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Chapter Two
Rose
I don’t normally drink. I never wear something Elizabeth, Mom, bought for me.
I definitely do not forgo underwear. Today has been a day of many firsts. Up until a few hours ago, for instance, I had never seen James nearly naked and sporting a hard-on. We managed to live together in this house for years without it ever happening. I got sloppy and forgot to lock the door.
Did I ever wonder what was going on down the hall every time he brought the cheerleader du jour home? Did I use the plastic cup destined to hold our toothbrushes on the shared vanity to listen to whatever he was doing to them in there that had them grunting and moaning? Maybe. Once or twice. I would never admit that to anyone, least of all him. His ego is so big it needs its own stall when he uses a public bathroom.
My stepbrother has, what I call, a flame personality. When he is in the room, he is the source of light, the source of heat, and he uses up all the oxygen, if allowed. He sets things on fire and revels in watching them burn. He is reveling in watching me burn right now. The cocky asshole pulled out every weapon from his perverted, kinky arsenal and dammit if my treacherous body – at least partly fueled by the alcohol and the previous events of the day – didn’t purr for him like a contented kitten.
I am still leaning against the wall where James left me to simmer after his little stunt, while the guests file in and take their seats. He is waiting for me to move, his steely blue eyes hold a dangerous kind of mischief I have seen in them before but never directed at me. It is affecting me more than I am willing to admit.
“What are you two doing still standing there?” Mom mumbles through a forced smile, as she tugs me by the wrists and pulls me toward the table. “Take your seats so our guests will follow.”
“Yes, Rosy, you’re holding everyone else up,” James taunts me. He is both the man who just whispered all those filthy things into my ear, and the jerk who has always loved getting me in trouble. He thinks he is so damn smooth; I wish I could slap his carefully groomed beard off his perfectly angular chin. I hold my own chin parallel to the floor and do my best to stride to the table. By some miracle the heels I am wearing cooperate and hold me up.
“This is you, buttercup,” he pulls my chair for me. Mom is too busy accepting compliments on this year’s tablescape to notice that James has messed with her carefully crafted sitting plan. Hell. That was my last hope to dodge whatever he has up his cufflinked sleeves.
Almost as if he can read my thoughts, he releases his wrists from their confinement and folds them up one by one. Thick arms sprinkled with dark hair and protruding veins are now on full display, my eyes glued to the scene as if it was an erotic dance. James is painfully, naturally handsome, anyone with half a brain and a quarter of a cornea can see that. He knows it and uses it in his favor, always fighting as dirty as he can. The kind of handsome that has mastered the art of putting itself on display. That is what this is. He is putting on a show. I am his reluctant, yet captive audience.
My heart is throbbing against my ribs, and something else is throbbing between my legs as I watch him.
It’s James, Rose! Get a grip. Don’t give him the satisfaction!
“I’m digging into a delicious meal,” he wiggles his fingers for my benefit. “Wouldn’t want to get these dirty,” he says matter-of-factly once he notices me staring.
“Meticulous,” I manage to mumble, my mouth as dry as a desert in the peak of summer.
I take a large sip from my freshly poured wine glass, just before feeling James’ warm, rough, determined hand travel up my leg. I jump out of my skin, managing not to spill the contents of my glass on the unsuspecting table mate to my right. The friction of his warm skin directly on mine has my mouth releasing a low gasp I couldn’t manage to contain.
I try in vain to pull my leg away, only to feel James’ foot hooking on to my calf, pulling my leg apart from the other. I keep my eyes fixed on Dad, who has just taken his seat across the table next to Mom, my features as stoic as I can manage. Under no circumstance are our parents to know what is happening literally right under their noses.
“Everyone, dig in,” Dad announces, planting a sweet kiss on mom’s temple, and James’ loaded laughter fills my ears.
“Aye aye, captain.”
He’s pretending to be immersed in polite conversation with a colleague of Dad’s wearing an unfortunate toupee to his left, all the while moving his hand higher up my inner thigh. My skin is burning under his touch, the heat from the contact making its way straight to my cheeks. I should push him away, but I’m too entranced, and quite frankly, curious.The arrival of the appetizers is a welcome distraction.
I venture a look to the side, my eyes screaming ‘what the hell are you doing.’ Without making a peep he mouths the word ‘proof’ at me. I don’t know what he means, but I know it can’t be good. I try to get his hand away but it’s no use, it is firmly planted. I can’t make it budge without making a scene.
Mom notices James reaching over across his plate to grab the smallest of the forks. “Serves you right, sweetie. You weren’t supposed to be sitting there,” Elizabeth says to her son. The blue eyes they share accusing him jokingly. “Your cutlery wouldn’t all be on the wrong side for you if you did what was expected of you.” This sly left-handed bastard sat me to his right, so he could still eat while he tortures me.
“You have me mistaken for Rosy, Mom. I don’t do the expected thing.” With that, his hand inches higher up my leg. “I like to push the envelope.”
“Just don’t push my nerves while you are at it, Archie.” Elizabeth tries to sound stern, but as usual when it comes to her son, she fails. As far as she is concerned, he hung the moon and half the stars.
“It is perfectly okay to push, Mom, if you know what you are doing.” James squeezes my thigh as he nonchalantly replies. My head whips in his direction, only to discover him grinding his teeth at the feel of my flesh molding around his fingers. I’m entranced by the sight of him, light tingles flow down my spine and lodge exactly where they shouldn’t.
“I don’t know, Liza, darling. I know you like things the way you planned them,” Dad’s voice pulls me out of my stupor, “and Lord knows I love to stare at you from across the table. But being able to see the kids’ faces at dinner is nice. We don’t see nearly enough of either of you.”
“It is nice to see you too, Dad,” James replies. I try to detect insincerity in his tone, there is none. His words are as resolute as his fingers. They have moved from my thigh and are now cupping my bare sex. I can hardly swallow the gasp of surprise. I take it out on my fork instead. I’m holding on to it so tightly, I can feel it digging into my skin. “And I am all for trying new things.” A crooked smile is plastered on his otherwise perfectly composed face, his tongue darting to his lips to leave a trail of moisture too suggestive for my fragile position.
I can’t believe he’s touching me like this. I can’t believe I’m not pushing him away.
James coats his middle finger in my wetness before inflicting his torture just once on my oversensitive clit. He’s hardly done anything, and I’m completely destroyed. I’m not sure reciting the names of all the forty-six presidents in a loop will ease my mind into a more controlled state.
“So, tell me, my Rosy girl, where were you coming from?” Dad asks. I don’t understand the question, though I can’t be sure the reason behind my sudden onset of stupidity isn’t directly related to the fact that my stepbrother has his damn hand between my legs.
