Bad Stepbrother: A Stepbrother Romance: A Bad Boy Romance, page 1
Bad Stepbrother
A Stepbrother Romance
Mara Leigh
Half Dome Publications
Contents
Bad Stepbrother
Introduction
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Bad Stepbrother
BAD STEPBROTHER
by Mara Leigh
It was supposed to be just one wild night….
Zach is the hottest, baddest man good girl Harley has ever met. His sculpted body and sexy tattoos make him the last guy she’d bring home. But in a moment of insanity, Harley promises herself one crazy night of passion… an unforgettable night with a bad boy.
When Zach shows up at her dad’s wedding, Harley realizes that the smoking hot man who left her a quivering mess is now her stepbrother. He should be off limits. But she can’t stop wanting more, wanting it all, wanting him to do all the dirty things to her - things that go beyond her imagination.
Zach knows he’ll never be anything but bad, but Harley is like no other girl, and he can’t get their hook up out of his head. He shouldn’t touch his good girl stepsister. He shouldn’t want to make her his.
Together, Harley and Zach are all kinds of wrong, but when they’re thrown together on a summer vacation, the heat is impossible to resist…
Copyright © 2016 by Mara Leigh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Also by Mara Leigh:
Dirty Business: Fantasies Unleashed
Surrender: Fantasies Unleashed
Bedded by Strangers: Fantasies Unleashed
Humbling the Boss: Fantasies Unleashed
ISBN: 978-0-9938559-7-9
1
Harley
“O-M-G, Harley! Would you look at his—” My best friend Lara slapped her hand over her mouth, swallowing whatever word she was about to spit out. Knowing her, she would have chosen a medical term, or something childish like ‘pee pee’, rather than going for any of the words that were floating around in my mind to describe the long, thick organ hanging between the legs of the male model who was chatting with Chad, our life drawing instructor.
The dark-haired stud was massively cut, covered in tattoos and could certainly crush me with just one of his strong hands.
I flushed. My mind didn’t usually jump to, “Sex! Sex! Sex!” but everything about the man seemed dirty and I couldn’t stop imagining other things he might do with those hands, not to mention his, um, pee pee.
He was standing so casually, like he didn’t realize he was naked in front of twenty students, mostly female. In contrast, Lara and I took turns between gawking at him and staring at each other wide-eyed, not even pretending we were cool enough to take this in stride.
“So fucking immature.” The art student poser on my other side made even less of an attempt to hide her scorn than we’d made to hide our lustful shock.
After exchanging an eye roll with Lara, I turned back to my easel and fiddled with the sticks of charcoal resting on the tray, all the while surreptitiously peeking at the model I’d be drawing in moments. Turned mostly away from me now, his physique seemed sculpted from the perfect combination of muscle and ink, strands of tatted muscle knotted and twisted to meet at joints, forming shapes that personified words like power and beauty and sex. Especially sex. Dirty, dirty sex.
I felt like I’d been caught watching porn in public. Or what I imagined that would feel like.
My face was undeniably heating. I needed to grow up, and quickly, or I’d make a complete ass of myself, so I tried to focus on the things our teacher had told us to study when preparing to sketch a subject: the lines, the planes, the areas of shadow and light—like the concave indentation where his ass intersected with the side of his thigh, the ridges of back muscle that stretched out from the valley of his spine to meet up with their six-pack of opposition reaching around from the front. And smaller details like the raised ridge of vein that stretched down his bicep, thrusting out from under his smooth skin for lack of space.
How would I ever draw the dark hairs on his forearms or hint at the intricacies of the tats? A snake tattoo wound across his back, its head on his chest I presumed, and it had hundreds of intricate scales. And I couldn’t be sure, but under the ink, his back looked scarred.
Those kinds of details lay miles outside my limited artistic skill set. This entire class was outside my wheelhouse—which had kind of been the point in taking it in the first place—but I didn’t like looking the fool.
“Ready?” Our instructor’s voice startled me, and I broke the charcoal I’d been rolling between my thumb and forefinger.
Picking up the pieces from the paint-spattered floor, I bumped into my easel and it clattered, almost falling.
Crouching as I set it right, I glanced up and caught the model staring at me, his pale blue eyes in stark contrast to his dark wavy hair and his stubble-covered skin. While his mouth remained on a neutral setting, his eyes smiled, mocking me, as if he knew he’d caused my embarrassment and wanted to double down.
My blush chose that moment to triple down and I could only imagine the shade of scarlet I turned as I tucked the hairs that had fallen over my face to their rightful place behind my ear. And still he stared, like he wanted to cause me discomfort or was daring me to look away first.
He gestured with his hand to the side of his face, and it took me a while to realize he was trying to tell me something, but what?
Remembering the charcoal coating my fingers, I got the message and tried to wipe the soot off my face with the back of my hand, and by the time I gave up, he was staring off into the distance, or at least no longer directly at me.
