Tool (A Step-Brother Romance #2)

“What?” he asks. “Still think we can’t?”


“I – I’m not sure,” I say, my fingers touching my lips where he kissed me. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

“Gaige!” Anja calls from down the hallway, and I start to step away, but he catches me, his hand gripping my arm with such ferocity that I think he’s going to leave a mark.

“Meet me tonight,” he says.

I shake my head. “No. We can’t.” But I can’t help but ask. “Where?”

“The guest house,” he whispers. “No one is out there. We’ll be alone.”



Even now, four years later, when I think about that night, I can still taste that last kiss on my lips. How fucked up is that?

The phone buzzes again, the screen glowing in the dark. It's a notification from one of my social media sites, and I feel a pang of disappointment that it's not Gaige. Opening my text messages, I re-read the last one from Gaige: Friends with benefits?

Gaige has some nerve asking about my dating life, when he's in Las Vegas right now. He's probably texting me while some girl has her mouth wrapped around his cock.

His cock…

I glance over at the closed closet door, knowing what's behind it. Only Gaige would gift-wrap his fucking dick. I'm sure his idea of a present is to gift-wrap the real thing. The image of Gaige O'Neal, naked, a big red bow tied around his cock, flashes in my head, and it makes me laugh for a second. Except that it's hotter than it is funny.

Heat rushes through my body at the thought of Gaige's touch, and I try to put him out of my head. Thoughts of Gaige don't need to occupy my head. I might have known Gaige years ago but a long time has passed since I saw him last, and he's changed. Hell, I've changed. Neither of us are the same people anymore.

I've matured.

When an idea pops into my head a minute later, I can't help but giggle. What I'm about to do is definitely not mature.





Fuck, it's good to be back. Closing the door to the guesthouse behind me, I head straight to the bedroom. Maybe it's just my damn leg, but it's been a long time since I've been as exhausted as I am now. Parties and girls and booze used to be fun – what could be better?

Delaney never texted me back; I guess she was too busy with whoever she's dating. Well, screw that. And screw her.

Stripping off my clothes, I drop them in a pile on the floor, turning on the shower before I wander back into the bedroom. I open the bureau drawer to grab new clothes before I head up to the house for dinner and – the drawer is filled with condoms, not clothes. What the fuck? One by one, I yank open the rest of the drawers, and it's all the same. Condoms, condoms, and more condoms, a rainbow of every color imaginable.

When I pull open the closet, a wave of condoms pours out on me. A piece of paper flutters to the floor, and I pick it up.

Wrap Your Tool

Maybe Delaney Marlowe does still have a sense of humor after all.

I find myself whistling as I remove my boot and take a shower. I'm even whistling as I dig through my suitcase for clothes because I don't know where the fuck my clothes are now. Delaney could have burned the lot of everything? for all I know. I don't know what kind of nutjob you'd have to be to do something like that, but I wouldn't put it past her.

I pull out my phone and send Delaney a text.

Got your present. I assume you'd like to use all of them? It's a tall order, but I think I can rise to the occasion.

I'm flipping through the channels on the television when she texts me back.

With the way you go through girls, I think you'll do just fine without any help from me.

With the way I go through girls. Shit, a couple months ago and I'd have gotten some use out of Delaney's little prank. Now, though…

I thumb absently through the contact list on my phone. There are a few chicks in my list, booty calls who've proven they can show up at 3 a.m. and leave the next day without being total psychos. I should be banging my way through this list. It's the only way to get Delaney out of my head.

I just don't know why that idea seems so fucking boring. Or why the prospect of screwing with my stepsister is so much more appealing.



When Delaney comes home from work to see me sitting in the leather armchair in her room, my feet propped up on the ottoman, reading a novel, a smile crosses her lips, but she quickly hides it. "What are you doing in my room?" Delaney asks. "Haven't you ever heard of privacy?"

"Well, that's not hypocritical of you at all, Delaney Marlowe."

"I didn't linger after leaving the condoms," she says. "How long have you been here?"