Vicious Games: A Dark Taboo Stepbrothers Reverse Harem Romance (The Lies We Keep - Book 1), page 1
Vicious Games
The Lies We Keep #1
Steph Macca
Copyright © 2022 Steph Macca
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or any means, without prior permission in writing from the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchases.
Contents
Stalk the Author!
All the bad things
Dedication
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
The Lies We Keep #2
Other Books by Steph Macca
Stalk the Author!
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All the bad things
Dear All,
We're gathered here today to celebrate the beauty of smut. If you've somehow stumbled upon this book incorrectly, leave now or forever hold your peace.
This book features morally grey characters, doing unspeakable dirty things. There's a sprinkle of violence and a whole range of dick. So, if you're easily offended or prefer fade to black… don't walk, run now!
To all the babes who accidentally fall in love with fictional morally grey men.
I see you.
And sister, there's nothing wrong with loving the hot bad boys. We all need a little Klaus in our life.
Chapter one
“Fuck, baby. You’re so wet.”
Tom… Tim, or is it Jim? Whoever he is, he thinks he is God’s gift to women. My ass is up in the air, and I throw a glance over at the bottle of lube sitting on the center console of the car. This daft motherfucker seriously can’t tell the difference between lube and a wet woman. He probably thinks tomatoes are a vegetable and that we only have two fucking holes.
I’m not sure at what point I decided car sex was the best scenario for impromptu fucking, but we have to make the best of every situation, right?
My head bounces off the back seat window as he pounds into me from behind. I moan, admittedly it’s not the worst sex, and his dick is quite nice. But I can already tell this is more for his benefit, not mine.
I grip the seat, pushing my hips back onto his hard length, trying to find my own friction point. If I had more room, I’d try to reach for my clit, but this dickhead drives a three-door hatchback. My 5’8” body is already bent in unforgiving ways, trying to make room for him to move freely into me.
“Do you like that, baby?” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“Just stop talking,” I breathe out, focusing on my movements.
He grunts in acknowledgement, not thrown off by my attitude. Maybe I would be a little nicer if he had even bothered to try to get me wet. But I also know I won’t see him again after tonight, so there’s no need for pleasantries. Let’s just call a dick, a dick and leave it at that.
Jim is a good-looking guy. I spotted him tonight at the college bar immediately. He was confident, his dark eyes and blonde hair catching my attention. It hadn’t taken long for him to spot me too, as I gave him subtle glances and sultry smiles. I politely let him buy me a drink, and quickly made it known that I wanted him.
Which leads us back to my current situation.
Groans reach my ears, and I can tell by the increased intensity that he’s close. Fuck it – might as well try. I lean down onto my shoulder, snaking my arm down my body to reach my clit. I moan, successful as my fingers brush against it. However, no sooner had I rubbed it, my new friend halts, his groans loud as he comes.
Sighing, I drop my hand, resigned to the fact my Satisfyer Pro will be getting a workout when I get home. I wait for Jim to move out of me, and I shuffle up so I can turn around and sit down properly on the backseat.
He pulls the condom off his length, tying it before throwing it on the car floor. Okay, yeah – definitely not seeing him again.
“That was fun, baby. Can I get your number?”
I ignore him as I grab my black thong from the floor, pulling it up my legs. “Thanks, Jim. I had fun tonight.”
He stiffens beside me. “It’s Jarrod.”
Oh, right. Close enough.
“Good to know, Jarrod. Have a good night,” I say, reaching for the seat handle. I slide the seat forward, awkwardly reaching for the front door handle to let myself out. I grab my purse before shutting the door, laughing at the fogged-up windows of the hatchback and the silhouette of the confused man.
I walk off into the summer night, not glancing back at Jarrod who is still sitting in his car, dick out. Poor guy is probably having an aneurysm trying to figure out why I didn’t give him my number.
The bar is still open, and I’m tempted to go back inside for another drink. But it’s late and I have an exam tomorrow at some ridiculous hour. Brightmore College isn’t the strictest of educational facilities, but I’ve already been in hot water with them lately.
I honestly thought college would be a breeze. I assumed I would have excelled at my studies, and still had lots of time to socialize. But turns out, college was very different to high school, and I kind of sucked at it.
In high school, I wasn’t Mensa level, or a teacher’s pet, but I did well. I knew the system, and the teachers. I played it to my advantage, and it was enough to get me through. It also helped that I was popular – as stomach retching as that sounds.
