The Forbidden Beat (A Stepbrother Romance)

By Jillian Sterling

Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective

All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced
in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas,
characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and
any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely
coincidental.

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THE FORBIDDEN BEAT

A Stepbrother Romance

By

Jillian Sterling

CONTENTS

ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

The basement hallway was mercifully silent, the
soundproofing worked like magic. Bare feet silent on the plush carpet, I padded
towards the room at the end, the rehearsal space where my drum kit was set up.
It was a long day, punctuated by my mother's forced sobs and my stepfather's
stoic silence. Nearly a thousand of their closest friends streamed into the
mansion, offering condolences, eating our food, drinking our booze, and,
eventually, asking for money or favors. Now the sun was setting over the
Hollywood Hills so someone cranked up the music. The crowd stripped out of
their mourning suits, and jumped into the pool. Another bacchanalia at the
house that Anthem, my stepfather's ludicrously famous rock band, built.

Today we buried my stepbrother Kyle. He was found two days
ago with a dirty needle in his arm under a makeshift tarp tent on skid row in
downtown LA.

Heir to a rock and roll fortune, and drummer in his own
rising band Rogue Nation formed with his two brothers. But he preferred to
stick a needle in his arm.

My head felt heavy and there was nothing I wanted more than
to beat out my frustrations on my drum kit. Ever since I was a kid and my failed
musician dad handed me a pair of sticks—the only right thing he ever did for me—it
was where I worked out my demons.

I turned the knob to the rehearsal space and pushed the door
open with my left hand, searching for the light switch with my right.

"Get the fuck out unless you're female and naked,"
a voice growled through the pitch black.

As the overhead track lighting flickered on, I blinked, my
eyes adjusting to the bright light.

My stepbrother Dion, who had gone missing after we left the
gravesite, was hiding out in my practice room. Shirtless, he made himself
comfortable. His suit jacket and dress shirt were tossed on top of my cymbals.
His Vans covered feet were propped up on my bass drum. He slumped against the
wall, his firm ass supported by my "throne," the stool that was the
foundation of my kit. A bottle of Gentleman Jack was cradled in his arms.

"I didn't know you were down here," I muttered,
pissed that he disrespected my kit but letting it slide since he did just bury
his brother.

He looked me up and down.

"You're not naked," was his response.

I bit my tongue and held my temper in check. "Want to
get your feet off my kit?"

He took a long pull from the bottle. My breath caught when
he licked the rim with his tongue, his olive green eyes met mine. They were
edged with red, a combination of no sleep, booze and grief.

"I'll just, you know—" I stammered as my anger
turned to frustration of a sexual sort. I took a step backwards. Time to leave.

"Stay," he said, standing to his full 6 feet.
"I'd like to talk to you."

"About what?" I asked, torn between sticking
around and making a run for it. This was the reason why I moved out of the
mansion and into my own apartment. My physical attraction to Dion made living
in the same house my worst hormonal nightmare.

"About Kyle," he said, crossing the room in three
large strides. He leaned into me, closing the door behind me. The click of the
lock sliding into place stilled my heart.

I treaded carefully. "What about Kyle?"

A solid foot taller, he loomed over me. I stared at the ring
that pierced his nipple and swallowed.

"Did you know?"

I took a step back from him, and my backside hit the door.
"Dion, everybody knew."

"But no one did fuck-all about it, did they?"

Overgrown curly hair framed his chiseled face, his
expression filled with desperation.

"Look, I can't even imagine how you feel right now. I
mean, if I lost Presley or Jett—"

"But you didn't," he hissed. "Your bitch
sisters are still alive. My brother? He's dead."

My hands curled into fists and I stiffened. "Look,
Dion, I'm sorry your brother died. But Kyle was a junkie. Everyone tried to
help him, but the drugs won."

He advanced on me. "He wasn't a junkie until you Benson
girls came along."