“Do I have charcoal on my face?” I asked Lara
She laughed while handing me a small mirror and a wet wipe from her oversized purse, and I wiped the smudge from my heated face.
“Okay, class,” Chad, the class instructor, said. “Let’s start with ten one-minute gestures to warm up. Zach, whenever you’re ready?”
Adrenaline pumped through my body as the model, Zach, struck his first pose, his back still to me, one arm up and bent, the other hanging down, and although there was nothing overtly sexual about his stance, my entire body ignited. I couldn’t even imagine what was happening to my poor panties that wouldn’t survive ten short poses in a row, not to mention the longer pose that would follow.
My shaking hand drew a line, a feeble attempt at the strong curve of his spine that flowed into the crack of his fantastic hard ass, but it wasn’t right. One line and I’d utterly failed to capture the strength and grace of the Greek god crossed with motorcycle gang member before me.
What did he do for a living? I wondered, besides modeling that is, which couldn’t possibly provide enough for rent. Especially not here in San Francisco where Lara and I had struggled to find a tiny, short-term rental on Airbnb within the generous monthly budget our parents had granted us for this trip.
What was his story? His facial scruff, his shaggy haircut, his tattooed muscles hinted at some kind of criminal for sure, but there was something about the tension in his hand, the braided leather around one wrist, the near grace of his stance that suggested athleticism or even an artistic side—maybe a hint of some level of sophistication.
Nah. I shook my head. That was me projecting romantic fantasies onto this magnificent hunk of man.
“Time,” Chad announced, and the class collectively tore the top sheet of newsprint off their easels, leaving me stunned and staring at the one line I’d managed to draw in the allotted sixty seconds.
Reacting slowly, I flipped over my paper, then checked out the second pose. He’d lifted one foot to rest on a wooden block on the podium, and the new pose made me audibly gasp. The bottom curve of his balls and the head of his long cock were clearly visible between those powerful legs.
“Grow up,” said the hipster artiste beside me.
“Mind your own business,” I replied in a whisper, glancing over to see that in about thirty seconds, and with six or seven quick charcoal-drawn lines, she’d captured the basic shape of the man.
Jealousy and competitiveness surged through me. I had no desire to be an artist—I was taking this class to expand my horizons, become a more well-rounded person before starting law school next fall—but my desire to one-up the hipster was overpowering.
“Time!” Chad called out.
Another sixty seconds shot. At least I didn’t need a fresh sheet of paper this time. I hadn’t even managed one line.
Leaving his leg on the block, Zach twisted his torso to look over the bent leg and I frantically sketched, trying
to capture the essence of his body, and the strong line of his chin, in profile to me now. Dark curls of hair licked the edges of his face and the sides of his neck, and while it was decidedly messy it looked clean and soft, and instead of focusing on my sketch, I kept imagining how his hair would feel between my fingers.
By the ninth gesture sketch I’d regained my concentration enough to actually draw for the whole sixty seconds, but what I created fell so short of what I was seeing before me.
And then he turned.
The last short pose was strong, his arms folded back behind his head to show off the hard lines of muscle on his chest, and his torso was twisted so that his abs seemed to all fire at once without effort. And I finally saw the head of that snake. Its mouth was open, tongue out like it was trying to lick—or bite—his nipple.
Badass and sexy. Tough, yet kind of vulnerable at the same time.
Everything about this man seemed a contradiction. Even though the pose was one a body builder might strike, he looked more like I’d just caught him stretching after rising from bed. Naked.
And at that thought my eyes could not move from his package. Dark, curly hair trailed down his lower abdomen—not enough to obscure the goods, but enough so that he didn’t look all manscaped—and his dick… I’d seen plenty of photos online, but I’d only ever been with one guy, my ex-boyfriend Josh, and the difference was so great it was hard to believe we were talking about the same piece of anatomy, or even the same species. It was like comparing a human nose to an elephant trunk.
Okay, that was exaggerating, but I’d never seen a penis so long and thick—not in real life—and I wondered if he might be getting hard, turned on by the posing, because it hung with some tension, not straight down, and the head was dark pink, almost shining in contrast to the paler veined length of him.
“Time,” the instructor called. “Good job.” I spun toward the sound of his voice, realizing he was standing next to me, then looked back to the paper on my easel.
Instead of tackling his entire body, in my subconscious stupor I’d drawn a full-page sketch of the model’s cock.
It wasn’t exactly detailed—we only had sixty seconds, and it wasn’t anything that would get me admitted to a real art school or anything—but I had captured the shape, the angle, and the kinetic energy of how it hung.
“Harl!” Lara said. “You go girl!”
Perhaps I’d found my artistic calling. Cock portraiture. I tore off the sheet and let it drop to the floor, eager to continue.
