Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance (45 page)

“
Chet
is none of your business, actually,” I say, almost unable to hide my smirk. Is he
jealous
?

“I’m just curious that’s all,” Hudson passes me a clean, dripping wet coffee cup.

“Oh what, for security purposes?” I say sarcastically as I reach for the mug.

“No I’m just curious for me actually.” I freeze with my hand on the lip of the coffee cup he’s holding in his hand, suddenly
very
curious where he’s going to go with this.

Hudson grins, as if seeing right through the casual face I’m doing my best to maintain and seeing the eagerness within; “I’m honestly just wondering who could put up with you long enough to date, that’s all.”

I roll my eyes, suddenly angry with myself for being such a weirdo about all of this; “Oh shut up.”

Hudson laughs; “Oh I’m just kidding Red, jeez lighten up.” He casually reaches over and wraps his arm around my waist, and I freeze.

“Stop.”

“What?”

I can feel the strength in his arms, and the heat in his fingers as they circle around my waist, drawing me closer to his body and I can
feel
the shiver run up my spine. 

“Just- don’t touch me like that.” I’m saying no because I
need him
to,
not
because I want him to. In fact, I
desperately
want him to keep touching me.

Hudson frowns; “Jesus, Reagan, like what?” He drops his arm and steps back from me, and I’m instantly missing the heat of his body and the heat
my
body feels when he’s that close to me; “Ok, fine.”

I swallow heavily; “Fine.” I know my cheeks are bright red, and the heated, needy desire pouring through my body and dampening my panties scream that I want anything
but
him to stop touching me, but I force myself to turn away from him.

I gasp when he reaches out and grabs my arm, and my heart leaps into my throat as I feel him spin me around and press me up against the refrigerator. I’m flush against his body, feeling every ripple of his muscles, every inch of his skin on mine, and I let out the tiniest of moans in spite of myself. I can feel his hardness pressing hotly against me as his hands push my arms back against the cool metal of the fridge, and he leans down until I can feel his breath teasing across my lips.

“Just so you know, I’m betting I could have you right here, right now, Princess. I’d only have to ask.”

“Oh is that a fact, huh?” I give him my most defiant, carefree look, but I know by the way he grins that he can see
right
through that. And I know by the way my face is flushed and the way I
know
he can feel the heat between my legs on his thigh that neither of us are fooled by my little act.

“Yeah, that’s a fact.” He growls, leaning closer still until his lips are barely
millimeters
away from mine.

“Then why don’t you then.” My voice is breathy, and I hear the words muted as if I’m speaking underwater. I’m willing him to kiss me; willing him to lean down press that mouth to mine and take me right here in the kitchen; right up against the refrigerator. 

Please, please, please
I beg inside my head, biting my lip and staring deep into his deep blue eyes and wanting nothing more than to feel him slide inside of me. I’m so wet and I can feel my heart just
racing
as we stare at each other. But I need him to make the move first. I’m running for a seat on the State Senate for crying out loud, I can’t be throwing myself at my bodyguard - or my campaign financier, or both, or whatever the hell Hudson is. I just
can’t
, and for that singular reason, every fiber of my being and every thudding beat of my pulse in my veins wants him to tear my panties off and fuck me right here.

But he doesn’t, and the moment passes, and we both know it. Hudson moves away from me suddenly, his own chest rising quickly with his breath as he stares at me hungrily with a look I can’t quite read; “Like you said, Reagan; it’s nothing.”

P A S T

“Are you
drinking
?” My older sister’s eyes are narrowed, red-rimmed as they are as she leans down to sniff the cup of soda she’s snatched out of my hands.

“N-no.” I mumble out, fairly confident that there’s no way she’s going to smell the white wine I’ve dosed my diet-cola with. Yeah, I’m drinking white wine with coke; I was a very special breed of eighteen year old rebel.

Quinn swears at me, even though I know damn well she’s had a few herself; “It’s a
wake
, Reagan, not an open bar,” She hisses; always the one in charge, especially now.

“It’s not a
wake
, it’s a memorial vigil,” I say it tensely through gritted teeth.

Quinn looks at me sadly, shaking her head; “Ray, he’s d-“

“He’s
missing
, Quinn, he’s not dead.” Well, missing for three months, last seen near the Syrian border; presumed dead. 

My sister tenses her jaw and exhales through her teeth, either because she’s thinking it too, or more likely because she’s just not about to have this argument again with me,
here
of all places. “In any case, you’re not supposed to be drinking.”

