Hunted:A Stepbrother Romance Novel
By: Olivia LongAnd there I was, caught in the closet, no way out, forced to watch him saunter around the pool house stark naked. I guess he hadn’t seen me come in, or, because I’d been stooped down in the closet, he’d assumed that I’d left out the back exit and headed into the main house.
Then I watched as he bent down and collected my discarded yellow bikini bottoms from the tile floor.
I bit my lower lip. Would he know that I was there? Would he catch me?
For a moment, he just stared down at the panties, rubbing his hand over the fabric thoughtfully. And then I’d watched, mortified, as he crushed its crotch against his nose and inhaled deeply. I mean, it was audible, even from behind the closet door.
At this point, it was impossible to not notice how much length and girth his member had gained in the past few seconds. It went from a typical dangling participle to something more closely resembling a harpoon, though nowhere near as skinny.
I was frozen to the spot, unable to tear my eyes away, as the same hand which held my bikini bottoms traveled down to his cock and began to stroke, wrapping the fabric and his fist around the meaty erection and pumping heavily. My mouth fell open, and my chest began to rise and fall sharply.
He had to have been thinking about me, right? He had to have been.
Chase leaned forward and braced his hand on the couch for balance, falling into the thrust and going deeper. His muscles shuddered in anticipation of the final spasm, and I—don’t judge me—I knew that I was painfully wet by this time. I was throbbing, and if I didn’t touch myself, I was liable to tremble and fall to the ground anyway.
So—I snaked my hand up my own skirt, pushed past my panties, and began working feverishly at the hungry slit therein, as if I was pushing myself to catch up to him.
Soon our bodies were pumping and writhing in time, although his hand braced the couch and mine braced the closet wall.
I fantasized about his fantasy, imagining what he was imagining. Yanking my yellow bikini bottoms to one side and ramming into me while I was doing downward dog by the pool. His rigid cock driving again and again, his hands like paws digging into my hips. Or ... burrowing his face into my sex while I was sunbathing with my thighs lulled to either side. My spasms came faster and faster, less and less controlled. I thought of my fingers buried in his hair. I thought of his thumbs grinding over my nipples, thought of his cum rocketing into my sex. Forget our parents. Fuck everything. What if we did it right in the summer sun at high noon? Right next to the pool?
I focused as Chase cried out like a caveman, and it was seeing his juicy ribbons soak my bikini bottoms that brought my own orgasm trembling through my pussy and against my hand.
After that, I’d had to just stand there, wild-eyed, horrified and shocked at what I—we!—had done, until he’d departed to shower and I could finally flee.
That was two years ago, and things hadn’t been the same since. But then again, they were never really normal. There had always been something extra, something unwelcome, between me and Chase. It was like a rock in my shoe that I wasn’t allowed to shake out, no matter what. I mean, we weren’t biological or anything, but my mom would—well—she’d be so embarrassed. She’d be so disappointed. Irene Vaughn was a society woman, and she’d raised me to be one, too. And what could you say about a society woman whose daughter had hooked up with her future step-brother?
We would have been just as bad as that Klein Industries guy, caught in the hotel room with his daughter’s friend.
Mom and Harry had supposedly gotten engaged that same year, when I was nineteen and Chase was twenty-one. The same year that ... that Chase and I had that simultaneous voyeur orgasm that he still doesn’t know anything about and never will, thank God. But that had been two years ago, anyway, and no one had set a date yet, and it was starting to become some sort of running joke. I doubted I’d ever have to worry about being Chase’s legal sister.
I pursed my lips and lowered the blinds on my bedroom window, sealing the pool house from view.
That was better. Much better.
Chapter 3
Chase
The jungles of Guatemala were thick and humid. Gone were the tattered jeans which hung on my hips just so, tormenting Doable Party Planner, and replacing them were baggy green fatigues cinched at the ankles. Every inch of my body, in fact, was covered. I was back. Back on Operation Tiburon. My worst nightmare come to life...