"Now that is some serious revisionist history," I
snorted. I reached behind me and felt for the door handle. "Kyle was
boozing or drugging since the day we all met. Even at 12-years-old. You can't
blame this one on the Benson women."

The anger that flashed across Dion's face melted into anguish.
He crumbled to the floor and sobbed. "I'm sorry," he said, reaching
for me.

"I know," I said, softening. Dion was a first
class asshole ninety percent of the time, but he and Kyle were tight. It was a
brutal loss that no one should have to endure.

I dropped to my knees beside him. "Look, I know we
don't get along, but I'm here for you, okay. Whatever you need."

Tentative, I reached my arm around him. My fingertips rested
gently on the smooth skin of his back, rising and lowering with the uneven
tempo of his breath. He crawled into me, wrapping his arms around me, his face,
wet with fresh tears, pressed against my chest.

"What are they doing upstairs?" he asked,
composing himself after a minute or two of silence.

 I shrugged. "A bunch of people stripped down and
jumped into the pool."

"So much for mourning," he said with a cold laugh.

"People mourn differently," I said. "I try
not to judge."

"This is not an Irish wake," he said, his voice
edged in defiance.

"Maybe it's what Kyle would have wanted," I suggested
while I untangled myself from him. There wasn't much space between the door and
Dion, so I struggled to get to my feet.

Dion pulled me back down. "Stay. Please."

"Okay," I said, sitting back down and leaning
against the door. "You mourn the way you need to. It's allowed."

"He was a junkie, Nik," he said, tears starting up
again.

"Doesn't mean you can't love him. Or be pissed at
him," I said. He raised his head and looked at me. "You know, you are
allowed to be pissed at him. I'd be pissed if one of my sisters pulled that
shit."

"What the fuck was that coward thinking?" he
exploded.

 I shrugged again. "I don't think he was thinking. He
was feeling."

"He should have come to me."

"It's not your fault. Junkies are gonna be
junkies," I said.

"Is that how you square it in your head with your
dad?" he asked.

"Sometimes," I said. "But he's getting help,
getting his shit together, trying out that family thing again with someone
else..."

I trailed off when my own tears threatened to fall. We
mourned the loss of my dad a long time ago. Although the man was very much
alive and living in Maine, he died to me and my sisters a long time ago.

"Junkies gonna be junkies," he agreed, but his
voice cracked.

We sat on the floor in silence. He rested his head on my shoulder,
his arms clutched around me. The warmth of Dion's body close to my own made my
heart beat unsteady.

"Do you remember when you first met Kyle?" he
whispered, his breath caressed the sensitive curve of my neck.

"Of course," I responded, keeping my voice
measured. "The wedding. He jumped on stage to play with that band that
wore the silver lame jump suits."

Dion smiled at the memory. "I'd forgotten about them.
Only in Vegas. You were how old back then?"

"Twelve," I said.

"That's right, all legs and arms, like a colt," he
said. "You barely had tits."

I bristled. "Nice."

"Better that way," he said. "What would I
have done if my dad showed up with hot stepsisters?"

"Presley's drop dead gorgeous," I argued.
"And Jett is, too, in that hot-for-teacher way."

"I bet Jett gives grammar lessons while she
fucks," he said. I had to laugh at that one. "And Presley looks like
your mom—no offense, but Pamela's not my type."

"She's not mine either," I admitted. I was the
spitting image of my father—short, muscular build, angular face, high
cheekbones. Everything about Presley was soft and feminine, exactly like my
mother. "So you're lucky we're all just a bunch of hags."

"I think blue hair's kind of hot," he teased,
pushing a strand of my shoulder length electric blue-hued tresses behind my
ear.

I felt my blush creep up my cheeks. "Blue hair in the
granny way?"

"You've grown into your arms and legs very nicely, but
you are no granny," he said, his hand sliding underneath my Oxford dress
shirt, caressing the small of my back. "Unless...Are you wearing granny
panties?"

