye contact with the lecturer, had fucked a guy I didn’t know. I could repeat it to myself a hundred times and it still wouldn’t seem real. It was too mad, too unlike something I would do. I truly couldn’t—

  My train of thought was interrupted by my phone. I hopped up from bed, my arms and legs yelling at me to give them a rest, and found the phone on the table in the corner. I swiped to answer and set it to speaker. “Dad,” I said.

  “Jess,” Dad said. He had lived in Texas for twenty-five years, before I was born, but still had his British accent. “How was the party?”

  “Great,” I said, cringing at how small the word was compared with what had happened. Great did not include the life-changing thing I had done. Great did not encapsulate the kaleidoscopic range of emotions that were currently causing my feet to tap wildly like my legs wanted to dance but my feet had forgotten how. My hands were opening and closing, too, over and over. My heartbeat seemed to move through my body like something manic. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying desperately to bring myself back to this room. I’m not with him anymore, I had to remind myself. I’m here, not with him. Not in that other hotel room with a muscled, tattooed lion leaning over me.

  “Jess?”

  “Yeah,” I said quickly. How long had I gone without saying anything, wrapped up in the night, in the unutterable pleasure of it all? I had no idea. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Oh, okay, good,” Dad said. “Can we meet for breakfast? I have something to tell you.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. In my current state (dangerously closed to a panic attack, I was sure) surprises were the last thing I wanted. “Is it good news?” I asked, trying to keep the pathetic hope from my voice. A mad thought entered my mind. Dad knew. He knew what I had done and he was going to tell me off like I was a kid again and he had caught me shoplifting. My fingernails bit onto my palms. And then I remembered the way they had bit into the lion’s back—“No, I won’t think of that,” I murmured.

  “Pardon? I didn’t catch that.”

  I cleared my throat. “Good news, I hope?”

  There was a pause. Did Dad know how many horrible scenarios I imagined in that pause? How many impossible, ridiculous scenarios? I saw him leaning over me, calling me brutal names he would never call me in real life. But that’s anxiety for you. It amplified even the most innocent situations into something massive and foreboding. And what I had done was far from innocent. With the wolf mask gone, I was just Jess again, and I had to face it.

  “Yes,” Dad said, finally. His voice was chirpier than I had heard it in a long time. “Yes, it’s definitely good news. Shall we meet downstairs in half an hour?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said quickly. I wanted him off the phone. I felt sick, and not just from the wine. The horrible part was that I knew I was overreacting. But anxiety didn’t give a whit about knowledge. It was only interesting in how you felt. “I’ll see you then.”

  Without waiting for him to reply, I hung up the phone and ran to the bathroom. I leaned over the bowl for around five minutes, but nothing would come out.

  Jessica

  I left my hotel room feeling weaker than I had in a long time. College days caused some morning weakness, that was for sure (waking at five am with the urge to vomit, covered in sweat, hazy images of the drunken night before swimming through your heavy head, mouth so dry your tongue sticks to your mouth), but this was something else. This was the lion. I couldn’t get rid of him. He clung to my mind. I tried to shake him away—to shake what we did away—but he came back stronger. His muscles were huge and honed and hard in my mind. His cock was even bigger. His hands were skillful. His breath was fire-hot.

  I walked down the hallway like an automaton, so focused on my own thoughts that the outside world barely seemed real. It was impossible, for me, to associate this timid woman walking down the hallway and the mad wolf from the night before. This woman was quiet, shy, scared of everything. The wolf was daring and did things that I would never do.

  It was a trick of the light, of course it was, but when the elevator opened and the mirrored wall came into view, for a brief flicker of a moment I thought I saw the lion, standing behind me in the hallway. Then I blinked my tired eyes and he was gone. I started slightly, taking a step back, but there was an old couple in the elevator, eyebrows raised, waiting impatiently.

  I kept my eyes down as I made my way to the restaurant. Dad was sitting at a table near the window that overlooked Bristol Bay. “It used to be a slave city,” he’d told me, smiling widely. “And tobacco, and—well, everything. Fourth largest city in the Elizabethan era.” Dad, with his farmer accent (which was similar to the Bristol accent) was so proud of knowing its history because he had grown up near here as a boy. Just fifty or so miles to the west, in a town called Weston-Super-Mare which I had never been to. For some reason that came to me when I greeted hi
m that morning. Maybe I was trying to distract myself.

  He stood up, his chair making a low screeching noise on the linoleum floor, and walked around the table. His shoes, shining as usual, clopped toward me. “Jess!” he smiled, and threw his arms around me.

  “Dad,” I said.

  Nobody looking at us then, I thought, would have judged us to be father and daughter. Here was this tall English man with a farmer’s accent in a pristine suit, balding slightly on top, hair stuck down to his head, a few grays here and there, a few lines here and there, booming across the restaurant so that people turned in surprise. And here was this young Texan woman, short, blonde, and timid. Yes, timid. I could tell I was not the wolf today by the way I flinched, their eyes like burning coals, their sneers like gargoyle’s grins, peering at him like some twisted faces from a horror novel, when the people from the nearby tables turned to look at us at Dad’s loudness. I rushed him to the table. I couldn’t stand the angry stares of the Brits any longer. That was one thing I had observed in my travels. Brits hated public noise like that.

  He ordered a full English breakfast. I ordered toast and some orange juice. “Best sausages in town, here,” Dad said. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

  “I’m sure.” I smiled. Maybe I was being too miserable. Maybe he would sense something. The idea made me clench my knees under the table. It was completely irrational, but I suppose it was that kind of morning. “I’m still a little hung over.”

  Dad laughed and nodded. “Okay-dokey.”

  He talked for a while about his job. Maybe it sounds bad, but I often tune out when Dad talks about his job. He works with numbers, manipulating numbers for big corporations so that they can analyze statistics (or something like that). Truth be told, I have never been exactly sure what he does, only that he gets paid extremely well for it and it was a good decision for him to start up his own firm. My mind, which was used to delving into Hardy and Scott Fitzgerald and Shelley and Bronte, was not built for business; few English literature students’ minds were, I found.