Stepbrothers' Darling

by K.A. Knight

I’m not picky. Pleasure is pleasure. I used to be attracted to people’s personalities, but now I don’t want to know them. I only want their bodies and the ecstasy I gain from them.

He’s not the brightest—I can tell from the one-minute conversation we had earlier—but who cares? He doesn’t need to talk if his mouth is full with my cunt or nipples. I don’t need to like him, just want him.

Holy fuck, my stepbrother is hot. And not in a wow kind of way, but in a my panties just caught on fire and my vagina drooled kind of way.

I can look, but I can’t touch. That would be weird... wouldn’t it?

It’s almost like knowing they are forbidden is making me have all these dirty thoughts. I’m not a girl you say ‘don’t do it’ to. It makes me want to do something all that much more—do him so much more. But even I know you don’t mix pleasure with business or, more accurately, don’t fuck where you eat.

Her hips sway to the blaring rock music as she turns and takes a draw from her cigarette. She spins again and stills when her eyes clash with ours, the smoke blowing from her mouth in a ring. “Hello, boys, you must be my new stepbrothers.” Oh, fuck no.

“Shit, I think I’m in love,” Asher remarks, and Cyrus reaches out and, without even looking, punches him. Asher flies into the wall, and I watch him push away and press a finger to his bleeding lip with a laugh.

“The Crew brothers?

Why didnt Faye recognise them in the diner when she first pointed them out to Blair?

I might be the biggest and meanest Crew, but my brothers are more like me than most think. Bray might smile and act cheeky, but under it all is a hurt little boy who’s now grown into a scarred, angry man. He’s just slower to anger, but when he does... not even I would start with him. Asher, well, let’s just say he’s an artist with a knife as well as a paintbrush.

I don’t want some quick, forgettable pussy tonight. The only one I seem to be getting hard for is one I shouldn’t even be thinking about, so instead, I’ll do what I do best—hold my family together and protect my brothers.

I’ve never led her on or told her pretty lies. I warned her from the beginning I would hurt her, that I would use her, piss her off, and make her hate me. I told her she was nothing to me. Yet she still put her own expectations on me, projecting what she wanted while blinding herself to the truth. That shit stops now before it gets her dropped, or worse, killed by those who hate us and want to see us suffer.

This city is dangerous, not for the drugs, violence, gangs, or fast cars, but for the people. The ones trying to get close. What if they hurt me? What if I hurt them? Like the last people... no. Don’t fucking go there.

This is a power play, a game. He wants to be in control and does so by asking those around him for things they don’t want, making them bend to his will. But I don’t bend, I don’t break. Not for him, not for anyone. Ever.

If a woman has sex, it makes your pussy used, slack. If men do it, they are hailed as heroes. Fuck that double standard. I’ll fuck who I want, drink what I want. If I want to be a fucking mess, then I will be, I’ve earned that. This judgemental prick doesn’t get to take his issues out on me.

Maybe you don’t hate her because she tests you, because you want her, but because she reminds you of yourself—angry, withdrawn, broken, and fucking wild.”

I act all tough, but underneath, I’m just as scared, fucked up, and vulnerable as the girl before me.

I learned that early on. We are supposed to be tough and emotionless, which is something I’ve always struggled with. I’m not supposed to cry, it’s not manly. I’m not supposed to hurt or worry, it makes me weak. Less of a man.

It’s your biggest secret. You’re not the tough bitch you project. Inside, you’re all soft, but it’s marred, scarred, from how others treat you.” “Stop,” she begs. “You feel so deeply, babe. I see it in your eyes. You care too much, and with such a big heart, all it leads to is pain... I know. Don’t you see we’re the same?”

We are both in new territory, fighting each other because we want one another so badly, while also knowing this won’t be easy.

Your hyper-independence isn’t a strength, it’s a weakness. It’s something caused by trauma because you think if you never trust again, never let anyone in, then they won’t hurt you. You don’t think you deserve love and believe that everyone will do exactly what you’ve always experienced—hurt you. But you’re wrong, babe.” She wipes at the tears on her cheeks, tears I put there. My heart cracks at her words, at the pain and hopelessness in them, at the acceptance in her eyes. Is that what I’m doing? Pushing them away before they can hurt me? And if so, is that such a bad thing?

Being a friend doesn’t mean blind adoration, it means calling you on your shit when you need it. It means trying to help and support you when you need it, but it also means knowing when to leave you when you need to be broken so you can heal better than you did last time. Fuck knows I’m trying to be here for you, babe, but you don’t let me. You don’t make it easy. You’re breaking my heart.”

She deserves better than me. She deserves a true friend, not this broken piece of shit. I gave her every part of me I could, but it’s not enough. I’m never enough.

I’m used to being in charge, being so wanted that they can’t think or speak or question me, but he isn’t like that. He plays me right back, making me want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.

I’m completely naked while he’s dressed. Anyone else would feel vulnerable, whereas I feel strongest in my bare skin.

“What did I tell you about that mouth, princess? It’s going to get you in some real trouble,” he warns, his dark hungry eyes rolling up to mine. “Fuck, I hope so,”

Her body winds and moves to the beat with a fluidity that can’t be replicated. As if she is the music.

“Never be ashamed to be different. You are who you are meant to be, and you are magnificent. This world would be a boring place if we were all the same. So embrace it, be who you are meant to be, who you want to be, you amazing weirdo, and don’t you ever let anyone make you feel like you’re less just because you don’t fit the mould.

I don’t know if it’s the use of the guys’ nickname for me or what, but I lose it.

It's her stage name, not something special that only her guys call her

One of them pulls a gun and points it at me, and I notice the deep, bloody cut on his cheek. “My girl do that?” I smirk, nodding my head at the fresh cut. “And I thought I couldn’t love her more.”

“Well, I’m not breaking down now,” I purr, and Bray swallows. “Cyrus,” he whines. “She’s trying to fuck me, and I’m trying to be good like you said.”

senses

sensors

“Shouldn’t you say something like, they won’t bite?” Faye offers nervously. “That would be a lie, but they won’t bark at least.” He winks, making Blair laugh. “I’ll protect you. I can beat up some big burly bikers if need be,” Blair says. “Oh God, don’t get killed, or worse, hitched to some besotted biker because you kicked his ass,” Bray mutters, only slightly joking.

“Um, did you forget I’m poor?” “What do you mean?” he questions, obviously confused. “You have our money.” “Crazy bastard say what?” I gape, my head tilting in bewilderment.

It’s so obvious. I love him, I love them all, so much. And that fucking terrifies me. Because everything I love suffers. Everything I love, I lose.

Come on, let’s go beat the shit out of Cyrus until he can think clearly.”

Love is all-consuming. When you’re in it, it’s a beautifully imperfect high. Then when it’s over, you feel like you might die, like you can’t breathe or survive without them. But you do, you put yourself back together, and the pieces assemble differently than before, but they’re all the more beautiful for it. The places you visited together become happy memories, and the fights and problems fade until you eventually remember the good, not the bad. You become something new with their presence changing you for the better.

Fighting yourself because you don’t want to stand out and denying what you truly want since it’s different only leads to your own unhappiness, not anyone else’s. As long as you can live with yourself, as long as you can look back on your life and say that you were truly happy, that you did everything you wanted to and lived with no regrets, then who cares?