Protection: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Page 11

  “You like that, honey?” I ask, reaching up to brush back her hair.

  “Yes,” she whispers. She starts to move, really move on me, up and down, pumping me a little harder and a little harder.

  I reach up and pinch her nipples; she’s so tight on me that I can feel her clench with pleasure as I touch her. I want to encourage her, help her lose herself. Make her come so hard that she sees stars.

  “Fuck,” I say. “You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Fuck me just like that, Elly. Yeah, damn.”

  I keep thinking she’s going to hit her stride, start to lose herself in it, but she doesn’t. She’s just too timid, maybe.

  “Elly?” I ask, dropping my hands to her hips. “Do you want me to be on top?”

  “Yes,” she whispers. The gratitude in her voice makes me feel like a complete asshole for making her do something she doesn’t like.

  “You have to tell me what you like, okay?” I ask.

  A little voice in the back of my head says that this is kind of fucking weird, but I’m too fucking lost in the feel of her to really notice.

  I lift her with ease and flip her over, grabbing a pillow and wedging it under her lower back. Elly’s response is loud and instant: she moans and rakes her nails down my shoulders when I sink deep into her.

  “You like that?” I ask.

  “Yes, yes,” she cries.

  Easy as that, I guess. She likes being dominated.

  That thought spurs me on. I press one of her knees up, giving me deeper access, and Elly gives a half-scream of pure pleasure. Damn. I forgot how flexible she is.

  I fuck her fast and hard and deep, trying my best to think about anything but how good her pussy feels.

  “Fuck, you are so fucking good. Damn,” I keep telling her.

  Her nails score my back, her core grips me so tight that I’m about to lose my damn mind if I can’t come soon. I shift position a little and lean back, using my thumb to rub her clit in soft circles.

  “Come for me, Elly,” I urge her. “I want to feel you come on my cock while I fuck you.”

  Elly goes wild, shuddering and pulsing under me, gripping me almost painfully as she comes, screaming my fucking name.

  Yes. Fuck, yes.

  I grab her hips again and pound her as hard as I can, the orgasm ripping its way up out of my body. For several long seconds all I can feel is the way I’m jetting into her, thinking about filling her in every way possible.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, I think in time with each finishing thrust.

  I think I black out for a second, maybe.

  I open my eyes and I’m crushing Elly against the mattress, her breathing harsh against my chest.

  “Shit, sorry,” I say, rolling over and pulling her close. “Fuck, I think you almost killed me.”

  Elly sort of laughs, but she doesn’t say anything.

  Already thinking of the repercussions? I wonder. I’m not, yet. But I’m sure I will be soon. That’s how my fucking asshole brain works.

  For the moment, I just lie there and try to breathe. I hold Elly, try to enjoy that since I doubt I’ll get to do it again.

  Because as amazing as this has been, as much as I’d like to do nothing else but fuck Elly all day and all night, basically every minute of the day forever and feel her come against my lips and around my cock…

  We can’t do this again. I know without a doubt that we absolutely can’t, because I’m already having trouble with the idea of not fucking her. Of letting her go.

  Yep, there it is. My asshole brain fires to life, and as I lie there with Elly in my arms, I convince myself of all the reasons why I will never, ever get to do this again.

  It’s better this way, I promise myself.

  …right?

  Chapter Eleven

  Elly

  “Are you drunk?”

  I glance over at Connor as he walks into the hotel bar. I’m sitting alone at the mostly empty bar, though Bill is at the far end of the bar nursing a glass of soda water. I shrug and sip my gin martini, turning back to watch the TV.

  “Look, ma, I’m on the television,” I say in lieu of an answer.

  Connor sighs and takes the bar stool next to mine, turning his attention to the TV. There’s an E! True Hollywood Story on, and it’s about me. I look Connor up and down, unable to hold back my interest. He’s wearing this deep navy sweater that brings out the jungle green tones in his eyes, and these jeans that are molded to his rugged frame in a way that’s doing frankly unfair things to my hormones.

