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Stepbrother Sleepover 1st Edition
Emma Bray
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stepbrother sleepover
SINFUL STEPBROTHERS
EMMA BRAY
Copyright © 2022 by Emma Bray
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.
contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
one
Luke
I BRING the champagne flute up to my lips and take a sip

of the tart, fruity beverage. I lament the way it doesn't burn going
down my throat like a shot of good whiskey.
I pull at the collar of my tuxedo and scowl. Fucking champagne.
A man needs the hard shit to get through something like this—or at
least a good beer. This fancy, bubbly shit isn't my thing, but I'm here
for my father, I remind myself.
I glance over at where he dances with Karen Shay. She's a pretty
woman, I have to admit, with her curly blonde hair and petite frame.
She's a widow just like my father's a widower. The way I understand
it, she has three children too—just like Dad—though my brothers
and I have yet to meet them.
My father isn't exactly known for his patience. He met this
woman scarcely a month ago, and now he's got a ring on her finger
before even introducing us to her children. Not that I really give a
fuck. If he thinks we're going to be one big happy Brady Bunch,
though, he’s got another thing coming. My brothers and I are all
grown. We don't have time to make nice with new siblings. I’m not
saying that I'm going to be an ass to whomever my step-siblings
turn out to be, but I'm not looking for new family members to sing
kumbayah with either. And I know Charlie and Noah aren’t either.
I want my old man to be happy. Our mom died years ago, and I
didn't really expect him to stay single and mourn her forever. Plus, I
already know Karen isn't trying to replace our mother. She won't
expect us to call her mom and shit like that, so I'm good with her.
Still, I might wish my dad well, but I wish he'd go ahead and pull
a plug in this thing so we can all go. If I thought I could skate out of
here without my presence being missed, I'd be gone in a heartbeat.
I have several designs to sketch out for my clients before work
on Monday. I don't really want to spend my entire weekend playing
at a new family. Normally I'd be in the parlor inking out new tattoos
on the weekend, but I took this weekend off for my dad's wedding.
Still, that doesn't mean I can't create some new designs on my time
off. I've been working on drawing up a new one to have inked on my
own skin—something I know my dad is less than thrilled about.
He doesn't approve of all the tats decorating my chest and arms,
but ask me if I give a fuck. They’re part of who I am. Some are
symbolic, whereas others are just decorative. We all express
ourselves in different ways, and mine is through inked skin.
My scowl deepens when I feel a bump against my side. I look
down, ready to snap at whatever drunken fool stumbled into me, but
my words die in my throat when I look down at soft brown hair
tumbling down an impossibly tiny frame. A little head lifts, and the
biggest pair of doe-brown eyes I've ever seen peers up at me.
They’re framed by thick, dark lashes that make them look soft
and innocent. My eyes rove down over porcelain cheeks to a pair of
puffy pink lips, and my cock twitches. They’re the kind of lips a man
dreams about having wrapped around his cock.
“Oops! I'm sorry!” she says in a musical little voice before she
smiles at me.
It's like the world has shifted under my feet. Holy fuck, that
smile. It’s the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life.
Who is this tiny angel?
I place a hand on her arm to steady her, noticing the way my
hand almost wraps entirely around it. She’s so tiny, so dainty. A rush
of protectiveness surges through me.
Her flesh is soft in my grasp, and tingles run from my fingertips
all the way up through my arm.
I offer her a smile of my own. “And just who are you, sweet
thing?” My eyes rake over the peach-colored dress she has on. It’s
held up by the thinnest of straps and reveals the tiniest bit of
cleavage in its square neckline. It flows to her feet, so,
unfortunately, I don’t get a look at her legs, but I can see pink-
painted toenails peeking out from underneath the dress in a pair of
strappy heels.
Twin spots of pink appear on her cheeks as she blushes prettily.
“Lucy.”
“Lucy,” I repeat her name slowly, reverently. “I'm Luke.”
“Luke,” she repeats my name too, and I swear to fuck my cock
stiffens in my pants at the way she says my name in a breathy little
voice. It makes me imagine her panting it out with her lips right next
to my ear as I pound into her balls deep. Fuuck.
I grab a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and hand it to
her, but she shakes her head, her pretty brown locks bobbing with
the movement. “Oh, thank you, but I'm not old enough.”
My brow furrows and my stomach drops as I place the flute of
champagne back on the tray and nod to the waiter. “How old are
you, Lucy?” I rake my eyes over her again. Fuck, she looks young.
