Infatuation:A Rebel Stepbrother Romance(3)

By: Phoenyx Slaughter


“Did I miss something?” Flynn asks.

“No,” I grumble. Clutching the room key in my hand, I march to our door and let us in.

Flynn sets everything right inside the door and puts his hands on his hips. “At least it’s a nice room.”

“There’s one bed.” Duh. Why do I have to state the obvious?

“No big deal. I’ll take the couch.” He lifts his chin at the tiny loveseat shoved in the corner.

It’s a huge deal. All weekend long, I’ll be fantasizing about him throwing me on that bed and fucking the hell out of me.

“It’s too small for you.”

“We can always share the bed,” he suggests with a raised brow.

“We’ll work something out,” I offer lamely.

We unpack while chatting about nothing in particular. It’s one of the things I love about our relationship. When the sexual tension isn’t messing with my mind, we always have things to talk about.

Except the one thing we never talk about: us.

There can’t be an ‘us’. We tried it once, and it ended in disaster—for me, anyway. Our parents are still married and would never forgive us for the scandal. Flynn would lose everything he’s worked for. What’s worse, I don’t think he even sees me that way anymore.

Even if he did, I can’t forget how after the big disaster, he dated one of my best friends. As if I were replaceable.

“Ella? You okay?”

Shaking myself, I plaster on a false smile. “Yup.”

“Want to change and head to the beach?”

Oh, yeah. Nothing sounds more appealing than sitting next to supermodel perfect Lena in our bathing suits. I’ll add that right underneath get hit by a train on my priorities list.

“Sure. Sounds like fun.”

He gathers up a few things and nods at the bathroom. “I’ll change in there.”

“Thanks.”

I plop down on the bed and take stock of my situation. I’ve shared lots of spaces with Flynn over the years. Why is this bugging me?

Well, every other time, we’d had other people with us. Like our parents or our friends. Ugh. We have too much shared history.

“Buck up,” I whisper to myself. Pawing through my suitcase, I locate the pretty ombré, metallic-print, one-piece suit I brought with me.

Worried Flynn might pop out any second, I rush out of my clothes.

Of course, the second I step into the suit, he opens the door.

“Eep!” I yank the suit up—giving myself a ridiculous wedgie in the process—and notice the bathroom door never shut.

“Sorry,” he says, so low and soft, I almost don’t hear him.

And oh my God, when I turn around, I’m staring at his wide, perfectly sculpted, tattooed chest.



Fuck me.

I can’t catch a break. She should have been finished by now. I gave her enough time. Christ, it’s been years since I’ve seen her magnificent body. She hasn’t gotten wrinkled or cursed with frog skin or something. No, she’s more fucking beautiful than ever.

The last time I saw her, she was a girl. She’s all woman now.

It takes a lot of self-control to keep my hands at my sides. Shutting myself back inside the bathroom would be the polite thing to do. But I’m not polite. Not with her. Not anymore.

Stepping behind her, with every intention of grabbing her ass or tits or something, I pause when I inhale her vanilla scent. She turns and gasps when she realizes I’m so close.

“Sorry I’m such a slowpoke,” she whispers while staring at my chest.

That’s right. She hasn’t seen me without a shirt in a few years now.

“W-When did you get—”

I rub my hand over my heart and down my stomach, loving the way her eyes follow. “Ongoing process over the last few years.”

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