Before I could react, he slipped his hand down the gap
between my clothes and my skin, sending sparks of electricity along my bare ass
cheek.

"Thong?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

"Dion?" I whispered. "What are you
doing?"

 With his hand mere inches away from my wet slit, I was
suddenly living my teenaged fantasy. It took all my willpower not to melt into
his arms. Dion was gorgeous. Like drop dead gorgeous. I was a gangly 12-year-old
girl the first time we met, and he made my hormones race even back then. Yup, I
had a school girl crushed on my stepbrother. It was only our age difference—and
the fact that he behaved like a first-rate asshole—that kept me from acting on
it. Well, that and, you know. Stepbrother.

Of course, school girl crushes fade. Except for mine. It was
a big part of why I moved out of the mansion. Seeing Dion so undeniably sexy on
a daily basis, in various states on undress no less, made me aware of every
sexual nerve in my body. My attraction only grew as we got older. Damn
hormones.

Dion reached behind my neck and pulled my face towards his.
My 12-year-old fantasy became a reality when he pressed his mouth on mine, hard
at first. Like he had something to prove. My hands moved to his chest, wanting
to draw him to me and push him away at the same time. But as his mouth softened
and his tongue teased my lips open, my willpower faded. Despite my internal
protests, I melted into him.

He shuddered as I traced my hands down the muscular cuts of
his chest to his solid abs before resting at his belt buckle. He tore my top
off, pushing it off my shoulders. With one hand, he unhooked the front closure
of my bra. My breasts spilled out.

"You are definitely not twelve anymore," he said,
taking a nipple into his mouth. I groaned in a mix of intense pain and pleasure
as his teeth sank down into my sensitive flesh.

I unbuckled his belt and yanked at the button of his pants.
The button popped off and it made a tinny sound when it hit a cymbal.

"Sorry," I whispered, swallowing a nervous giggle.

He released his mouth from my nipple. “It’s cool." His
hand massaged my other breast, teasing the nipple to a firm peak before coving
that one with his mouth. I wiggled as my panties dampened.

With the button from his pants gone, I jerked down the
zipper and his enormous cock spilled out. I wrapped my hand around its
substantial girth and gave it a brusque yank and Dion moaned, turning me on
even more.

Dion pushed me to the floor and, once prone, he ripped my
pants off. He pressed his muscular body on top of me, teasing me through the
small triangle of fabric of my thong panties with his stiff cock. I gasped as
it pressed against my clit in exactly the right way.

He pushed aside the thin fabric of my thong, and teased my
folds open. His hard cock still pressing on my clit, one finger glided into me,
the slow and easy motion bringing me to the edge of climax.

A jiggle at the door handle interrupted us.

"Yo, Dion, you in there?" Rafe's voice called
through the intercom while he tried the door again. It was mercifully locked so
Dion's adopted brother Rafe could not catch us in this compromising position.

His weight shifted off of me, and I shuddered when he took
his finger out of me, leaving me empty. He stood and pressed the intercom to
reply. "What's up?"

"Wondering where you went," Rafe responded.
"There are some hotties up in the pool who want to help us through this
difficult time. And they didn't bring their bathing suits."

"As if that's what you do when attending a
funeral," I muttered, scooping my breasts back into my bra.

"Be up in a minute," Dion said, his attention
returning to me.

I ignored him and snatched my shirt up off the floor,
surveying its condition. It was unwearable.

"We cool?" he asked.

"Since when have we ever been cool with each
other?" I responded, hunting around the practice room for an old t-shirt
to throw on.

Dion held out his dress shirt. "Take this. I'm don't
need clothes up there."

He pushed his still-hard cock back into his pants. He hid it
away with a rise of his zipper, although I could still make out the impressive
outline of its bulge.

"You going to finish yourself off?" he asked.

"What?" I responded. What the hell did he just ask
me? What the hell did we just do? I was too shocked to move.