Please tell me I haven’t been standing here perving on an
underaged girl.
“Nineteen,” she answers, and I visibly relax. She's young but
legal. I'm not exactly old at twenty-eight, but that’s nine years older
than her.
I drink in the sight of her again, and my chest tightens.
Fuck it, I don't care. I don't know what it is about this girl, but
I'm completely enchanted with her.
“Hmm, so what do you do, Lucy?” I ask her. I'm not normally one
to make small talk, but I'm dying to know anything I can about this
girl—and it's either make small talk with her or throw her over my
shoulder and carry her out of her to take her somewhere and bang
her within an inch of her life. My hand tightens around the
champagne flute as I feel sticky precum rush to my tip.
Fuck, I’ve never been this hard up for a girl I scarcely know.
“I currently work as a teacher's aide. I'm going to school to be a
teacher myself,” she tells me proudly.
I let my eyes rove over her pretty face again, my chest tightening
at how sweet she looks. “I bet all the kids love you.”
She blushes before she goes on, “I love children. I always have.”
Fuck, she looks so innocent. So pure. Everything about her
screams “good.”
I place a hand on her hip as I take a step closer to her. Her eyes
widen at the touch, but I can't stop myself. “A teacher? I wonder
what you could teach me?” I murmur to her.
Her eyes get even wider as her face flushes. “Or perhaps,” I lean
down until my lips are right against her ear, “there are a few things I
could teach you.”
I hear her breath catch, and I inhale deeply, taking in her flowery
scent. Fuck, she even smells sweet—like a little flower. It’s probably
a dick thought for me to have, but I can't help wondering if she's a
virgin. I'm not one of those guys who gets off on popping girls’
cherries, but fuck, I'd love to be this woman's first and only.
“Lucy!” I suddenly hear someone calling her name. I look up at
the same time Lucy does to see Karen striding over to us. Of course.
I assumed she was one of Karen's guests since I'd never met her
before.
“Oh, I see you've met Luke!” Karen beams between us before
she comes over and hugs my neck like we're old acquaintances and
didn't just meet yesterday.
I know she means well, though, so I pat her back awkwardly and
then pull back to notice that Lucy is about the same height and
stature as Karen.
“Well, what do you think?” Karen asks Lucy with a wide smile.
Lucy laughs and shakes her head as if she's just as confused as I
am. Is Karen hoping to set her guest up with me? I’m certainly not
averse to that idea…
I'd love nothing more than to be set up with this beauty.
“Yeah, Mom. He's really nice.”
My world comes crashing to a halt. Wait. Mom?
My eyes flick between Karen and Lucy, and it feels like a lead
weight has been dropped into my stomach.
I see the resemblance now. I obviously make the connection
before Lucy does, but I see the moment she realizes it too because
her face pales as Karen chirps happily, “Wonderful! I'm so glad to
see you're getting along well with your new stepbrother. Have you
met Noah and Charlie yet?”
“Stepbrother?” Lucy whispers before she looks up at me with
horror.
Fuck.
two
Lucy
MY STEPBROTHER. Luke is my new stepbrother.

My cheeks color with irritation when I see the flash of anger in
his blue eyes that were just warm and inviting like napalm pools.
Now, they’re like shards of glass that could cut me. He's looking at
me like he somehow thinks this is all my fault. What? Did he think I
knew he was my new stepbrother?
Moreover, I'm not the one who was shamelessly flirting with me.
He is. He's the one who came on to me.
I barely hear what my mom is chattering on about.
“Don’t you think, Lucy?’
Her question gets my attention.
“What?” I ask her.
Luke blinks and frowns at my mom too.
“Isn’t it great that Luke owns his own tattoo parlor?” Mom beams
at Luke proudly like he's the son she always wishes she had.
My eyes flick down to his big, strong-looking hands, and I can
see the tattoos decorating his knuckles. I bet the hard slabs of
muscle under his tuxedo are covered in tats too. Are both of his
arms tattered, or does he just have one sleeve?
I purse my lips together, irritated that I even want to know. He’s
my stepbrother. I don't care how many tats cover his body or what
they look like. I certainly don't want to trace my fingers over each
one of them.
He must misinterpret my pursed lips and narrowed gaze as
disapproval because he crosses his arms and smirks down at me. “I
imagine an aspiring teacher isn't into tattoos much. Am I right?”
