My Stepbrother Banned My Fish Fry, So I Made Him Beg novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Dry Store

Hate becomes a kiss against the flour sacks and Karl goes to his knees; she comes twice, leaves him wanting and says seconds are Friday.

"To your face," Karl said.

He took my hand off his chest, and for one second I thought he was going to unlatch the door.

He put my hand around the back of his neck instead and kissed me.

It was not a good kiss, not at first.

It was teeth and anger and three months of him looking through me at every family dinner.

I bit his bottom lip hard enough to make him growl.

He backed me into the flour sacks so fast the top one slid off and thumped on the floor.

"You're a pain in my ass," he said against my mouth.

"You're an asshole," I said, and I opened his belt.

He laughed once, rough and surprised.

Then his hands were under my shirt.

They were big and warm and callused from kegs.

They went straight up my ribs and pushed my bra up out of the way.

He closed his mouth over my nipple through the thin cotton of my shirt.

Then he dragged the shirt up and did it again with nothing between us.

I made a sound I had never made in front of anybody.

"Quiet, Chicago," he said into my skin. "There are ninety people through that wall."

"Then make me."

He drew my nipple into his mouth and sucked, hard, and I dug my fingers into his hair and held him there.

My hips were already moving.

He pushed one thigh between my legs, and I ground down on it.

The denim was rough through my work pants, and it hit exactly the right place.

"Look at you," he muttered. "Three months of acting like you can't stand me."

"I can't."

"You're humping my leg," he said.

"Shut up, Hartmann."

His hand slid down the front of my pants and under the band of my underwear.

He cupped my pussy, hot and slick, and pressed the heel of his palm against my clit.

I clutched his shoulders and rocked into it.

"Fuck," he said, low. "You're drenched."

"Because you're an asshole and I want you anyway."

I rode his thigh harder.

He took my face in his free hand and made me look at him.

"Say it again," he said.

"I want you anyway. I'm going to ruin you in this room, Hartmann."

"Try."

I kissed him until neither of us could breathe, and then I bit his chin.

I could feel his cock through his jeans, thick and hot against my stomach.

I got my hand between us and pressed my palm down the whole length of it.

He swore, low and long.

"Take it out," he said.

"Not yet."

I turned him by the shoulders until his back was against the sacks and mine was to the shelves.

I put both hands flat on his chest.

I wanted to see his face when I took something from him.

"You don't get to say what happens in here," I said. "You already said enough to a whole room."

His eyes were dark and wild.

"Then you tell me what happens."

"Your belt. Open it all the way."

He did.

He shoved his jeans down his hips.

His cock stood out, flushed and heavy, with a bead of wet at the tip.

I wrapped my fist around it.

He hissed through his teeth, and his head knocked back against the sacks.

"Slow," he said. "Wrobel. Slow."

"I'll decide how slow."

I stroked him from the base to the head with a tight, easy grip, and I watched the muscles in his stomach jump.

I rubbed my thumb through the wet at the tip and spread it down.

His hands closed into fists against the flour sacks.

He didn't touch me.

He looked at my face and kept his hands where they were, and that did more to me than any touch could have.

"On your knees," I said.

I had not known I was going to say it.

For a moment he did not move.

Then he held my eyes and went down slowly, one knee and then the other, on the concrete floor of his family's dry store.

He pushed my apron up and got his hands on the button of my work pants.

"Tell me to stop," he said, and it was a dare.

"Open them."

He opened them.

He dragged my pants and underwear down to my boots in one rough pull, and the cold air from the floor vent hit my skin.

I stepped one foot free.

He caught my bare thigh and hooked my leg over his shoulder.

I grabbed the steel shelf behind me with both hands, and the cans on it rattled.

He put his face between my legs and breathed in.

I felt his breath, hot on my pussy, before he touched me.

"You're wet," he said, and he sounded furious about it.

"I've been wet since the dining room."

"Christ."

He licked me, one long slow stroke from the bottom to my clit.

My head hit the shelf behind me.

He did it again, and then he found the exact place and stayed there.

He worked his tongue in small hard circles, and my knee shook against his shoulder.

His stubble scraped the inside of my thigh.