  He’s also gotten a haircut, and his dark hair is slickly styled in a way that makes me want to run my fingers through it, mess it up. Give him bed head, like…

  Like he’s been in bed with me.

  Fuck off with that, I tell myself.

  “What the fuck is this?” Connor asks.

  I shrug again. “Not flattering, that’s for sure.”

  The bartender comes over. Connor slides me a look.

  “Let me get a double of Buffalo Trace on the rocks,” he says.

  I give him a surprised look. This is the first time I’ve seen him drink this whole tour. Then again, this is my first drink of the tour.

  Well, no. This is my third drink, but that’s not the point.

  He accepts his drink with a mumbled thanks, and goes back to watching the TV.

  “What have you ever done to merit this?” he asks, nodding to the TV.

  I snort and sip my martini.

  “Didn’t you know? I come from a tragically white trash past,” I intone.

  Connor glances at me.

  “Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?” he asks.

  “Funny you should ask. First time I’ve seen you in three days. Since we fucked, actually.”

  Connor’s whole body tenses, then he seems to force himself to relax.

  “You’re upset.”

  Duh. You are a bigger idiot than me if you didn’t know that already.

  “Nope,” I say, tossing back the rest of my drink. “Just enjoying my break from the tour in style. I’ve got six days off, and I plan to spend them wisely. By that I mean, drunkenly.”

  Connor waves the bartender over.

  “Another round for her. And can you please turn the fucking TV off?”

  The guy winces and scuttles off to do Connor’s bidding.

  “Do you have to be so crass?” I ask.

  Connor sips his whiskey and looks thoughtful.

  “You seemed to like it well enough the other night,” he says after a second.

  “Fuck. Off.”

  “Now who’s crass?”

  “At least I’m not a fucking asshole,” I tell him.

  His lips thin, but his head dips in a nod.

  “Fine. I deserve that, but… you know why this is happening.”

  “There’s nothing happening that I can see, except you interrupting my attempt to get drunk. Alone.”

  “Elly…”

  “Seriously, Connor? You wanna take me to bed and then ghost on me, fine. But do you really need to talk about how much of a dick you are? Just leave me alone.”

  He blows out a breath.

  “I don’t want to fight,” he says after a minute.

  “Fine.”

  We drink quietly. I find myself wishing that the TV was still on, even if the bartender’s choice of program was less than stellar.

  “Elly—” he starts again.

  “Connor, seriously. Please fucking leave.”

  “I need you to understand—”

  “No. If you absolutely have to sit here, you can either shut the fuck up or talk about literally anything else.” I give him my most serious expression, which is hard when I’m this tipsy. “This topic is closed, just like my legs.”

  His momentary shock makes me feel like a million damn dollars. Or maybe that’s just the martini. Martinis.

  Then he laughs and shakes his head.

  “You are fucking ridiculous right now.”

  “Am not.” I
give him side eye, and he cracks up again.

  “How long have you been down here?” he asks.

  “Ohhhh, pleennnnty long, I assure you.”

  “Is that a Southern accent?” he asks, cocking his head.

  “Ayup,” I say. “Mississippi proud. Well, actually, not proud. At all.”

  “When did you move to New York?” he asks.

  “When I was fifteen.”

  “Why did your mom move back to Mississippi?”

  “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?” I sigh. “She never moved away. I went to New York without her. We had our final blow-out fight and she told me I would never make it in the business without her. So I took a grand out of the stash box under her bed and ran away. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Holy shit, Elly.”

  “Clearly you haven’t watched my E! True Hollywood Story,” I joke.

  “I always thought all that stuff was made up,” he says, signaling the bartender for another whisky.

  “Not if your mom gets hard up for money and sells them your story.”

  This time, his shock doesn’t make me feel an ounce of pride.

  “What?!” he asks, his eyes flashing with anger.