He raises a mocking eyebrow at me, and my hand twitches with
the urge to slap that smug look off his face. If he only knew I'd gone
through my own rebellious stage when I was a teenager.
Well, technically I'm still a teenager, but I'm on the cusp of
official adulthood. I’m almost twenty.
Anyway, it would really shock him to know that I have a small
tattoo no one knows about. Not even my mom, but that’s none of
his business, and I'm certainly not going to be telling him that.
Because why the hell do I care what he thinks?
I don't take the time to correct him. Instead, I give my mom a
warm hug and tell her again how happy I am for her. And I really
am. I'm happy that she finally fell in love again. My mom deserves it.
She's an amazing woman, and even though Luke seems like an ass
now that he knows there's no chance of getting in my pants, his
dad, Jeff Callahan, seems like a decent guy and he's head over heels
for my mom, which is all I can ask of my future stepdad.
“Have you met Noah and Charlie yet?” My mom points across the
room to two other hulking men. They're almost as big as Luke, but
whereas Luke has dark hair, one of them has sandy brown hair, and
the other looks like a Herculean god with his blond hair.
Sweet baby Jesus. What is it with the Callahan men? All three of
my stepbrothers look like they belong on the cover of romance
novels. Jeff’s not so bad looking himself, but he's nothing like his
boys.
I shake my head at my mom and smile at her apologetically. “No,
but I'm afraid it's going to have to wait till another time, Mom. I've
got a paper I need to finish writing.”
It’s a lie. I already wrote the damn paper, but I don't want to be
subjected to my other two stepbrothers right now. If their
disposition is as sunny as Luke’s, I certainly don't want to meet them
yet. I'm sure I'll meet them soon enough anyway.
“Oh,” my mom pouts. “Are you sure, honey? You work so hard.”
She gives me a warm smile that lets me know she's proud of me.
My mom has always been my biggest cheerleader, and my chest
swells with love as I hug her again. As much as I don't want to even
look at my new stepbrother again, I force myself to smile at him
politely. “It was nice meeting you, Luke.” I tell him cordially.
“The pleasure was all mine, baby sis.”
My mom is smiling at us happily, completely unaware of the
tension sparking between us and the sarcasm in the way Luke called
me “baby sis.”
I purse my lips to keep from scowling at him, and I see his eyes
light with wicked humor, though I still see a spark of that anger in
them, and that pisses me off to no end. Like it's my fucking fault
that he didn't know who I was and hit on his new stepsister. The
man is an egotistical pig. I don't care how hot he is.
I turn on my heel and walk away, but I feel his icy blue eyes
burning into me with every step.
When I get to the door of the chapel, I chance a glance back
over my shoulder. His eyes are still trained on me, burning hotter
than the brightest blue flame. I scowl at him and resist flipping him
off.
Instead, I flip my hair over my shoulder before I flounce out of
the chapel.
His miscalculation is his problem, and I'm not going to waste
another thought on him.
So why does my heart give a little pang when I remember how
nice he was before he found out who I am?
three
Luke
“WHAT CRAWLED UP YOUR ASS?” My

brother Charlie claps me on the back. I growl and give him a “piss
off.”
He holds his hands up in surrender and steps back. He knows he
doesn’t want to mess with me when I'm in this kind of mood.
“Whoa, that bad, huh?”
Yeah, I'm in a pissy mood—ever since her. I knock back the rest
of the champagne and fight to keep from swinging the flute across
the room and smashing it against the wall in frustration.
The most perfect girl I've ever seen is one of my damn
stepsisters. The universe fucking hates me. I’m pissed off because I
know she's off-limits.
I’m even more pissed off that my cock is still hard for her. The
fucker hasn't gone down at all. In fact, every time I remember the
way her cheeks blushed and how she smiled at me so radiantly, it
makes me ache for her even more. I want her, but I can't have her
because my dad would have to marry her fucking mom.
Yeah, I'm pissed off.
“Have you met all of our new stepsisters yet?”
My lips twist in irony.
“Oh, so we have three baby sisters now?” I ask sardonically.
Charlie gives me a quizzical look. “What? Did you want brothers?”
I cut him a look. “No, two fuckheads are enough.”
He grins at me, his eyes cutting over to watch a pretty redhead.
His smile fades, and he becomes contemplative. I don’t know what
all that’s about, but I have my own problems, so I don’t ask.
“I met one of them,” I finally grumble. “Lucy.”
