It was better than I ever imagined.
I'm already picturing round two.
His long, hard body over mine, his hands on my hips, his cock driving into me again and again.
Ahem. "You won't say anything to Harrison?"
She shoots me a death glare. "Are you really asking that?"
"He's your husband now."
She swoons for a second. Then she course corrects. "Never, Vee. Never. You're my sister. That comes before anything else. Always."
"You promise?"
"I promise." She offers her pinkie. The way we swore when we were kids.
I hook my finger around hers.
We pinkie swear.
And, all of a sudden, I'm a nervous teenager again.
Hungry for her approval.
Desperate to fit into my new family. The kingdom of the rich and powerful. The old money elite at our school.
But I didn't. I never did. I wasn't the only black girl, but I was the only one with an asterisk next to my name.
Not the daughter of New York's biggest defense attorney or the sister of the cute blonde ballerina.
The stepdaughter.
The stepsister.
The girl who didn't earn her spot.
Even now, people add adopted when they ask about my family.
Especially now, I stand out.
Lee never treats me less-than. She's seen me as a sister since the day we met.
But at school, parties, work—
It's my issue. Not hers.
And I want to tell her, I do.
But some part of me refuses. Some part of me wants to hold this close.
I tell her a few details. I sip milky English breakfast and eat overcooked eggs and ask about her and Harrison.
Eventually, she relents, starts talking about her husband, asks me to walk her to a family event.
Even though I stay busy—post gala calls and emails, a run around the reservoir, a few episodes of The Americans—I keep thinking of Simon.
The sound of his groan in my ears.
The taste of his skin.
The feel of his cock driving into me again and again.
I need him again.
I don't want to need him again, but I do.
Chapter Five
SIMON
All night, my thoughts drift to Vanessa.
During every break in my day.
In the middle of meetings.
On the ride home.
When my kid sister, Opal, greets me with her usual fanfare. "Oh my god, Simon, finally! I'm starving."
"Then why did you wait?"
"Because I want to hear the beginning of your love story."
Opal is my half-sister, but she's a Pierce through and through—determined, focused, high-achieving.
She's also an eighteen-year-old girl.
Romantic, stylish, obsessed with the secrets of her inner circle.
There's only one way to deal with her interest—ignoring it.
I move into the kitchen. Pull our dinners from the fridge.
Before Opal lived here, I used a meal delivery service so bland it "made her tastebuds cry." I didn't mind the lack of flavor.
I treated food the way I treated sex: a need to be filled.
The meals nourished. What did it matter they were plain?
I don't have the time to prepare dinner. According to Opal, I don't have the skill either.
She's an excellent cook. Heavy on the cayenne. But I wasn't about to dump this responsibility on my teenage sister.
I'm her older brother, her surrogate father even. It's my job to take care of her. To make sure she's clothed, has a bed, is safe.
So I found a new service, one with more flavorful meals and dairy-free options—she's allergic. She hates how much I fuss, but I don't let that stop me.
Now that I sit down to dinner with her every night, I actually taste my food. I look forward to the ritual.
Family dinner.
It's everything.
"Simon." She tries to push past me. When that fails—I'm twice her size—she ducks, moves around me. "Why don't you admit to your love?"
"Cashew chicken or sesame?"
She makes a show of pouting.
"I can eat both."
"Cashew."
I heat the food on the stove.
She stands at the kitchen island, waiting extremely impatiently. "So…"
"Did you finish your homework?"
"It's summer." And she's taking an art class.
"Did you?"
"Simon."
"Yes or no?"
"Yes, Mr. Grumpy Pants." She taps the tile. "You were totally swooning when you came in."
I don't reply.
"Thinking of your new love?"
The stir-fry sizzles. Warm enough. I turn off the stove, scoop our dinner onto ceramic plates, bring both to the island. "Chopsticks or fork?"
"Details."
I grab her a fork.
She pouts.
So I grab chopsticks too.
"Simon!"
"Opal."
"Do we really need to do the coy thing? It's so played."
"It's played?"
"Yes. How many times have I caught you staring at Vanessa? A hundred? A thousand?"
She hasn't seen Vanessa and me together a hundred times, much less a thousand. "She's a beautiful woman."
"Strange how you don't stare longingly at any other beautiful woman."
"I do. You don't notice."
"Really? Who?"
I hand her the hot sauce.
She covers her food in it. And I mean covers. Opal has an absurdly high spice tolerance.
We used to fight about it. I was worried she'd wear a hole in her stomach. She told me I was ridiculous but agreed to see a GI doctor if it would end my complaints.
She knows exactly what buttons to push.