For most of my high school years, I was on the cheer squad. Mom was a cheerleader before me, and apparently being blonde and pretty meant I was destined for great things. I was pressured into gymnastics, using those skills to earn a place on the squad. My best friend, Jenny, and I made a pact we’d make it together. And we did.
Like me, Jenny was also blonde and fit. She had beautiful brown eyes, and long wavy hair. If Websters Dictionary had a picture next to “High School Beauty”, it would probably be Jenny’s photo.
We always joked that we were yin and yang. I was the opposite of Jen – blue eyes, straight hair and where I had an ass, she had the boobs.
I enjoyed cheering at first. The attention was nice, and I loved working out. Whoever said cheerleading was easy or just a bunch of pompom waving, needed a reality check. Hours upon hours of training and intense aerobatic skills filled my diary, followed by a collection of trophies and medals. But eventually the cattiness got on my nerves too much. And it was no longer challenging.
I quit senior year, spending my time going out to parties and skipping football matches to play poker with the big boys. The drinking hole outside of town was largely used by biker clubs, but I found most of them to be quite pleasant. Sure, their eyes wandered, and a few made snarky, perverted comments but they almost became like a second family. At first, they all underestimated me, but when I got good and wiped the floor with them, they found respect and I found a new challenge I didn’t know I needed. I loved the rush of playing games and winning. It gave me a sense of pride that I was in no rush to give up.
Jenny, however, was mad. She fell right down the cheer rabbit hole, eventually becoming head cheerleader in our senior year. So, when her best friend quit around the same time she made captain, people started talking. The rumor mill went wild, assuming we had had some massive falling-out. I didn’t bother to correct them because it was none of their business. I had my reasons, and that was that. But not Jen, she started to resent me. She hated that I was becoming a different person, someone different to her. And that only grew more when I somehow managed to win Homecoming Queen over her.
The audacity that someone other than the head cheerleader would win the title.
She also hated that I wanted to spend my time with criminals. Sure, some of them were. But that didn’t mean they were bad people. Sometimes the bad people are the ones who go to church e
very Sunday, and the good ones were the ones covered in tattoos and reeked of cigarettes.
I pull up in front of my house and curse as I notice some lights still on. Our house was nice – two-story, spacious and to be honest, a bit fancy. We weren’t poor by any means. Our neighborhood was filled with luxury cars and large houses. The grey stone texture surrounded the whole of the house, with large windows surrounded in dark red wood. In the driveway, our cars were parked parallel to each other. I drove into a vacant spot in my vintage dusty blue Chevrolet.
Stepping out of the car, I resisted the urge to slam my door into the black shiny Aston Martin next to me. See the thing is, I may not be overly materialistic, but I did love our house, and the cars. And fuck what the world says – money does make life easier.
No, what pissed me off was the people inside.
I open the front door, not bothering to try to cover my noise. They already know I go out, and I really don’t care what they think of me. They already think I’m a disappointment, so why risk disappointing their expectation of me?
“Looks like someone had too much fun tonight. Did he not own a brush he could have lent you?”
Sighing, I looked up on the stairs. There he is. The golden child of the house, and biggest pain in the ass to ever exist.
Asher Taylor.
My stepbrother from hell.
“Bite me, Asher,” I snap, exhaustion creeping in. It is too late to fight, and I am sadly out of fucks to give.
Footsteps move down the stairs, and I throw him an incredulous look. He smirks, not halting in his movements until he is a mere few feet away.
“What’s wrong, sis? Did you lose your panties again in another paddock?”
It happened once, and the asshole just loves to bring it up in conversation. In fact, it seems he has a damn photographic memory, or a hobby of collecting all the messed-up events in my life so that he can pull them out at inconvenient times.
“Thankfully, no. I am wearing my favorite pair so, that’s a blessing.”
Asher snorts, crossing his arms. His light brown hair is slightly messy and wet from an obvious recent shower. He’s dressed in a light black cotton shirt and grey sweats, his muscular arms out on display. My eyes involuntarily trail over the black and grey ink which covers the tops of his arms, down to his forearms. I remember him sneaking off on his 18th birthday to start his work of art. Our parents were pissed but forgiving. I secretly thought it was hot and every time I have the thought, even to this day, I tell myself it would be less painful to stab myself in the eye with a rusty fork than to admit it out loud. Especially to him.