  “Yeah. Some of it, I can’t believe she admitted to. Like… who tells a TV network that they let their boyfriend feel up their thirteen year old daughter?” I shove my empty martini glass at the bartender, then turn and pin Connor with a hard gaze. “My mother, that’s who.”

  “Jesus, Elly. I didn’t know…”

  Connor fucking Gray is actually at a loss for words. It’s a strange thing to see.

  “Well, I mean, I probably should have told you before we slept together. I’m damaged goods in a lot of ways,” I say. I reach out and snag some smoked almonds from a bowl on the bar.

  “Hey,” Connor says, grabbing my hand. “That’s not true.”

  “It is.” I pull from his grip and get the almonds to my mouth. “I keep thinking, about my stalker, you know? I wonder if he knew what a mess I am, if he’d still be stalking me.”

  Connor’s expression goes from stormy to black.

  “Don’t say shit like that.”

  “You don’t own me, Connor.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not going to let you trash yourself. You sure as fuck don’t deserve it.”

  I laugh, an ugly kind of sound. I really am so full of self-loathing right now. Mainly I’m fucking pissed that I let a jerk like Connor send me into this shame-spiral. I’m too far gone to stop myself, though.

  “It’s cool,” I tell him. “Did I ever tell you that I used to date Bryan James?”

  “The guy from that boy band?” Connor asks. “Uh, no, you didn’t mention it.”

  “Yeah. It was when I first started out in the business, or rather when I was on my own for the first time.” I wave at the bartender, which makes Connor scowl again, but he doesn’t interrupt. “Anyway, we dated for a year. Almost a year, whatever. He got my number from someone, he said. He asked me out. Took me to clubs and restaurants, back when I was underage and still pretty broke. It seemed really great.”

  Connor shifts in his seat for a second, and I think, Good, be uncomfortable, you jerk.

  “So we go out a few dozen times. Like a ton, always in front of paparazzi. Our photo is everywhere. My publicists at the time were going ape shit, because people were calling to ask who I am, can they get an interview, whatever.” I thank the bartender and sip my new martini.

  “What I don’t realize, of course, is that they set this whole fucking thing up from the beginning. There never was any mutual friend, Brian didn’t see me at a party. He paid them to pick someone, and I was a cheap option with no nasty back story.”

  “That sucks,” Connor says. I can tell that he’s confused as to why I’m telling him this story. I kind feel the same way, honestly.

  “So we go out for a long while, like six months at least. I start to realize that something’s kind of wrong, because unless we’re in front of the cameras, he barely even looks my way. No kissing, certainly nothing sexual. I start to think, well maybe he doesn’t really like me? So I work up the nerve to come onto him. Drunk, of course, at some shitty dark club.” I pause.

  “He pushes me off and asks me what the fuck I think I’m doing. I’m all confused. And then he asks, ‘Do you not know what’s going on here? I’m gay. You’re my beard.’ I practically died of embarrassment.”

  I put my drink down, clinking the stem of the glass against the bar a little too hard.

  “And that was my only boyfriend. Ever,” I finish.

  A slow look of horror comes over Connor’s face. He sets his drink down, swallowing.

  “Are you telling me that I took your fucking V-card?” he asks in a hushed voice.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve had a couple of one night stands.”

  Now he just looks disgusted.

  “You’ve… I…” he stops. “What the fuck, Elly.”

  Not a question, just a statement of frustration. I get that. I find myself frustrating, too.

  “I’m not really sure why I told you that. Can I ask you a question?” I say, jumping topics.

  He gives me a wary look.

  “About your job,” I clarify.

  “Um, alright.”

  “Knowing who I am, knowing about our parents, why did you take this job?”

  He hesitates, as if trying to decide how much to tell me. How honest he can be with me.

  “When I found out that my dad was planning to marry your mom, I tried to get out of the contract.”

  “Nice,” I say with a snort.

  “They offered my boss a ton of money, because they needed someone…”

  “Who looks like you,” I finished for him. “You’ve said as much before.”

