Prince albert, p.38
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       Prince Albert, p.38

         Part #4 of A Step Brother Romance series by Sabrina Paige

  Her eyes open wider. "You gave me a model of your…"

  "Cock?" I shrug. "I thought it might help you visualize me better when you're touching yourself, darlin'."

  "I don't visualize you at all, thank you very much," she says.

  "No?" I ask, reaching up to move a strand of hair off her shoulder. My hand grazes her collarbone, and I lean in close to her, my mouth near her ear. "Well, I think about you."

  When I pull away, she looks at me, her mouth open slightly. "Gaige, I –"

  "I know," I say. "We have to keep it professional."

  Her expression shifts and she runs her hands down the sides of her skirt. "Professional. Yes. Exactly. We're friends. I'd like to stay friends."

  "So you don't want to hear what I've thought about you, then."

  "No. Definitely not."

  I lean close to her, my lips near her ear. "Then I definitely won't tell you that I've thought about running my fingers along the inside of your thigh, until I reach that little crease at the top, near your pussy."

  "Gaige –" She says my name, protesting, but it's weak, and she doesn't move away. I slide my hand around her waist, to the small of her back.

  "I definitely won't tell you that I've thought about the expression you'd make when I touch my fingers to your pussy lips for the first time."

  "No," she says. "Don't."

  But she doesn't move. I pull her tight against my growing hardness, and she puts her palms on my chest. I'm not sure if she's about to push me away or not. She doesn't look at me, and I speak softly again close to her ear. "I definitely won't tell you that I've thought about how warm and wet you'd feel, how slick you'd be as I slide my fingers inside you."

  Delaney makes a sound in the bottom of her throat, something like a mix between clearing her throat and a moan. "You can't say –"

  "I'm not saying anything, Delaney," I say. "Certainly not that I've thought about how you'd look riding my face."

  Now she looks at me, her eyes wide. "You can't say things like that."

  "Things like how I want to hold your hips down against me while you sit on my face and come on my tongue?" I whisper.

  Delaney breathes in, her chest rising sharply. I can see the faintest hint of cleavage from the top of that button-down shirt she wears. There's something about the way she keeps herself entirely covered up that makes it almost as revealing as if she were standing here naked in front of me. "Yes," she says softly, her voice breathy. "Like that."

  "Then I won't say any of those things." I let go of her, and step back, despite the fact that my cock is throbbing, my erection pushed so tight against the front of my jeans that it's painful. I'm so hard I'm going to explode. "But I'll think about them next door."

  She does that thing with her forehead again, and scrunches up her nose. "What?" Her breath is still short, and she's standing there, with her fingertips on her lips. I need to get the hell out of here before I change my mind and rip off her fucking clothes right now.

  "Oh, I forgot to mention that," I say. "While you were at work today, I moved in to the room next door."

  Her eyes go wide. "You did not."

  I smile broadly, and lean in close to her again. "I did. So I'll be close by. In case you ever decide you need some…relief. In fact, if it helps, know that I'll be next door thinking about you when I come."

  I don't wait for her response before I leave her room, shutting the door behind me.



  I'm standing here in my room, staring at the closed door like an idiot. As if none of that just happened. As if the throbbing between my legs is nothing.

  Gaige is next door, with his hand on his cock, thinking about you.

  Gaige's bedroom door closes, and I hear him moving around his room. These walls are paper-thin. I can't believe Gaige had the balls to move from the guesthouse to the main house – and not just the main house, but the room next door – just to mess with me. There are twelve bedrooms in this house, and Gaige picked the one next to mine.

  He definitely wants to mess with you.

  I'm not sure whether I'm more turned on or irritated. After his trip to Vegas with Chelsea and God knows how many other girls – I can only imagine the number – Gaige has the balls to stand here, pressed up against me, telling me what he wants to do to me.

  The really filthy things he wants to do to me.

  He has absolutely zero shame.

  You're the one who put condoms in his room. The thought flashes in my head, and I quickly try to push it aside.

  I wonder if he's actually jerking off in his bedroom. He sure didn't fake the erection that was pressed up against me when he pulled me close to him.

  And there's definitely no faking the wetness between my legs. If Gaige would have made good on his threat to slide his fingers between my thighs, he would have realized it immediately. And I'm not sure I would have protested.

  I cross the bedroom to lock the door – who knows if Gaige will return – and shed my office clothes piece by piece, unable to get Gaige out of my thoughts. I make a valiant effort at trying to distract myself by running through all kinds of other things in my head – work stuff, my to-do list, the fucking state capitols in alphabetical order.

