My Billionaire Stepbrother by Jillian Sterling

instinctively rock away from his
body, my back arcing, increasing the angle and of him inside me. He sucks in
his breath.
    “Yes! Do that again.”
    I oblige, my hips finding a rhythm,
toying with him inside me. When I roll my hips back towards him my clit rubs
against him, making us both shudder.
    “Oh!”
    It’s a discovery that makes me
happier than buried treasure. I do it again and again, rubbing myself frantic,
taking his cock deeper and deeper. We’re building momentum, the friction
against my clit and the deep pounding of his cock assaulting my senses from
every side.
    Remington moans and kisses me,
wrapping both his arms around my shoulders, and holds me steady while he pounds
out my brains, pounds out everything in the world except his cock. His cock.
His cock! Yes!
    “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
    “Oh god! Yes!”
    “Rem! Rem! Oh!”
    “Fuck! Oh!”
    He thrusts once more and shudders, tossing
his head back, our bodies exploding together: I feel his cum hot and sticky
inside me, the warmth spreading through my veins like fire as my body clamps
down and throbs over him.
    “Oh god!” I moan. “Oh yes!”
    My first time and three climaxes?!
This can’t be real.
    This can’t be.
    This.
    Oh god, it is! Remington’s cock is
still inside me and I can feel my inner muscles spasm around him, reluctant to
let him go. He is holding me against him with the force of desperation, his
pleasure still playing out over his handsome face. Letting myself move, I slide
my wet breasts over his chest and kiss his neck, burying my face against his
chest. Waiting for my heart to stop pounding.
    Oh god. It happened. It’s
happening.
    I just had sex.
    For the first time in my life.
In a tropical ocean.
    With Remington Wilde.

 
     
    Chapter Nine
    Remington Byron Wilde
    North Island
    The Seychelles, Africa
     
    What has gotten into me? Ever since
I met my new “stepsister,” it’s like I’ve lost all sense of control and
devolved into a punch-drunk sex maniac, desperate for a taste of that hot
sticky honey only she could give me, hungry for one particular flavor that’s
rare and forbidden and completely out of my usual taste.
    And now that I’ve had her, is my
thirst quenched? Is my idiotic lust satisfied?
    Nope.
    Fuck.
    I don’t understand this. I can’t
quantify or label what is happening to me. I haven’t been this obsessive and
horny since…well, puberty. And back then, the heat I felt was directed at any
and all women, any and all of the time.
    Not just one.
    Not just Veronique.
    And, being the seventh richest man
in the world, any and all women were available – any and all of the time.
    For as long as I can remember, finding
satisfaction of the physical nature was easy as 1,2,3. It’s gotten to the point
where it’s boring. There were always women who wanted to do what I wanted.
    And I always got what I wanted.
    Too easy.
    Because all those women? Basically
the same: gold-diggers, fame-seekers, fakers and self-promoters. It was easy to
use them, because I know deep down they were trying to use me too.
    I’m just better at the game than
anybody else.
    When you’re rich and famous your
whole life, you learn early on that you have to operate on a different playing
field; every mistake winds up in the papers, every indiscretion can cost the
family face and fortune. Sure, it’s easy to bury the consequences with money
and throw cash at all your mistakes, but it gets old fast. I realized quick
that very few people around me actually cared about me or see me as a real
person. I’m a concept, a headline: Remington Wilde, billionaire, tabloid
darling, eligible bachelor, meal ticket.
    There’s no one trustworthy. No one
has my back.
    No one other than my parents ever
passed even my most basic qualifications for the giving of true fucks;
basically, it’s always been easier to fuck with no fucks given. People – women
especially – were always more interested in what I have than in who I am. My
parents did their best to