As Zach and Chad discussed poses for our half-hour sketching session, I held my breath, hoping that Zach would have his back to me again so I could focus in on a less erotic part of his anatomy.
So much for that wish. The chosen position had him semi-reclined on the gray riser, one arm up on a pile of Moroccan cushions, and his legs bent and splayed like the entire purpose of the pose was to put his genitalia on display—for me.
For a few moments I was tempted to move my easel to the other side of the room—trading places with some of my classmates who’d quickly repositioned to this side—but the model captured my gaze with a teasing smile that felt like a challenge.
Challenge accepted.
I was a grown-ass woman. Twenty-two next December. I might not be an artist, even an aspiring one, but I could treat this situation professionally. I could draw this man, treating him as a mere subject instead of a droolworthy hunk.
But in spite of my vow, I couldn’t focus. During the first ten minutes of the pose, every time I looked up from paper to subject, my gaze either landed on his eyes, still smiling at me, or his groin, which seemed to be taunting me in a way dirtier way.
My earlier blush returned with a vengeance.
“What’s wrong?” Lara asked from beside me.
I shook my head, noticing that she had a great sketch already and was starting to shade, whereas I’d drawn a shape that was less like a man and more like a manatee.
The hipster beside me chuckled, pushing her heavy-framed glasses up on her nose and flipping back her peacock-blue hair.
Whatever.
I continued drawing but every time I looked up, my face heated to the point where I couldn’t decide if the color came from embarrassment or arousal.
When Chad called for a break, I pressed the back of my hand against my cheek in a vain attempt to cool it.
“What’s wrong?” Chad stepped up beside me and frowned at the drawing on my easel.
“I’m not really feeling this pose,” I said—because it was opposite day?
Chad put his hand on my shoulder. “Harley, If you’re overwhelmed, don’t try to sketch the whole figure. Zoom in on one section. Your gesture sketch of the model’s genitalia was promising.”
The hipster beside me snorted, and one of the longhaired older men on the other side of the room snickered. Damn Chad for speaking so loudly. But now I felt like his patronizing proposal was a dare. If I didn’t do what he’d suggested, would my classmates consider me prudish? Would the model, assuming he’d heard?
The break ended and Zach shed his robe for the final fifteen minutes, taking up his position again—even adjusting his package to make it lie the same way. The simple fact that I noticed this adjustment seemed like a sign that I should follow Chad’s suggestion and focus there. Why not? Drawing an entire human body was leagues past my limited life-drawing skills, and I had to do something or I was going to end the class without creating any kind of sketch. Art might not be in my wheelhouse, but neither was giving up—or failing.
Starting with a clean sheet of paper, I started to draw, tentatively at first, and then with more focus and purpose, and it turned out Chad was right: keeping my attention on one area did help. And it also helped not to look at the model’s face or think about him as a human male, a living and breathing man whom I’d never have the guts to talk to if I saw him out in the wilds.
If I ever did have the guts to approach him, I wasn’t sure which I feared more: that he’d reject me, or that he’d take me in his arms and kiss me, press me up against a wall, his muscular body hard against mine.
Forcing those thoughts from my mind, I rubbed the charcoal on the paper, smudging and shading, trying my best to represent what I was seeing.
I was shading the underside of his balls, fighting to remember the techniques I’d been taught to get the shape to look three dimensional, when I lifted my eyes from my paper and noticed the model was no longer there. I must have missed it when Chad called time.
After dropping the charcoal onto the easel’s tray, I stretched my shoulders, shocked at how tense they’d become. I glanced over to Lara, who grinned like a goofball, striking a “look at this” pose in front of her sketch.
“Wow, that’s great, Lara.” I joined her in front of her easel.
I couldn’t exactly recognize Zach the model in her sketch, but I could recognize that she’d drawn a human, and for beginners like us, that counted as a huge win.
Lara’s eyes opened wider and she tipped her chin up like she was trying to tell me something.
“Do I have charcoal on my face again?”
“No.”
I glanced back toward my easel. Zach—now in a loosely wrapped robe that didn’t begin to cover the snake tattoo curling over his chest, or the good bits south of his waist—was standing in front of my sketch, the smirk on his face visible even in profile.
Mortified, I looked at my drawing with the perspective of distance. My cheeks flared.
My sketch was like something an eight-year-old might draw—if we’re talking skill level versus subject matter, that is. Sure, some eight-year-old boys might do dick drawings, but one hoped not like mine, with its exaggerated size, overly graphic head and veining, and definitely belonging to an adult male.
I wanted to crawl under the paint and charcoal-coated floor.
“Impressive,” Zach said.
“Right back at you,” I replied, then immediately felt my entire body blush. “I mean, what I meant was: holding a pose like that for so long.” I was stammering now, and my throat and tongue felt like I’d spent a week in the desert without water.