Charlie nods. “That's the one I haven't met yet. What was she
like?”
“Young,” I deadpan.
“Yeah, I hear she's the youngest one,” Charlie says. Figures. My
dick would have to pick the youngest one to lust after. “There's
Sharon, the oldest one.” He nods over at the pretty redhead and
then Cynthia, the middle child.” He motions over to a blonde beauty.
“Lucy is the baby.”
My jaw firms at hearing another man call her “baby” even though
I know my brother didn't mean it in the context I'm taking it.
She is a baby. A sweet baby. My baby.
I scowl at the possessive thought. She's not my anything—unless
you count my stepsister.
I grab another flute of champagne and down the entire thing.
Charlie merely chuckles before shaking his head. “Man, you really
do hate these kinds of things huh?”
“Yes,” I growl out. Let Charlie think that’s what's wrong with me.
Everyone knows I hate dressing up like a fucking penguin.
“Well, I guess I need to go formally introduce myself to the
youngest sister,” Charlie says.
“You can't,” I tell him dryly. “She already left.”
Charlie raises an eyebrow at me. “She had to write a paper or
something,” I grumble. “She's in college.”
“Oh yeah, she’s going to be a teacher, right?” Charlie comments
absently as his eyes flit back over to the redheaded sister. What did
he say her name was? Sharon? I don't know. I can't even keep up
with my other two stepsisters’ names because the only one I can
think about is my little Lucy.
“Well, I guess there's time to meet her. I'm sure we'll all meet
each other soon enough.” Charlie claps me on the back again, and I
grit my teeth.
I hate the way he does this shit like he thinks he's the alpha of
the three of us brothers. He may be one year older than me, and he
might be the golden child for being the CEO of his own company,
but we both know I can still whoop his ass. I've got an extra foot on
him in height, and I'm bigger and brawnier too.
“You going go introduce yourself to the other two?” He raises an
eyebrow at me. “Get it over with?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Like you said, I'm sure we'll all meet
each other soon enough. I'm out of here.”
I've had enough of this shit. My mood is officially soured, and all
I want to do is go home and do my best to forget all about Lucy
Shay and her big brown eyes.
four
Lucy
“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!” I chant to myself as I fumble on

the nightstand for my phone. I flick on the flashlight app and hold it
up into the pitch-black darkness.
My power just went out, and I know I paid my electric bill. I walk
over to the window and peek out the blinds, frowning when I see
that everyone else's house on the block has lights but mine.
I swipe up to unlock my phone and call the electric company to
report the outage, but no sooner do I pull up the keypad does my
phone die.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I chant again. I'm notorious for not keeping my
phone charged, and I guess Sharon is right when she's always
ragging me about it. If I was more responsible and kept it charged
up, I wouldn't be in this mess.
I chew on my bottom lip as I consider what to do. I've got to call
the power company and let them know that something's up with my
power, but now I don't have a phone to do that with. I don't really
like the thought of traipsing over to one of my neighbor's houses in
my sleep shorts and ratty old tank top, but it's much too dark in here
for me to see to change clothes.
I fumble around where I keep my rope hanging and finally find it
and slip it onto my shoulders before I stumble my way to the kitchen
and feel around for my shoes.
“Dammit!” I curse when I can't find them anywhere.
I finally yank open the door and step out into the humid night air
sans shoes. I look left and right indecisively. I don't know any of my
neighbors. I've always kept to myself, so I don't know which way to
go.
It's completely juvenile, but I recite a verse of eeny, meeny, miny,
moe in my head. I turn to the house that was “not it” and begin
marching across the yard barefoot.
Hopefully, my neighbor won't be too pissed off about me
knocking on their door this late at night, though in all fairness most
people don't go to bed as early as me, so they should be up.
My suspicions are proved correct whenever I walk up to the door
and hear heavy metal music blaring through it. I chew on my lip
nervously, contemplating whether I chose the right house, but I'm
already here, so I raise my fist and knock on the door firmly.
There’s no answer. They likely can’t hear me over the blaring
music, so I increase the force of my knocks. I suppose I could just
traipse over to my neighbor on the other side.
When nobody comes to the door, I drop my hand with a sigh and
turn to leave, but then the music suddenly gets louder as the door
opens.
I turn back around, my eyes widening and a gasp falling from my
lips when I see who's standing in the doorway.
It's Luke.
