Prince Albert (A Step-Brother Romance #4)

In fact, not alone is the understatement of the year.

There are probably twenty people staring at me. I scan the room, taking in their faces, trying to process the scene in my brain. It's some kind of photo shoot, models and makeup artists and clothing hung on racks in the corner of the room. Strategically placed lighting illuminates the set, and a photographer is turned toward the door, paused with his camera in hand, staring at me.

I'm standing here, barefoot and looking like a drowned rat, my gaze coming to rest on the chaise lounge in the middle of the room, where three tall, thin, beautiful blondes with perfectly coiffed hair and flawless makeup and expensive lace lingerie pose around him. The boy I used to know. The boy I last saw four years ago, when we were eighteen.

He's sure as hell not a boy anymore.

He looks right in my eyes, and I swear he can see through me. Then he gives me that cocky, shit-sure of himself, nothing-ever-surprises-me grin, and I'm not certain whether the heat that rushes through me is anger or lust.

Gaige O'Neal.

Motorcycle racer, womanizer, asshole extraordinaire. Four years ago, he was the bane of my existence. And my best friend, my confidant, my first love.

My stepbrother.

Crap. This day just got a hell of a lot worse.





CHAPTER TWO





DELANEY


"Well, now, as I live and breathe." Gaige's voice reverberates through the room. I've spent four years trying to get that sound out of my head. His voice is low and gravely, with a hint of a drawl, the product of spending his formative years at a boarding school in South Carolina -- the boarding school was prestigious and pretentious, but Gaige is anything but.

"Gaige O'Neal." The words leave my mouth in one breath, heavy like an exhale. For a split second, seeing him there is almost enough to make everything else in here fade to black, as if I'm looking at him with tunnel vision. It's the same Gaige I used to know, with that arrogant smile that made me so angry and a body made for sin. Even back when we were teenagers.

Now, though…hell, I don't know that I've ever seen anyone that looks as holy-shit-hot as Gaige does with his shirt off. When I last saw him, he had one tattoo on his shoulder, but now they snake around his forearms and biceps and cover his chest.

His very broad, very defined chest.

Gaige used to be hot, but he's transformed into something else entirely. I've made a concerted effort to forget Gaige O'Neal over the past four years, which is honestly pretty difficult when your stepbrother is a media darling, a sports figure the tabloids love. It involves going to extreme lengths: no looking at photo spreads in the sports magazines, shutting off the television interviews, ignoring the tabloid articles about Gaige and whoever his girl-of-the-moment is, shrugging and changing the subject when friends want to know what Gaige is like.

What Gaige is like…The memory of my last night alone with him sticks in my head. It never leaves me. I've revisited it God knows how many times over the last few years, replaying it like some kind of movie.

Gaige's lips are so close to mine that if I move even a millimeter, we'll be touching. And there's nothing more that I want on this green earth than to feel Gaige's lips against mine. I want him more than anything…and that is exactly why I can't have him.

"Say it, Delaney."

"We can't."

"We can do whatever we want. Tell me you're mine."

Returning to Dallas is not supposed to mean coming back to Gaige. Gaige is the last person I wanted to ever see again. Out of sight, out of mind, right? But now, standing here…it feels like no time at all has passed between us.

"Delaney Marlowe." He stands up and walks over to me. Limps over to me, to be more accurate. He has a boot on his foot, one of those things you wear after you've had surgery. I wonder what the hell happened. Knowing Gaige, it'll be because he did something reckless on that motorcycle he races. He never was able to just race that thing, even when he was a teenager – it was always stunts, crazy shit, chasing the next adrenaline rush. And to Gaige, a rush wasn’t a rush unless it was death-defying.

I'm distracted from asking what happened by the fact that, aside from the boot, he's wearing not much else. Boxer briefs made of some kind of material that hugs his ass and his whole package, like it's a second skin. I force my eyes upward toward his face. It's hard not to look at…it. What he's packing. His Tool. That's what people call it. I used to call him the same thing, but for a different reason – because he frequently acted like such a dick.

His Tool is apparently legendary. I never got the chance to see it. The night I was supposed to meet him – the night it was supposed to happen between us – never happened. What can I say? Things were complicated between us from the first moment we met.

When Gaige gets to me, he pauses, standing so close I can hear his breath, and reaches out to push a tendril of wet hair away from my forehead.