Ruined By My Stepbrother novel · Chapter 7 of 32

Chapter 7: Upstairs

We dripped on my kitchen floor.

My apartment is one bedroom over the restaurant, and on a storm night it smells like the chowder I made at noon.

The only light was the one over my stove.

Barrett stood with his back against the door, soaked to the skin, breathing hard.

He didn't reach for me.

He was waiting.

"Last time you stopped," I said.

"Last time he'd just left your kitchen."

"And now?"

"Now it's raining, and you're standing in front of me in a wet chef's coat, and I can't think about anybody else."

I unbuttoned the coat myself, one button at a time, and let it fall on the floor.

Under it I had on an old gray tank top, wet through.

His eyes went down and came back up.

Slowly. Not pretending.

"Hattie," he said. "Your mother..."

"My mother is in Nova Scotia eating lobster."

"Our parents..."

"Are married to each other. Not to us." I took a step toward him. "I'm twenty-eight. You're thirty-two. We met eleven days ago behind a tent. Ask me."

He swallowed.

"Do you want this?"

"Yes."

"Tonight?"

"Yes. Here. All of it. Stop asking."

He laughed, low and wrecked, and then his hands were on my face and he was kissing me.

He tasted like rain and like waiting.

I got his wet shirt up and off and dropped it on the floor.

My hands went flat on his chest, then lower, to his belt.

He made a sound against my mouth and let me walk him back.

Through the doorway, past the bathroom, into the dark of my bedroom.

The streetlight through the half-open blinds cut us both in stripes.

I pushed him until his knees hit the bed, and he went down on his back.

Then I climbed onto him, one knee on either side of his hips.

The deck chair creaked once in my head, and I pushed the thought away.

But he didn't let me.

"This feel familiar?" His voice was low and rough.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know exactly what I mean." His hands came up to my hips, hard. "You remember the chair."

"I remember you said it was a bad idea."

"I did." He pulled me down against him, and I felt how hard he was through his wet jeans. "I was right."

"I said I wanted a bad idea."

"And here I am."

I leaned down and bit his bottom lip, and he bucked up under me.

Then everything went fast, and I wanted it fast.

He got my tank top off, then my bra, and his mouth went to my breast and I stopped thinking.

I was still in my work pants, soaked through and clinging.

He flipped us, fast, and had me on my back with my pants down my legs and gone.

The air hit me everywhere, warm and wet from the storm.

He stood at the foot of the bed and undid his jeans and pushed them down and stepped out of them.

The streetlight ran down his chest and over his cock, and I looked, and he let me look.

"Happy?" he said.

"Get back down here."

"Yes, Chef."

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