He notices me watching and shifts his position to get my attention, which isn’t hard to do because as much as I hate to say it, he has a body like a God. So, sue me, I’m a female who likes muscly men. It’s not a crime to be attracted to hot guys, but it should be illegal when it’s your stepbrother. More times than I can count, I have questioned my sanity. It’s already been established I am a hot mess so what’s one more disaster to add to the list?
I lock eyes with him, his grey ones zoned in on my blue irises. Even being tall, I’m still no match for him as he looks down from his 6’3” frame.
“Rylee,” he draws out, and I instantly hate how much I like the way he says my name like that.
“What?” I breathe, my eyes on his lips as he steps forward, his tongue shooting out along his bottom lip.
We are inches apart, our gazes locked on each other. My heart races and even when I tell myself that I should push him away, I don’t. Because I hate the fact that despite how much I hate him, I don’t at all.
Most of the time.
Asher leans in, so close that I feel his breath on my face. I stand frozen, panicking until a smirk slowly tugs at his lips.
“Charlotte stayed up to talk to you. She wanted to see you the moment you got home.”
Reality hits me hard and I quickly shove him back as he laughs.
“I’ve been home for several minutes, asshat.”
He laughs as he turns and starts climbing the stairs. “I know,” he says, “but where’s the fun in that?”
I enter the kitchen, almost surprised to see my mom up this late, sitting at the table with her Kindle and a cup of green tea.
“Mom,” I acknowledge, walking past her to the double doored fridge. I retrieve a can of soda and turn to her. “You’re up late.”
Charlotte Taylor is my carbon copy, even down to the scolding looks we can produce. Her blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun and her ice blue eyes pierce me with concern.
“Rylee, do you have any idea what time it is? And on a weekday.”
Cracking open the can, I take a sip as I pretend to ponder her words. “It’s not that late, and I am an adult now. It’s not like I have school tomorrow.”
“No,” she agrees, folding her arms. “You have college. We’re not paying for your education just so you can go out every night and drink. You are barely the legal age.”
I shrug. “But a legal one, nonetheless.”
Charlotte grimaces at me. “Your father and I are very concerned about your behavior. You need to reign it in.”
“Gareth is not my father, Mom.”
She sighs and puts her head in her hands. She’s frustrated, a trait of hers when she has to be confrontational. It’s something she hates doing but I can imagine she drew the short straw when it was discussed that this chat needed to happen.
“Rylee, I’m sick of having this conversation over and over. Gareth might only be your stepfather, but he has been in our lives for 4 years now. It’s time to let this go. He loves you like his own blood. I miss your dad as much as you do, but he’s gone. And we have a good family here. You can’t keep living in the past.”
I swallow, trying to keep my face passive. My dad is a sore spot that she knows will get a reaction if she presses hard enough. I throw the near full can in the trash, giving her a blank look as I start to head out of the kitchen. “I’m off to bed. I have an exam tomorrow. Goodnight.”
Chapter two
"Ms. Selwood's assignment did not meet the standard academic requirements. Her chosen topic for the assessment, the history of fellatio, was inappropriate and when asked why she chose it, she responded with 'because the second part of the assessment consisted of an oral exam' and as such, was something she could ' perform with ease', since she had received positive feedback prior for her related skills."
I bite down on my tongue, trying my hardest to keep a straight face as the Dean looks at me with disappointment and disbelief.
"As you can see Ms. Selwood, your professors are concerned about your current academic performance, as well as your attitude to the institution. What do you have to say for yourself?"
I shrug, my face impartial as I look him dead in the face.
"I thought it was an appropriate topic."
"It's European history in the twentieth century!" he hisses, already fed up with my lack of giving of a shit.
I cock an eyebrow at his quick frustration.
"Have you not met any Europeans before, Sir? Honestly, some of the most perverted people I've ever met."
Dean Richmond's mouth falls open, stunned, as he tries to form words. He stutters a few times, his grey hair getting more unkept with each passing minute. Before he can reprimand me, his intercom buzzes to life, the assistant's nasally voice sounding through.
"Mr. Richmond? Your 3 o'clock is here."
He quickly pushes the button to respond, his angry gaze never leaving mine as he answers her. "Thank you, Louise. I'll be one more moment."
I wait for him to speak. The tension in the room grows and for a second, I almost start to regret my actions.
“Ms. Selwood, I understand things have been difficult for you the past few years. Whilst I sympathize, this behavior cannot continue. If you do not start meeting the expectations of the college, I’ll have no choice but to terminate your enrollment.”
The intercom buzzes again so I quickly grab my bag. “Noted, Sir. Have a good day.”