It burned, and I wanted it to burn more.

"There," I said. "Right there. Don't stop."

He did not stop.

He groaned against me, and the sound shivered through my clit.

"You taste like the best thing I've ever had in my mouth," he said, and went back to work.

I had never heard him say anything that wasn't a complaint.

I held his head and rolled my hips against his tongue.

He slid two fingers inside me, thick and slow, and curled them forward.

I bit my own wrist to keep from crying out.

The room smelled of flour and cardboard and my own skin.

Through the wall I could hear the television, and ninety people laughing at something.

Someone knocked on the door.

Three quick knocks, and then the latch rattled.

"Chef?" It was the server, the twenty-year-old who was afraid of me. "Table nine wants their check, and the bar is out of lime."

Karl's tongue did not even slow down.

I took my wrist out of my mouth.

"One minute!" I said, and my voice came out almost steady.

"Okay! Sorry!"

Her footsteps went away down the hall.

Karl looked up at me from between my legs, his mouth wet and his eyes black.

He smiled for the first time since June.

"One minute," he said. "Is that what you've got?"

"Shut up and make it less."

He sucked my clit between his lips, and his fingers pushed deeper and rubbed the front wall of me in time with his tongue.

My whole body drew tight.

"Hartmann," I said, because his last name was the only word I had left. "Hartmann, I'm going to-"

"Do it."

I came with my hands wrenching the shelf and my mouth open on a silent shout.

The pleasure rose from deep in my pussy and went through every muscle.

He kept licking me through it, slow and then slower.

I was shaking and too sensitive, and I tried to push his head away.

He caught my thigh and held me where I was.

"Not yet," he said. "You said one minute."

He put his tongue on my clit again, very light.

I came a second time almost before the first was over, so hard my knee gave out.

He caught me as I slid down the shelf and took my weight on his arm.

I ended up half on the flour sack, with my shirt around my ribs and my pants around one boot.

My thighs trembled.

My pussy was still pulsing, and I could feel my own wet on my thighs.

He put his forehead against my knee and breathed.

"That was the best thing I've ever watched," he said into my skin. "I'm not even going to lie about it."

"Good."

"Is that all you've got?" he asked.

"For now."

He knelt between them with his mouth shining and his chest heaving.

He was so hard his cock stood out from his open jeans, and the belt hung loose.

He stared at me with his lips parted.

"Fuck," he said. "You're-"

He did not finish.

I put my foot on his chest and pushed him gently, and he sat back on his heels.

I got my pants up with one hand and tugged my shirt down with the other.

He watched me do it.

"Wrobel," he started.

"No."

It came out firmer than I felt.

I sat up and reached for him.

I took his cock in my hand again and stroked him, fast and tight, with my other hand cupped under his balls.

He groaned and threw his head back.

I squeezed at the base, and I felt his whole length throb against my palm.

His hips pushed into my fist, helpless.

His breath was coming in short, ragged pulls, and the first drop ran down over my knuckles.

I leaned in and kissed his open mouth, slow and deep, while my fist kept the pace that would not let him finish.

He kissed me back hungrily.

His hands came up and gripped my hips, and I let them stay.

"Please," he said into my mouth. "Please. Wrobel."

"Close," he said. "I'm so close, fuck, Wrobel, I'm-"

I slowed to nothing.

"Wrobel, please," he gasped.

"Please what?"

"Let me-"

I let go.

He made a sound that was almost a sob, and his hips jerked toward my empty hand.

I found the string of my apron and tied it behind my back, slowly, while he knelt there gripping the base of himself.

"You want it?" I said.

His throat moved.

"You know I do."

"Good," I said. "It's the first thing you've wanted from me."

I picked up the fallen sack and set it back on the pile.

I wiped my palms on my apron.

I put my hand on the latch.

"Wrobel, don't make me walk out there like this."

"Fix your jeans, Stepbrother. And fix your face."

I threw the latch open.

The hallway was empty, and I could hear the kitchen clattering.

I looked back at him on his knees on the dry-store floor, with his shirt hanging off one shoulder and my taste on his chin.

"Seconds are Friday," I said.

I walked out and went back to my fryer.

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