Crude: A Stepbrother Romance (51 page)

“Where?” I growl, rolling my thumb over and around her clit in lazy, teasing circles.
 

“Inside me! I want your cock in my pussy!”

I groan, feeling my dick throbbing almost painfully against my zipper, but I’m not ready to give in and give her what she wants; not
quite
yet; “The other day, when I walked in on you in the shower,” Her face reddens and I can
feel
her get wetter; “You were thinking about me, weren’t you.”

She whimpers, but she shuts her eyes tight and shakes her head side to side.

“
Reagan-
”
 

I curl a finger up against her opening and began to tease it inside, and she caves with a shuddering moan; “Yes!
Oh God
, yes! I was!”

I reach back and slam the button again, and the elevator immediately begins to rise again; “And what were you doing, Reagan?” I husk into her ear, feeling her hands clutching at my shoulders and my biceps as I push her back against the glass elevator wall with her skirt around her waist and my hand in her panties. One of her legs wraps around my waist, and she pulls me tight against her. She shakes her head and she whimpers into my shoulder as I slowly tease her, my fingers curling through her wetness and making her rock against my hand.

“
Tell me
,” I command, and she moans loudly; “
Fuck!
I was playing with myself! I was playing with my pussy!”

The elevator door dings behind us as the doors open into my Penthouse, and she shrieks as I whirl her bodily around and throw us both to the floor inside. We’re on the ground, ripping at clothes and moaning into each other’s mouths;
needing
each other like something primal and animalistic. I literally tear her skirt in two up the seam as I rip it off of her, not stopping until I’ve popped every button on the side of it as she yanks my pants down. And then I’m rolling a condom on and I’m inside her, and it’s like pouring gasoline on the fire.

Holy fuck.

Cute, innocent little Reagan - smiling, friendly, baby kissing, hand-shaking girl next door Reagan Archer does
not
want it gentle, and we are
not
making love there on the floor of my penthouse. We fuck like animals; her legs wrapped tight around my waist as she claws at my back hard enough to draw blood. She gasps as I pull her head back by her hair, and I suck and bite at her neck hard enough to make sure her stylist will have a fucking heart attack the next day. She moves onto her knees, looking at me with pure lust over her shoulder as she reaches back to scratch my chest or grab my thigh, urging me on harder and faster, until I see white light and can’t even hold out any longer. She screams out her release, and as my mind goes numb, I forget anything and everything about the world and life as I come inside of her.

We’re panting and sweaty on the floor, as she lazily raises her head from my chest and looks at me with a grin; “Now what?”

“Now what;
what?
”

She giggles, and the sound is fucking magical; “Now that you’ve got me here to your lair and torn all my clothes to shreds?”

I reach down and grab her ass, feeling my cock stirring already; “I guess we’ll just have to stay here then, so I can keep you naked.”

P R E S E N T

After that first night at his penthouse, it’s like we’ve hit the reset button on the whole thing; whatever this
thing
is that Hudson and I have. But for the first time in probably ever, I don’t give one flying crap about labeling anything, or compartmentalizing it, or making it fit a certain parameter I’ve set for it.

With him, I just
let go
.

And things are just
better
with him around, and I don’t just mean the sex, though that’s of course mind blowing. It’s
everything
. Over the next two weeks, I just start to
surge
ahead in the polls, and I know it’s got everything to do with him and the way he makes me feel. Every speech I give, he’s there to the side, nodding silently; his eyes flashing at me and encouraging me. He’s helping me run speeches, late at night while I’m tucked against him without a stitch of clothing on, and for some reason the scripts I’ve run through once or twice with Hudson’s half-erect cock pressed against my back somehow just come out even
better
when I deliver them. Really, he’s giving me his undivided support, even if he really can’t give it in public.

Which brings me back to the sex.
Out
of the public, it’s something else altogether. We’re sneaking around like fucking teenagers, screwing every chance we get and every wild place I let him drag me; like really
every
place. It’s like I can’t resist him, or I can’t say no when he looks at me the way he does. He takes me on the hood of his car, up on the top floor of a parking garage looking out over the New York harbor and the twinkling lights of the city, or against the floor to ceiling glass of his living room windows without me giving a care in the world. I arrive red-face and glowing, and
barely
on time for a stump speech at the city manager’s office because Hudson’s just had me bent over in the utility closet down the hall with his mouth on my pussy.

