Prince Albert (A Step-Brother Romance #4)

Oh my God. My hair. My clothes.

My face flushes warm, and I know it must be bright red. For a split second, I'd forgotten I was standing here looking the way I look in the middle of this.

And now Gaige is standing in front of me, looking the way he does – with a perfect body, being photographed next to equally perfect-looking models.

I want to sink into the ground, melt into a puddle of humiliation.

"You're wet," he says. His voice is low and deep and honeyed. The way the words roll off his tongue, long and languid, make them sound more sexual than if he'd told me to take off my panties right now. Electricity courses through my body, down to my fingertips, as the pad of his finger grazes my skin.

I can't tear my eyes away from his. I swear I'd forgotten what his eyes looked like. They're this deep chocolate brown, flecked with gold and framed with lashes so thick they would make any woman envious. His lids are hooded, giving him this perpetually seductive look, like he wants nothing more than to lounge around in bed all day.

He looks deeply into my eyes, and for a second I think we're the only two people in the room. For a moment, this is like a scene in a movie, the kind where the hero scoops up the heroine, bedraggled and soaking wet from the rainstorm, and kisses her in slow motion.

But my life is definitely not something out of a movie. I'm opening my mouth to respond to Gaige, when I'm cut off by the photographer, who's dressed head to toe in black and waving his camera behind Gaige from across the room. "We have shots we need to get, please," he says, motioning impatiently toward the models.

Whatever moment was happening between Gaige and I evaporates, so quickly I might have imagined it. "You should finish your shoot," I say.

Gaige grins. "You look like you'd like a hot bath."

Why does everything that comes out of his mouth sound like an invitation for more? I put that thought out of my head. Thinking about Gaige – my stepbrother, for goodness' sake – that way is not good. It's not appropriate.

I look down at my wet clothes. "Yes. I need to clean up."

One of the blonde models appears by Gaige's side and places her hand on his bicep, jutting out her hip as she poses beside him. I recognize her from something – an ad, maybe – but I can't place it. She's tall and thin, with perky boobs and the kind of flat stomach I didn't think existed in real life. She wrinkles her nose as she looks at me, her expression unbridled disdain. That expression changes when she turns her focus back to Gaige. "Gaige," she says sweetly, "Is this your girlfriend?"

It's more than just an innocent question. I know that by the way she touches him. She wants him; she's marking her territory.

Gaige's eyes never leave mine, but with his other hand he pats the hand that rests on his arm. "No, Brooke," he says. "This is just my sister, Delaney."

Just my sister.

"Yes," I say, looking at Gaige. "I'm just his stepsister. And I'm just leaving."





CHAPTER THREE





GAIGE


An hour later, and we've finished the photo shoot, this editorial spread for a men's magazine: me surrounded by models in lingerie, the poster child for manwhores everywhere. And no sooner do we wrap up than Brooke turns to me, her voice practically a purr, running her finger along my chest.

"You know," she whispers, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the staff just out of earshot. The other models are slipping into robes, but Brooke stands there in her lacy bra and panties, completely comfortable. Hell, she should be. Her body is irresistibly hot. "Denise and Jessi are up for a little fun if you are."

I look beyond her at Denise and Jessi, the other two models with perfectly perky tits and asses. "Maybe next time."

Brooke pouts, an expression she seems to think is seductive but really makes me find her obnoxious. "If you change your mind," she says, turning to leave. "You should call me."

Any other time, I'd be all over this kind of offer. No red-blooded male passes up the opportunity to screw three blonde models. At least, Gaige O'Neal sure as hell doesn't. After all, that's my brand: racer, hothead, manwhore. My dick -- or my tool, rather -- can't be satiated. That's the angle a major magazine ran with years ago, and that's what everyone started talking about. Like my cock had a life of its own, pursuing women it just had to fuck. Even then, the idea made me roll my eyes.

After the magazine article came out, Delaney started calling me Tool, but she said it was because I was a dick, not because of my dick. Of course, Delaney never gave a shit about what anyone else thought of me. She's probably the only person in my life who's ever been that way.