He's completely bare-chested, answering my question about the
tats covering the rest of his body. His entire chest is inked as are
both sleeves. I can't stop staring at the colors as well as the hard
ridges of muscle lining his abdomen. He clearly hits the gym very
regularly. Either that or he's the most blessed man I've ever seen in
my life.
He's got on a pair of low-slung joggers, and his dark hair is
carelessly disheveled in that sexy way that only men can accomplish.
My eyes finally make their way up his chest to his blue gaze.
I see surprise on his slack-jawed face that’s lined with stubble,
but then his lips press into a thin line, and his eyes harden as he
growls, “What are you doing here?”
Luke
“I'm sorry,” the girl who I haven't been able to get out of my
mind all day stammers as she takes a step back and turns to hurry
back to wherever she came from.
My eyes flick to the street. I don’t see a car there. I take in her
bare feet and scantily clad form under her robe and frown.
A pang of guilt hits me at the thought that she might be in some
sort of trouble. “No, wait,” I call after her as I grab her hand.
She stills as my hand closes around her wrist, looking down at
where I hold her captive before her eyes lift to mine.
I suck in a breath. It’s like a punch straight to my jugular seeing
those big doe-brown eyes staring up at me again.
“Something's obviously wrong.” My voice comes out low. “What is
it?”
She pulls her hand from mine before she glances over to the
house next door. “My power went out, and my phone is dead.” She
holds up an iPhone with a blank screen as if to illustrate. “I thought
I'd ask one of my neighbors if I could borrow their phone to call the
electric company. I obviously chose the wrong one,” she adds before
she turns and starts walking off my porch again.
“Whoa, there! Wait a minute!” I'm out of the door in a flash and
circling around to stand in front of her. I block her path with a hand
on either column of my porch. She stops short, gazing up at me
wide-eyed. Holy fuck. I just moved into this house about a week
ago. How have I never seen her before now? “Who said I won't help
you?” I ask her gruffly.
She cuts me a look. “You hate me.”
I blink and shake my head. “I don't hate you, sweet thing. On
the contrary, what I feel for you is far from hate.”
Her mouth falls open, and she blinks up at me. I internally curse
myself for revealing too much. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Why do I act like a fool over this girl?
My stepsister, a little voice inside my head reminds me.
“Come on inside, and I'll call the electric company for you.” I
motion her in the house, and she hesitates before I add, “I’m not
letting you go back to that dark house all alone.”
She raises an eyebrow up at me.
“As your big brother, it's my job to protect you now, right?”
She frowns before she mumbles, “You're not my brother.”
I don't answer. Instead, I just look at her until she huffs and
stalks into my house. I fight back a grin when she flips her brown
hair over her shoulder just like she did earlier when she was leaving
the chapel. I sober when I remember why we’re suddenly at each
other's throats.
I close the door and then walk over to turn down my stereo. I
swallow when I glance back at her and see her robe hanging open,
giving me a glimpse of extremely short shorts and a too-small tank
top. I motion to her get-up, suddenly irritated with her, “You're
telling me that's how you go traipsing over to a neighbor's house?”
Her face colors, and she lifts her chin defiantly. “In case you
don't understand what out of power means, it means I don't have
any electricity so there were no lights for me to find other clothes to
change into. This is what I sleep in.”
I grunt, pissed off at the thought that she could have shown up
at another man's door and he could have seen her dressed like this.
Anything could have happened to her. There are plenty of men out
there who would take advantage of a pretty little thing like her out
all alone at night looking for help.
As it is, I can see her shapely legs and a patch of her abdomen
showing where her shirt doesn't come all the way down to meet the
top of her shorts.
Her hair tumbles loose down her shoulders. It looks like she's
just been lying in bed—or just been fucked. My jaw tightens at that
last thought. I don't like the thought of anyone else touching her—
much less giving her just-fucked hair.
“Have you had company tonight?” I ask her.
Her brow furrows, and she shakes her head. “No, but I don't see
how that's any of your business.”
My lips thin at her smart-ass tone, but something within me
calms at the knowledge that she hasn't had another man over in her
bed.
I walk over and grab my phone to report her power outage. The
operator says he doesn't have a clue why just her power would be
out and that they'll send someone over in the morning to look at it.
Lucy’s shoulders slump when I tell her that, but she nods and
thanks me before she turns and starts heading toward the door.
“Wait!” Panic flares in my chest at seeing her leave. I scowl at my
reaction. “Where are you going?”
