Royal Brit Bastard: a badboy stepbrother romance (13 page)

He jerked his cock out of Adrian’s mouth and stepped to the couch. His big hands scooped me up by my buttocks and he lowered my needy pussy to engage onto his hot, fat cock.

I gasped as the head filled my opening then I clenched and shook as he burst inside me. He stretched and filled me, slamming harder and further into me.

I beat my hands on his shoulders and chest. That only spurred him on. His balls slapped against the cheeks of my ass and his pubic hair slammed into mine. I wrapped my arms around his head, pressing his face into my swelling breasts as he pumped and poleaxed me.

My legs wrapped around him, I took him as far into me as I could and rammed along his fat, throbbing length, faster and faster. I shouted, “Yes,
yes
, you fucker, FUCK ME!”

I gushed onto his cock as it pumped a fountain of hot, sticky juice to drench me and fill me. He pumped and pumped and I ground onto him and clenched and squeezed on him.

I fell back onto the couch and I was still coming as Adrian brought his lovely weapon to my face. I gripped his buttocks as I took him through my hot, wet lips, into my salivating mouth and deep into my throat.

Adrian pressed my head in encouragement and I felt his cock swell and pulse before it splashed into my throat and filled my mouth. He pushed until my face was buried in the dark, hot sweet sweat of his groin.

His salty, tangy cum overflowed from my lips and dribbled on my cheeks, down my chin and dripped onto my hot breasts. As my breath heaved and I subsided, James and Adrian bent down to kiss and lick me, like kittens nuzzling their mama.

The receptionist answered and said, “Quinn, Holden, Farst, good morning.”

When she heard who I was her voice cooled and she put me straight through. “Mr Quinn?”

His honeyed tone started a glow in my panties, “Marston,
please
Mrs Chatterton.”

“Marston. I’m calling to tell you personally that I’m withdrawing my legal business from your firm.”

“Really, Mrs Chatterton?”

“Yes, Marston, I no longer want to be your client.”

“I see.”

“You have the whole weekend to persuade me to transfer my business back on Monday.”

“I
see
…”

“See what you can think of that might induce me,” I told him.

Then I took in some shops and had my hair done, ready to meet Marston for dinner.

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© Alice May Ball TzR Publishing, 2015

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.

All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary. If you think that you know some of them, or that you may be one of them, then you should consider writing fiction yourself.

Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing

Three Steps

From HEAVEN

I lived in awe and in fear of my triplet stepbrothers. Tyler, Amon and Brock Bone did things to the local girls that stirred up feelings that I couldn’t come to terms with. Back in high school, they had been the bomb. After they had to flee from our small town, I never forgot those three bad boys.

Years later in the big city, I was shocked to meet my dearest steps again and all of those feelings flooded through me all over again.

Then I discovered that they remembered me too. That they have been thinking about me in ways that I could never have imagined. When they called me ‘Sis,’ I had to come. Again and again, I had to come.

When my Momma married Gareth, I knew that my life was bound to change. He was kind, fun to be around, and the model of a perfect gentleman. The first time I met him, he crouched or bent over so whenever we talked, it was on an even level. He even brought me a little bunch of wildflowers. That was the first time anyone gave me flowers, and I’ll never forget.

I had no idea what his three triplet sons could be so unlike him in every way—except for physically, that is.

Gareth was big—really big—in every way, with a massive, huggy, warm personality to match. The twinkle in his eye could light up a room.

The boys had all of that, too. They had the charm, and they were big, and in ways that I never saw of Gareth, if you know what I mean. They took any opportunity to show me.

Amon, Brock, and Tyler would plot unspeakable things to do to the girls from school. However awful they were to them, the girls all stood in line for more, or lay and spread, to be more clinically precise.

The feelings that they stirred deep within me were strange and frightening. I had no idea what they meant. All I knew was that, however much they teased, taunted, and tortured me, I wanted more of it. A sudden rush of explosive sensation would make me desperate for something, something I knew that I shouldn’t have, but something that I wanted very badly all the same.

If I hadn’t gone with Ant to that art gallery, then I might never have met Tyler again.

I wasted seven months with that jerk Ant. Seven months listening to his rambling crap about his blog, about art, and basically all about his ego. When we first met, I was perfect. He adored every curve and every slope of my luscious body.

‘Ceris, you could wear a sack and I’d still fall in love with you.’ He said. Back then. All of my habits were charming, and everything that I had to say was something to treasure, something that he really wanted to hear.

Fast forward seven months, and the ideas that I gave him really have helped him to get some credibility for his stupid art blog. My lowly “Evil Day Job” at Dewar Hackett PR involves some social media work, so I know a few of the tricks. Soon enough, he’s getting invited to SoHo gallery openings and the artists want him to visit their studios.

Now he’s beginning to feel important, and he starts thinking that I ought to cover up a bit more, maybe hold back when I’m talking to artists’ agents and dealers, and, do I
really
need another piece of cake?

At the start, our love life was wonderful, thrilling, unexpected and fresh. Ant lusted after every part of me, every new situation, and every new possibility. We practically lived our lives in each other’s bedrooms.
Lately, what had been lusty, slamming, hot, shouting, drenching wet sex, was now a dry, empty dustbowl. Tumbleweeds would have livened it up. Then, last night in the bar, he gave me the ‘we need some space’ speech.
FUCKERRRR!

The cracks had been starting to show for a couple of weeks, and at Map Ping’s opening at the
Gush
gallery, I saw the writing on the wall.
It was my networking that got him the invitation, me tweeting about the fact that his blog piece was quoted in
Art & Artists
magazine.