  Anything other than thinking about Gaige next door. Gaige with his hand on his cock. Gaige fantasizing about me. Gaige on the other side of the wall, running his hand along his length like he said he would.

  The throbbing between my legs becomes more insistent, and I grab a novel I've been reading, flopping onto the bed and flipping open the book, my eyes landing right on…a sex scene. I slam the book closed. Choosing a romance novel to distract myself is entirely unhelpful.

  I can't stop visualizing Gaige, naked, his hand on his cock. And there are a million damn reasons why I shouldn't be thinking about Gaige naked. I make a mental checklist in my head: Manwhore – check. Past history with him – check. Professional relationship – check. Stepbrother – double fucking check.

  Next door, Gaige is silent. I wonder if he really jerked off. I wonder if he thought about me. I wonder if he finished already. I wonder what he looks like when he comes.

  Damn it, Delaney. You have to stop.

  Focus on something else.

  Like the fact that my nipples are basically as hard as rocks against the fabric of my bra. And that my panties are damp.

  I slide my finger down the front of my panties, thinking about what Gaige said.

  How you'd feel as I touched my fingers to your pussy lips, the expression on your face…

  I slide my finger lower, between my lips, slick with wetness, the wetness Gaige is responsible for creating.

  How slick you'd be as I slid my fingers inside you…

  I picture Gaige naked above me, giving me that knowing grin as he reaches between my legs, spreading my lips with his fingers and plunging them inside me. I stroke myself slowly, the way I imagine Gaige would touch me, bringing myself higher and higher.

  The thought creeps into my head – this is wrong. But I push it away. Your stepbrother is right next door.

  I picture Gaige next door, stroking himself, thinking about me as he comes. It's when I'm picturing him that I glance up at the closet door. Behind that door is Gaige's cock, the dildo he made. I'd stuffed it back in that box and hid it in the closet. Do I dare?

  It's not like anyone would ever know. It's probably not even Gaige's anyway. I'm a thousand percent positive it's something he bought at an adult store, so why shouldn't I use it?

  I slide my hand from between my legs and go to the closet before I can change my mind, rummaging through the assorted odds and ends until I find the box. Gaige's cock.

  I strip off my panties and bra and slide into the bed naked, the sheets cool against my skin. I take a long look at the dildo. I'm about to lie in bed and fuck myself with a dildo made from a mold of my stepbrother's cock, while he's right next door, jerking off while he fantasizes about me.

  My li
fe sounds like a fucking porno.

  Except it isn't. I haven't gotten laid in six months. And I can't even think straight. I might be losing my mind. But I don't care, not right now, anyway.

  I lay back again, pressing the head of the cock against my entrance, coating it in my wetness. I'm going to go insane if I don't come.

  I stroke my clit in slow circles with my finger, sending pulses of pleasure through my body, and press my stepbrother's cock slowly inside my entrance, my muscles stretching to accommodate its girth.

  I imagine Gaige in the room next to me, thinking about me while he strokes his dick, his hand moving up and down his length, over and over. Back when we were eighteen, I tried to touch him once, slid my hand down to reach between his legs, and he grabbed my wrist to stop me. "No," he growled at me. "Not now. We'll do this right."

  I never found out what doing it right meant.

  But now, I picture it in my mind's eye. I imagine Gaige thrusting his cock inside me, slowly at first as he stretches me, then picking up speed, his movements a regular rhythm that matches my hips as I arch up to meet him. Each thrust brings him deeper and deeper inside me, aided by my wetness, until I'm completely filled with him. I mimic our movements, thrusting the dildo further inside me.

  "Come for me, Delaney." I picture his mouth close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "I want to feel you come on me."

  I'm so close to the edge, the pent up frustration making me even more ready, filled to the hilt with the replica of Gaige's cock inside me. I imagine Gaige with his hand on his cock, his warm cum spilling from his dick and over his hand.

  The thought pushes me over the edge, and I come hard, my whole body jerking as my muscles tighten around the dildo. I don't realize that I've made any noise until I hear knocking, and I startle, thinking it's someone at the door.

  But of course it isn't. It's Gaige.

  When I cross to the other side of the room, I can hear him chuckling through the wall.

  Damn it. He totally knows.



  "It's strange that the guesthouse needed fumigated," Anja says. "And so suddenly, too."

  I look up at Gaige, and he winks at me, but my father and stepmother fail to notice. Anja seems to be cutting microscopic-sized slices off the edge of her chicken breast and my father is similarly focused on his meal. There's obvious tension between them; I wonder how long they've been having problems.

