Something hot and unwelcome coils in my gut. It’s the most confusing and arousing thing I’ve ever seen. This shouldn’t be affecting me. This is Vincent—my stepbrother, the source of my anger and resentment. But my body isn’t listening to those objections. Heat pools low in my abdomen as I watch him, my pants suddenly uncomfortably tight.
Vincent notices—of course he does. His lips curve into a knowing smirk as his eyes flick down to my lap, then back up to my face. He steps closer, turning so his back is to me, and slowly lowers himself almost—but not quite—onto my lap. The near-contact is electric. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the sweat and cologne that mingle on his skin.
“This is what pays my bills,” he says over his shoulder, voice low and challenging as he hovers just above my thighs. “What people like you pay good money for.”
People like me. The words twist something inside me. I’m not just another customer. I’m his fucking stepbrother.
There’s something intoxicating about the power dynamic here. I paid for this time. For this dance. For Vincent. My money bought his attention, his presence. After weeks of him avoiding me, running from me, now he has nowhere to go. For fifteen minutes, at least, he’s mine.
The thought is as disturbing as it is arousing.
Vincent continues his dance, moving with expert controlaround me, always close but never touching. The gold glitter on his chest catches the light with every movement, hypnotic and disorienting. I can’t tear my eyes away from the way his muscles flex beneath the lace harness, from the way his pants hug every curve of his legs.
“You like what you see, Alex? Is this what you came for?”
His back is to me again as he bends forward, giving me a view that sends blood rushing south so fast it makes me lightheaded. Before I can stop myself, before I can remember the rules, my hand reaches out, fingers trailing along his glitter-dusted back, toward the two dimples at the base of his spine.
Vincent straightens immediately, stepping out of reach, his face hardening. “No touching,” he says, voice sharp. “House rules.”
I let my hand drop, but I don’t apologize. Instead, I lean back, spreading my arms along the back of the couch in a casual display of control I don’t feel. “Seems like a waste. All that glitter, no one allowed to touch it.”
Vincent’s expression shifts, a dangerous gleam entering his eyes. “Good luck getting it all off,” he adds with a smirk. “That stuff sticks to everything.”
He resumes his dance, but something has changed. There’s a new edge to his movements. He dances closer than before, movements more sensual. He’s taunting me.
The music builds, and so does my frustration. I’ve spent so much time looking for him, obsessing over him, and now he’s just a few inches away, moving like sin, and I still can’t reach him.
Vincent turns to face me, moving forward until he’s standing between my spread knees. His chest rises and falls with his exertion. Slowly, he reaches out, dragging his glitter-coveredfingers along my jaw, leaving a trail of gold on my skin.
“You’re going to be wearing me for days,” he whispers, and something in me snaps.
Before he can pull away, my hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist in an iron grip. He tries to jerk back, but I hold firm, yanking him forward until he topples into my lap, his weight solid against my thighs.
“Let go,” he hisses, struggling against my hold. “I said no touching.”
I tighten my grip, my other arm snaking around his waist to keep him in place. “Make me stop,” I challenge.
Vincent goes still in my arms, his amber eyes wide. We’re pressed together now, chest to chest, his lace-framed torso against my button-down shirt. I can feel the rapid beat of his heart, the heat of his skin burning through the fabric between us.
“Alex,” he warns, but his voice has lost its professional edge. “Let me go.”
“Why?” I demand, my fingers digging into the smooth skin of his waist. “So you can run away again?”
He tries to push against my chest, but the movement only creates friction between our bodies. I feel him stiffen as he becomes aware of my arousal pressing against him. His pupils dilate until there’s just a thin ring of amber gold around the black.
“This isn’t—” he starts, but his breath catches as I shift beneath him. “Fuck, Alex, stop.”
But there’s no conviction in his voice. His body betrays him, responding to the movement with a slight arch of his back. I can feel him hardening against me, his detachment crumbling like a sand castle at high tide.
I always suspected that Vincent might be into men, but Inever had any proof until now. WhyI’mso hard, however, is an entirely different question. And more importantly, why am I getting hard for my stepbrother? I’m not willing to examine either of those questions right now, as there are more pressing matters at hand.
“Tell me why you left,” I demand.
Vincent’s head drops forward, his forehead touching mine. His breath comes in ragged gasps that match my own. Gold glitter transfers from his chest to my clothes, marking my shirt and my hands where they grip his waist.
“It’s not that simple,” he says, and for the first time, there’s a crack in his armor, a glimpse of the real Vincent under the icy facade. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” I insist, one hand sliding up his back, feeling the way his muscles tense under my touch.