“So?” I sneer at her; “I’m
mourning
.” It’s really only half true; maybe even less actually. Of course I’m upset about my Father’s death, but the anger is still so present that it’s clouding my ability to really grasp that he’s gone. I’m angry that it’s felt like he’s been gone for years anyways; always off doing something in some random part in the world that he won’t tell us about and that I don’t want to know about anyways. I remember asking him once when I was much younger if what the kids at school had said were true; “Do you sell guns, Daddy?”

“It’s complicated, honey.”

Right, “complicated”. It’s bullshit like that, mixed with his complete absence from our lives - certainly after Mom died, but almost completely in the last three years - that have me spiking soda with wine like some sort of total amateur. I storm away from my sister, just in time to see the staff ushering Hudson into the room full of mourners along with the two other guys; Bryce and Logan. I barely know them - honestly, I hardly know much about
Hudson
really - but in that moment of them walking into my Dad’s funeral, I kind of
hate
them. I hate them because they were closer to my father than any of us ever were; the military sons he always wanted and never got. And in that moment, there at his
funeral
, their presence makes me feel like
they
have more of a right to be there then
I
do.

Of course, his being there is also just another lingering question as to
what we’ve been doing
the past few weeks. Since our pre-dawn ride to Bear Mountain, there’ve been other late-night calls and other adrenaline-filled car rides. We talk all night somewhere, or just go for a drive, or he shows me some wild rooftop in the city I never knew existed. It’s platonic, but only on the surface. We smile and do weird things like
shake hands
after he drops me off at my dorm. But it wouldn’t take any sort of particular genius to see that below all that stuff lies something
much
more adult. Something powerful and aching and sensual, and barely contained lies beneath that “friend” surface, and every time he calls or every time I look into his eyes as he says goodnight to me, I feel like it’s going to come rushing out of us like a burst dam.

And of course, his eyes spot me almost instantly across the crowd, and they linger, and I’m sure he can see the deep flush of red spreading across my cheeks before I hastily turn around.

“Ms. Archer,” The deep voice shakes me from where my mind is somewhere lingering on Hudson, and I turn to the older man with the thick mustache who I vaguely remember meeting before. He’s military, and even though I’ve never bothered to learn what any of those pins and symbols mean, I’m pretty sure the amount of medals on his chest the golden oak leaves on his lapel mean he’s important.

“Major Lawson, ma’am; United States Marine Corp.” He salutes me, and I’m sort of not really sure what I should be doing with someone so formal, so I end up awkwardly curtseying. The Major’s stern-looking mouth turns up slightly in the corners as he smiles in an almost grandfatherly way at me; “I was quite close with your father, Ms. Archer; in fact you and I have met before, though you were a little girl back then.” He breathes and turns away for a second before he looks me directly in the eye; “My deepest condolences for your loss, Reagan; William Archer was one of the finest men I ever knew.”

Great, someone else telling me how great of a guy my Dad was. It would’ve been nice to have seen that for myself when he was still around.

Instead though, I nod quietly; “Yes, he was.”

He reaches out and takes my hand, and as I look into his face, I
really
do
see the hurt and the pain of someone who
truly
knew my father; “I know he wasn’t always here for you girls, but you should know that your father was
so
proud of the women you all grew up to be, and I know he wished he could have told you that more often.” 

I realize in that moment of sadness in his eyes that while I lost the ghost of someone I should have known better, this man lost a friend.

“Your father was a great man, Reagan, and if you don’t mind my saying, the apples have
not
fallen far from the tree.”

I thank him again before he moves back into the crowd, and now I
really do
need that drink.

P R E S E N T

A week later and I’m practically tearing my hair out over this fucking girl. It’s this fucked up mixture of frosty single-word banter with the girl I’m playing house with coupled with the fact that she’s been parading around the apartment in bra-less tank-tops and tiny little lounge shorts while she’s been practicing for her speeches or having conference calls with Donald and the rest of her team; it’s psychological torture is what it is.

Part of me doesn’t want to believe she’s doing any of it on purpose; that sweet little Reagan Archer isn’t actually
capable
of the sort of tormenting sexual manipulation I’m being forced to endure. But I’ve made a vow to myself that if I see one more fucking glimpse of an upper thigh, or one more top of her breast just
begging
to slip out of the tight little tank top that’s hugging her tits and pressing tight against her nipples, than I will
not
be able to help what happens next between her and I.