  "Termites," Gaige says, and I glare at him through narrowed eyes. The liar. "It's a good thing I noticed."

  "We should probably have the main house checked for them, too," my father says, and I give Gaige a look. I can't believe he's faking termites just to get himself into the room next to me. He's obviously a crazy person.

  "I already had the guy do it," Gaige says. "There are no problems with the main house."

  "Well, thank you, Gaige. You're really on top of things."

  Anja laughs, the sound bitter. "On top of a termite issue," she says, her voice sharp. "Useless in every other way."

  I swallow hard. I don't remember her being Gaige before.

  "Anja, that's uncalled for," my father says, his tone warning.

  "It's okay," Gaige says. "Not all of us have the luxury of attending luncheons instead of working."

  I clear my throat, trying to cut through the tension in the room. But I don't have anything to say. Luckily, my father saves me, quickly changing the subject.

  "Vegas," he says. "Was it productive?"

  Great. He saves me by asking the worst question ever. I definitely don't want to hear about Gaige's Vegas exploits.

  Anja snorts. "Speaking of not working," she says. "I don't know when partying at a Vegas nightclub started to count as work."

  "I feel the same way about being a human clothes hanger," Gaige says.

  Anja sniffs. "Modeling involves skill," she says. She sips clear liquid from a crystal tumbler that's obviously not water, and I'm pretty sure she's half in the bag already.

  "Fortunately, being a washed up model involves no skill at all," Gaige says.

  "Gaige," my father warns. He doesn't look at Anja. He's unhappy; I can see the dark circles under his eyes, and the lines that crease his face, deeper than a few years ago. He's aged, and I wonder why I didn't notice it before.

  "That's right. Take his side," Anja says, standing. She places a hand on the table to steady herself when she wobbles, but picks up her glass, bringing it to her mouth and taking a sip. Her eyes are unfocused, but she narrows them when she looks at Gaige. "He's your investment, after all. Always protecting your investments, even the ones who are as useless as Gaige."

  I inhale sharply, looking at Gaige, whose face is ashen. My father stands quickly, puts his hand on Anja's arm. "Anja," he says. "Perhaps you'd like to lie down."

  She jerks her arm from his grasp. "Don't talk to me like a child," she says. She turns toward me and I hold my breath. "I see the way he looks at you, you know."

  "Why don't you go dry out, Mother," Gaige's voice is hard, and he doesn't look at me, but I can see his fist clenched, his knuckles white.

  But she continues, turning toward me, her voice slurring. "Don't think you can fool anyone," she says. "I see you looking at Gaige, too. He'll go through you like --"

  My eyes are wide as my father cuts her off, his face red. "That's enough, Anja," he says, taking her arm. She jerks away from him, glass in hand and stumbles out of the doorway. My father turns toward us, shaking his head. "I apologize for her behavior."

  He follows behind her, and Gaige and I sit in silence for a minute before we hear their voices, echoing through the other end of the house, before the door slams closed.

  "Well." After that, I don't really know what to say. Other than that this is really fucking awkward. Gaige doesn't even look at me. He just stares at his plate. What she said about us -- about the way Gaige looks at me, the way I look at him -- runs through my head, but I put it aside, more concerned about Gaige. Anja might have been critical before, but now she's just awful. "What she said about --"

  "Don't worry, Delaney," he says, his voice bitter. "She's drunk. Obviously you and I aren't looking at each other like that."

  "Gaige, that's not what I -"

  But Gaige stands up, pushes his chair back from the table, and walks out of the room, without even a second glance at me.

  Damn it. That's not what I was going to say. I was going to say that what Anja said about him being useless wasn't true.

  I sit in the dining room by myself, staring at my plate, until the cook, Deborah, enters the room. "Is everything okay?"

  "Huh?" I ask. "Oh. Yes. Everything's fine."

  "With the food? It's okay?"

  "Yes." I nod. "I don't think any of us are very hungry tonight."

  Upstairs in my room, I open my book again, then play with my phone, but the whole time I'm wondering what Gaige is doing next door. It's silent. Maybe he went out somewhere; I didn't hear the front door, but this place is so big, he could have left and I wouldn't have known.

  I tap my finger absently on the screen of my phone, until I just can't take it anymore. I can't just sit here and pretend like nothing just happened. If I were Gaige, I'd be pissed off. And hurt.

  I grab a piece of paper and a pen. I hesitate for a moment before I put the pen on the paper, then just do it. Pool? I write. Then I walk over to Gaige's room and slide it under his door and sit back down in my room with my novel.

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