My Billionaire Stepbrother by Jillian Sterling Page B

penniless
daughter of his…she interests me, more than I care to admit. Veronique has
pride. Spark. And yes, beauty – though that is not hard to come by in my world,
hers is unique: innocent and sensual, exotic and elegant all at the same time.
She is so un-self-conscious. She seems so genuine, so down to earth. There’s
something about her I can’t put my finger on, and the more time I spend with
her, the more intriguing she becomes. Not just hot, but actually fascinating.
    Which is frustrating.
    I don’t want her to be intriguing.
I want her to be easy come and easy go.
    Or do I really want her to go?
    And that’s all just a tiny personal
problem – plenty of business is sitting on my desk upstairs too, needing
attention.
    I don’t have time to fool around
with my stepsister or sort through all this nonsense with my mother and her new
fling. This shouldn’t be taking up so much of my mental energy.
    There’s the Governor’s Ball to
finish planning: a good way to lock in contracts for company expansion in the
Seychelles to two new islands. There’s the proposed merger with Hilton Corp.
And then there’s that pesky press scandal brewing thanks to my ex, a silly act
of pettiness on her part that will nevertheless require some strategy and
smoothing over with PR.
    …There’s Veronique’s ass…
    God dammit, Remington, focus!
    With all the real life stuff on my
plate, I really didn’t need to go and fuck my new stepsister. God, the tabloids
would have a field day. My mother would have a heart attack. I need to get rid of Veronique and her father, not entangle myself just as deeply and stupidly as
my mother has.
    Shit.
    “Shit,” I repeat out loud.
    “Mmmm,” Veronique moans happily, as
if agreeing with my amazement. She nestles into my chest, fitting in like a
missing puzzle piece.
    Shit.
    She’s misinterpreted the cause of
my curse. Yes the sex was incredible, but what has me floored is the feeling of
unease and hunger that still lingers even after my orgasm, the continuing and
increasing desire for her, her body, her company.
    Sex is supposed to cure me of
hunger, not make it worse.
    Where is the release? Where is the
relief? Even after fucking her I want to eat her alive. It’s as if something in
my core is gravitating toward her, a strange pull that I can’t turn off or
avoid. I don’t want to want Veronique the way that I do. How can I get rid of
this feeling, if sex doesn’t stop it?
    What if it’s not about sex?
    Shit.
    “Shit,” I grumble again.
    I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve
got to run somewhere safe and hide.
    “I’m getting cold,” I lie.
    “Cold? That didn’t warm you up?”
    She laughs and nibbles at my ear,
causing heat to spike straight through my body. No. No. Nope. I can’t give in.
I can’t melt. If I let her turn me on again, I’ll be a slave to these feelings,
a slave to passion.
    A slave to her.
    And Remington Wilde is nobody’s
slave.
    I pull myself out of her, resisting
the impulse to hold her. The wave of tenderness that washes over me is out of
the ordinary and makes me feel even grumpier, more defensive. Who is this girl that
after one fuck I want to hold her? I never do that. I never get close.
    I never want to.
    “We should go home,” I say.
    She looks at me with an open face
that already makes me feel guilty. I wish I could tell what she’s thinking.
    “Your bungalow or mine?”
    Her boldness and sweetness surprise
me, giving me an unwelcome burst of pleasure. Knowing she still wants me too
fills me with an intense longing that frankly scares the shit out of me.
    God, I still want her. My dick
throbs with lust at the possibility of continuing our tryst, soaking up as much
of her as physically possible. Instantly my mind is filled with fantasies of
twisting our bodies together in the king sized bed, in the Jacuzzi, in a
hammock, on the rug by the fire pit.
    It is easy to imagine going on a
sex holiday with Veronique and never coming back – never