  “Yeah. It was too much for me to turn down. I have a lot of… obligations.”

  “What, like gambling debt?” I ask him. I know his answer before he says it; Connor’s way too regimented to have gambled himself into debt.

  “No, nothing like that.” His expression is hard, not inviting questions about it.

  “Alright. Fine. Since we’re here, I want to talk about something else. I want you to tell me what you were about to say that day we went to get lobster fries.” I hiccup and shake my head to clear it. “The thing about how I pay all my friends, or whatever.”

  “You are fucking drunk,” he says.

  “So?”

  “At the moment, I was feeling bad for you. All the people around you act like they’re your friends, and you let them use that friendship to control you.”

  “That is not accurate, at all.”

  “No? You don’t let Gisella tell you how many calories to eat? You don’t let that trainer of yours go, ‘Aw, shucks’ and punch you on the arm and joke about how you’d get fat if he wasn’t around?”

  My jaw drops.

  “Only a friend could say that!” I manage after a second.

  “No. That douchebag is not your friend. You’re paying him like two grand a week. Or someone is, Raven Media or something. He’s not as bad as Brad and Gisella, though. Those two work you like a fucking puppet. They say terrible shit to you and boss you around, and you smile and take it.”

  I can’t even look at him.

  “Bartender!” I think for a second. “Four shots of tequila, please.”

  “You aren’t drinking four shots of tequila,” Connor sighs.

  “No, I’m drinking two. The other two are for you, asshole.”

  The guy pours the shots, and I slam them back to back, not waiting for the lime wedge. I wince and gag a little.

  “Gross,” I say, chasing it with my martini, which is even worse.

  I look at Connor, and his two shots are still on the bar.

  “Take the fucking shots,” I say, pointing a finger right in his face. His temper visibly flares, and he grabs my hand.

  “Don’t put your finger in my face, Elly.”

 
; “Or what?” I sass him, intending to provoke. “Take your damn shots, you big fucking baby.”

  He rolls his eyes but takes them both, back to back like I did.

  “Ugh, why,” he sighs when he’s done. I can finally see the alcohol hitting him a little, which I find satisfying for some reason.

  “That ex, the one from the show?”

  Connor eyes me with a frown.

  “What about her?”

  “Why’s she an ex? A shitty ex, if I remember right.”

  He looks away, straightening his spine.

  “She cheated on me while I was serving overseas,” he says.

  “Shit. You want another shot?”

  “Fuck, no.”

  “Y’all were serious?” I ask, my Southern drawl really starting to come out.

  Connor’s lips twitch, despite the subject.

  “I’d say so. She was wearing my ring.”

  “You— you were engaged?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  “That bitch!” I feel really strongly about this, suddenly.

  “With my C.O. no less,” he says. Glancing at me, he adds, “My commanding officer.”

  “Damn! That’s cold.”

  “She had veins of ice, that’s for sure. Didn’t cry until I made her give back my ring.” He mulls it over. “When I proposed, my dad didn’t approve. He wouldn’t give me my mom’s wedding ring to do it, and I was pissed. Now I’m glad.”

  “Cause… cause you’re saving it for someone else,” I say softly.

  He glances at me, then shrugs.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really date, per se.”

  “Ah. So the condom…”

  “Jesus, Elly. You really are fucking drunk right now. I told you yesterday, I’m clean as a fucking whistle. You think I don’t get that shit checked on the regular, you’re as crazy as you are full of booze.”

  I huff.

  “You on the pill, then?” he asks.

  “Why do you want to know?” I ask, finishing my drink and pushing it away with no little disgust.

  “Just… curious, I guess. Making conversation.”

  “About my repr—” I stop and hiccup again. “Reproductive decisions? I don’t think so, chief.”

  “Chief?” he says. “Okay. It’s time to get you to bed.”

  “You wish,” I say, pushing him away when he tries to get me off my bar stool. “You’re the reason I’m drinking in the first place.”