Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Though my pulse is still hammering in my ears, I school my face into a smile and ruffle Jason’s hair.
Then, without another word, I turn and head out. The air outside is crisp, but still faintly carrying the scent of damp earth and fading roses. I go straight for the sleek black sedan parked in the drive. It’s a sanctuary I can’t reach fast enough. I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
At that moment, Sara appears. In the fading light, she opens the back door, puts Jason in, and slips herself into the passenger seat. Jason’s eyes avoid mine. I don’t speak, don’t look at her. I can’t fight, can’t let my temper spill over, not with Jason here, not when my emotions are a tangled mess. I start the engine, and the low rumble fills the silence. I pull away from the Fitzwilliam estate and watch the gray stone house fading in the rearview mirror.
The drive to the hotel is tense, the city’s lights streaking past like blurred stars. Sara tries to start a conversation, her voice light, asking about dinner plans, but I answer in grunts, my focus inward, locked on the chaos Amelia has stirred. By the time we reach the hotel, my calm is nothing but a thin veneer.
As soon as we get into our suite, I mutter something about needing a moment and head straight for the bathroom. I lock the door behind me and lean against it. The space is sterile, all white and chrome, but it’s mine for now, a place to calm down. I turn on the shower, cranking the water to freezing cold, and step under the spray, letting it cascade over my head. Very quickly, the icy water extinguishes the heat in my body. I turn the knob the other way. The heat soothes my knotted muscles, but it does nothing for the restlessness clawing at me, a hunger that’s more alive than ever.
Amelia.
She’s all I can think of, her image burned into my mind—her curves hidden away inside that shapeless black dress. I think of the fullness of her body. Every promise of the girl I loved has been fulfilled in that body. She was gorgeous back then, but now? She’s devastating, every line of her is a siren’s call I can’t ignore.
My body betrays me, hardening with a need so fierce it’s almost pain.
I hate myself for it, for lusting for her like this. She is my half-sister. I know it’s wrong, forbidden… sick. The whole world would look at me with disgust, but I can’t stop. I don’t even know what I want anymore—to get Amelia to reject Sara’s invitation outright and keep her at a safe distance, or to let her come and face this fire head-on, once and for all. One thing I know, standing here under the pounding water, is that I can’t carry on like this.
I’m fucking hard. My cock is throbbing with a desire I’ve never felt for anyone else. Ever.
My hand moves, unthinking, wrapping around myself. I stroke myself, and a feral growl rises in my throat. In my head, I’m kissing her, tasting her lips, sweet and warm like they were that summer. My mind remembers her vividly, her body under mine, my hands on her breasts, grabbing her ass to lose myself in her. I bite my lip, but a groan slips out, low and desperate. Slipping between her thighs to taste her. Oh God!
I pump faster.
The release comes hard and fast, a white-hot wave that buckles my knees, forcing me to brace against the shower wall. Her name spills from me, a whispered curse—Amelia, fuck, Amelia, fuck, fuck. I lean my forehead against the cool tile, gasping, my heart pounding.
I shut the water off, my body still shaking, the old guilt creeping in like a shadow. I’m a monster for jerking off to my own half-sister, for even letting my mind go there. But I don’t judge myself too harshly. It isn’t my fault our father was a fucking bastard. He knew we were falling for each other, and yet he waited until we were joined to tell us the truth.
As I towel off, a strange clarity settles. Maybe Sara’s invitation isn’t a disaster. Maybe having Amelia close, in my home, will force me to see her as I should—as my sister, not my lover. Maybe, just maybe, I can learn to love her platonically, to have her in my life as the incredible person she is, without these dark, consuming thoughts. It’s a chance, a way to rewrite this ache into something pure. I want her to come, I realize, not just for her healing but for mine.
Obviously, Sara senses my mood—she knows me enough to know I’m furious, even if she doesn’t understand the cause. I grab my phone. I don’t have Amelia’s number. Haven’t had it in years. But I remember old Tom, the gardener who’s been at the Fitzwilliam estate forever, his gruff voice a constant during that summer. I dig up his contact and call him. He is happy to hear from me. His genuine kindness is a balm to my raw emotions. I ask for her phone number, and he gives it to me without the slightest hesitation.