Me telling Ping’s agent that Ant is ‘the go-to blog page for the pulse of the TriBeCa art beat,’ or something equally ridiculous, landed him the quoted piece. Actually, the more I put that kind of puff around for him, the more he grew into it, and now he really
is
the go-to blogger for the pulse of the up and coming TriBeCa art beat. For whatever that’s worth.

I never had an easy time with boys or men, and I’ve been wary since school. In high school you were either called ‘frigid’ or you were called a ‘whore.’ The girls who got a bye were the super-popular Miss Perfect cheerleaders, most of whom really did act like whores.

I heard that some of them actually went on to become whores. When guys came up to me, they were usually looking for an easy hookup. One boy, Aaron, he was so cute and I did literally dream about him. He was the biggest in his year, had shaggy brown hair, and sweet, sincere blue eyes.

Well, they looked sincere. Turns out you can’t always tell. He told me all the sweet shit you want to hear and we made out in the back of his daddy’s car. The next morning I overheard him telling his buddies how fat I was and mimicking my voice saying, ‘Oh, Aaron, you’re so big,’ Which I never said.

In the equipment stakes, he was on the smaller side of medium in fact, I just was too devastated to step up and say that to all of his friends, like I know that I should have done.

So Ant got in under my defenses. He shot me a lot of charming lines and – 
dammit,
if he didn’t mean any of that, if it was all just bullshit, why did he pursue me the way that he did? OK, it’s in the past, but it can still sting.

The minimal, third floor
Gush
gallery bustled respectably with lively people with edgy hair and makeup, dressed mostly in black. The art crowd was out for Map Ping’s private viewing, enjoying champagne, canapés, and their brittle laughs, and making me feel dowdy and drab.

Little red stickers appeared by a few pieces to indicate that sales had been made and Colm, the gallery owner, was running about, directing Juliette, his willowy blonde assistant, towards the clusters of potential buyers. At gallery events, most of Ant’s energy went on cultivating agents and journalists, but this time he spent an unusual amount of his evening with the artist.

I was out among the throng and flying the flag for Ant’s blog and twitter feed. That involved pretending that I knew what the art was about, which in Ping’s case wasn’t hard. Not compared to pretending that I cared about anything, really.

Map is an adorable person, gorgeous, and she’s making a heroic transition from a shy, geeky boy to a sassy and admirable woman, but her deconstrictivist nihilism – meaning she broke stuff into very tiny pieces then stuck the pieces on cardboard – it went way under my whelm. I was looking at a piece that consisted of sparse, shimmering dust entitled,
Manic Monday
, when a dark, honeyed voice behind me said, “Now, here is a work of art.”

I spun around so fast, the front of my breasts pressed through my bra and silky top into the crisp white linen on the huge chest of a devilishly handsome man. He was tall, with golden brown hair and beard and with a wicked grin spreading across his wide, full lips. His gleaming brown eyes made my stomach drop. The look in his eyes was so familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

When he took my hand, I felt so tiny in his grasp, and the touch of his fingers sent a shock all the way down to my knees. My hips tilted involuntarily towards him as he said, “I wasn’t talking about the piece on the wall.”

My breath caught in my throat, and all I could manage to say was, “Oh?”

He lowered his voice and said, “I was talking about you.”

My breasts heaved and they were still almost against his hard stomach. His warmth was close enough for me to feel his heat on my chest. Other parts of me were heating up, too. His strong, deep voice made the whole of me vibrate as he leaned forward in a slight bow and he said, “How long has it been since we saw each other last?”

This was a regular art-show-opening gambit. In fact, it wasn’t unheard of in downtown parties, generally. Still, it made my heart thump. This gorgeous, cultured, and obviously wealthy man surely couldn’t be hitting on me.

“You’ll have to refresh my memory,” I said with a smile.

“Ah, well,” he said, “So what do you make of…” he waved a hand absently at the display of deconstructed vases, “Of this?”

“I think that Map is a fresh and energetic talent.” That’s not the perfect art-biz playbook response, but it’s a fair approximation. The trick is to say something that sounds very appreciative and is peppered with cutting-edge buzz terms, but without giving away any actual opinion of your own.

The time that I have been helping out on Ant’s blog has taught me that nobody in the art business actually knows anything at all, and the only opinion that really matters at an opening is the one that’s expressed in the little red stickers.

He wasn’t prepared to be thrown off by my evasive answer.

“You think that grinding commonplace objects to dust is modern post-Dadaism with a touch of Warhol? A little Cornelia Parker, maybe?”

“With a strong seam of garbage running through it,” I said.

He smiled again. “You could say that it’s a heap of trash.”

“I’m not sure that isn’t what I said.”

He looked at me a moment. “A golden, fairy-tale beauty. You certainly are a rare find.”

Pretty talk. I’ve heard it before. It’s usually one kind of malarkey or another. Some guys can’t help themselves; they spot a willing victim for some charm and they just pile it on. Forceful flirting, played in a low register.

I don’t remember hearing it delivered by quite such gorgeous lips before, or in a voice as deep and silky as his. There was a deep, lazy drawl in his voice, and it made my insides vibrate. It’s a voice that you could just curl up in, and the look in his eye was level and hungrily sincere.

My thighs tingled and my knees were unreliable at best. Here was a man you wanted to be hugged by—cuddled, squeezed, and kept safe and hidden by.