Essentially, I’m better with him, and for two full weeks, we pretend that there’s no way anything in the world can touch that.

*****

“Yes, second row?”

I’m at podium up in front of the Police Union offices surrounded by Donald, Erika, Hudson, and a few other staffers giving a quick press Q&A. This by now
quite
mundane and routine thing is made
somewhat
more interesting by the fact that I can literally still taste Hudson on my tongue from the hot and fast fun we had right before I stepped onto stage in an empty office.

“Yeah hi, Marc with the Times,” The sweaty looking reporter with the ironic mustache suddenly looks right past me, to
Hudson
; “It’s Hudson, is it?”

Hudson smirks and turns to look out the windows to the side of the conference room; “I believe that’s the East River, actually.” He grins as the murmurs and chuckles spread through the gathered reporters - mostly from the female contingent I notice - aided by his winning smile and that roguish charm it exudes. The reporter smiles thinly and nods before Hudson winks at him and nods; “Yes, it’s Hudson, last time I checked.”

“Sir, if I may-”

“All questions to Ms. Archer, if you would.” He cuts the man off succinctly as he nods towards me and takes a step back into the gathered staffers behind me.

“Well, no actually, this one’s for
you
.”

I frown as I look over my shoulder to see Hudson’s face darkening and his jaw tightening slightly; “Well then I’m all ears, Mar-”

“You’re military, right?”

Hudson’s jaw tightens even more, his lips thin, and I can see his eyes flash with some emotion I can’t quite place. He looks almost
grim
. “That’s correct, but again, I must ask that all questions be directed towards Ms. Ar-”

“Right, yeah no, you said that. But the thing is, Mr. Banks, I don’t actually see anything about you anywhere.”

The Times or not, I have
no
idea what this guy is going on about. I step up to the mic ready to cut him off; “Excuse me, Marc, but I think we should move on to oth-”

“I’ve looked you up, Mr. Banks; public record and all that and I don’t see anything.”

Hudson’s face is white and drawn tight, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly with his breath; “I’m not sure what you’re implying-”

“Sir, I’m implying that there’s simply no record of you being in the U.S. Military.”

Hudson’s face goes dark, his lips thin, and the hushed murmur has barely begun to spread through the crowd before he turns and abruptly leaves the stage. Donald is smiling his showman smile as he steps to the mic and says something about no further questions, but I’m already rushing off after Hudson. He’s gone by the time I get backstage, and my heart sinks as his phone goes right to voicemail when I try calling his cell. Whatever happened back there hit him somewhere deep, and somewhere where his armor doesn’t protect him, and all I want to do is tell him I don’t care and that whatever it is I’m here for him.
 

Of course, I have to
find him
first, in order to tell him that though, wherever it is he’s gone to hide that he thinks is safe.

I freeze, and just like that, I know exactly where he is as I run out the backdoor and hail a cab.

P A S T

“Shit, man.” Logan shakes his head and looks at the floor; “I’m sorry, brother; I’m real sorry to hear that.”

I’m not, though even I get that it would be weird to say that out loud.

“How-” He coughs uncomfortably; “Shit, sorry man, that that’s none of my-”

“Booze.” I shrug and look up at him with a wry grin; “Apparently what they say about apples and distances from trees is pretty spot on, huh?”

“You’re not your father, Hudson.” Bryce says quietly.

My father was mean, fall-down drunk who I stopped talking to the day after my high school graduation when I enlisted. The only reason I even know about the neighbors finding him is because of a Google alert I set up for my old hometown newspaper’s online obituary report. I know Bryce is right; I’m
not
my father, but it’s still this grim fucking reminder about mortality. Besides, the man  I actually think of as any sort of actual Dad-figure in my life was the Old Man, and I’ve already grieved for that father.

For a weird, brief moment, I think about calling Reagan, even though I know that door is shut. I want to call her and tell her, and just talk to her about her Dad and Dads in general. I want to hear her voice, even just once more, but I know calling would be a useless venture.