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Like grinding my dick over a nail file.
“Epic,” I mutter.
She leans forward to kiss the side of my mouth.
Subdued, I slide the condom off as I amble to the bathroom. I throw the condom into the trash and turn to the toilet to take a piss. Frowning, I crouch down to examine the pink residue around the rubber. Another unwelcome first.
“Grace?”
“Hmm?” she purrs from the room, grabbing the remote and flipping through channels.
“I think you bled.”
Her metallic laugh is bone rattling as it echoes around my room. “Did I? Oh, it used to happen to me all the time in college.”
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“No idea. I should really get it checked. I’ve been really stressed since the will. Didn’t even use my vibrator once.”
“Call your doctor tomorrow.”
“Yessir.”
I return to the bedroom and watch her, trying to strip down all the lies she is coated with to find out the truth. But she is so good at this. At the charade. She’s always been a beautiful liar.
“All right, future hubby. Come here now.” She reaches for me and drags me down onto the bed with her. “Let’s cuddle a little.”
Who. The. Fuck. Is. This. Woman?
“Since when do we cuddle?”
“Now we’re going to have to start!” she exclaims, back to being fake cheerful. “We’re about to get married, right?”
We try watching something together, but Grace is allergic to documentaries, and I don’t give two damns about stupid reality TV shows where people drink, gossip, and sell houses.
In the end, I let her watch something on Bravo and fall asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ARSÈNE
Three months later, I whisk Grace off to Martha’s Vineyard. A quainter, less glamorous version of Cape Cod. The Hamptons without the shine.
I don’t enjoy Martha’s Vineyard any more than I do the nearest public restroom, but I know that renting a house there makes Grace feel like Michelle Obama.
“My goodness, Arsène, I feel like royalty. What did I ever do to deserve this?” Grace gushes expectedly, cupping her cheeks in faux amazement, twirling in the vast foyer of a dazzling Oak Bluffs mansion.
Managed to become unavailable to me even while living under my roof.
Foolishly, I thought moving Grace in would make us grow closer.
Almost the opposite has been true. Grace works insane hours and doesn’t return home until nine or ten o’clock most days. These past two months alone, she spent half of her weekends in Zurich, working on a complicated merger between two small private banks.
She makes an effort—I’ll give her that. We fuck like rabbits. She makes me breakfast, purchases my favorite ties and cologne, and is diligent about hanging on my arm during formal events.
The dry spell episode in which she bled was a one-off. We’ve been having noteworthy sex since. She has not brought up the anal suggestion again, and I am grateful for it.
She stopped introducing me as her stepbrother and began referring to me as her partner in crime. An unhappy medium between calling me her brother and flat out admitting my dick lives rent-free between her legs.
Manhattan’s financial circles are abuzz with the news that, while waiting for my ban to expire, I’ve decided to move my stepsister in for my own pleasures, and she knows it. What’s more, after years of Grace hammering it into their heads, many people simply think of us as siblings. After all, we do look alike. With our dark hair and eyes.
It is all incredibly messy and, therefore, for me, also exceedingly amusing.
“You deserve this getaway.” I curl my fists inside my front pockets, watching her admiring the imposing columns and wall-to-wall bookshelves. “We barely get to see each other anymore.”
“But when we do, it’s so great. Don’t you think?” She flings her arms around my neck, kissing me.
She rips her mouth from mine before I can kiss her back. “Have I told you how good you look today?” She beams. “Like a brusque king. God, Ars, I don’t think I’ll ever have enough of you.”
She yanks me down the hallway, climbing me like a tree, peeling her clothes off in the process, ready for her first holiday treat. “I’m so glad we’re doing this. I miss you so much whenever we’re not together. I can’t wait to quit this awful job when we get married.” Her mouth is hot and eager on my jaw, making its way down my body. “You’ll buy me a little business to keep me busy, right? A winery or something.”
I snag the back of her neck and slam her against the wall, devouring her mouth in a punishing kiss as our bodies melt together. Heat swirls between us like fire.
“You’re about to get everything your heart desires,” I mumble into her hot skin.
Everything she doesn’t deserve. For the Corbin men have one thing in common—they always know how to choose the wrong woman.