She stills with her hand on the doorknob before she glances over
at me like I'm an idiot. “Home?” she says it sarcastically in a “duh”
tone before her voice softens and she adds, as if making up for her
bad manners,” Thank you for reporting the outage. There's nothing
they can do tonight. I can make it without power one night.”
“No,” I say firmly as I walk over and plant a hand on the door,
keeping her from opening it. “You'll stay here tonight.”
She looks up at me in surprise. Hell, I'm just as surprised as she
is by what just came out of my mouth. This is stupid, man, part of
my brain tells me, but there’s another part that says, You can’t let
her go home alone to a powerless house. What if she's afraid of the
dark?
Still, another part of me is dying to see what the rest of her looks
like underneath that robe.
My eyes trail over her, taking in the slight flush to her skin, and
before I can even think about what I'm doing, I'm sliding it off her,
my hands grazing her shoulders as I do so.
Her eyes lift to me, and she swallows before she says my name
breathily, “Luke.”
I watch the goosebumps prickle her skin as my gaze roves over
the gentle swell of her breasts. Her nipples are hard underneath the
fabric that’s so thin I can almost see the darkened circles of her
areolas around them.
My cock is suddenly tenting my joggers, straining to get at her.
I watch as if it's someone else doing it as my hands slide down
her arms and over her waist and the curve of her hips. Her little
chest heaves up and down as her breathing quickens.
She licks her lips, and I stare at the way they glint with moisture
in the lamplight.
“Luke,” she whispers my name again, and I know I shouldn’t, but
God help me if I can stop it. I take her hips firmly in my hands and
pull her flush against me, pressing my aching, leaking cock right up
against her as I crash my lips down onto hers.
five
Lucy
EVERY MUSCLE in my body turns to jelly when Luke

pulls me flush against him. His tongue slips effortlessly into my
mouth, seeking mine out and tangling with it, luring it to dance with
his.
I know I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop myself now if I tried. I kiss
him back, moving my tongue against his. His arms tighten around
me when he feels me kissing him back.
I whimper into his mouth as he kisses me hungrily, desperately,
and he growls into mine in response. I feel the rumble of his growl
in my own chest.
He lifts me with a hand gripping both my thighs, and I
instinctively wrap my legs around him.
He slams me up against the door and growls as he deepens the
kiss, and his dominance sends fire rushing along every nerve ending
in my body.
Without thinking about what I’m doing, I begin rubbing myself
against his hard bulge. Pleasure snaps between my legs at the
delicious friction of my clit rubbing over his hardness.
“Yes,” he hisses in my ear. “Rub that sweet little kitty all over
Daddy’s dick, baby.”
I should be repulsed by his words, but my entire body trembles
at them instead, and moisture pools between my thighs as I’m more
turned on than I’ve ever been in my entire life. I don’t have daddy
issues or anything. I had a great relationship with my father when
he was alive, but something about hearing Luke call himself my
daddy sends me into a frenzy.
It’s so forbidden, so taboo, even more so than him being my
stepbrother, and it causes another whimper to rise out of my chest.
Nothing has ever felt more right. Yes, Luke is my daddy, and I’m
his little girl, and if feeling this way is wrong, then I don’t want to be
right.
Luke yanks my tank top down, and I hear a rip as he tears the
flimsy fabric. He growls as his mouth descends on my breast,
suckling a nipple deeply.
My head thumps as it falls back against the wall. The hot cave of
his mouth is lighting me on fire, and it’s amazing how I feel the
sensation of his tongue circling over my hardened bud right in
between my legs.
My folds slicken, and my pussy throbs, aching to be filled.
He rips my shorts clean off my body like a caveman, completely
ruining them in the process, but I don’t care. Fuck it. I have other
shorts.
His hand skates down between my legs. He delves a finger into
my wet folds before groaning. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me, sweet
baby.” He gathers up some of my moisture and rubs my clit in
rhythmic circles.
“Oh god, Luke!” I cry out.
“Nu-uh,” he tsks at me. “What do you call me when my fingers
are in between your sopping wet cunt?”
I feel my core tighten at his words, and I sob in frustration as my
pussy clenches around air.
“Huh?” he prompts me when I don’t answer, slowing his
movements.
“Daddy!” I cry out, desperate for him to pick up the pace again.
“That’s a good girl,” he praises me before he crashes his lips onto
mine again, rubbing his thumb over my clit faster than ever now.
“Tell me, sweet baby,” he whispers against my lips, “have you
been saving this little cherry for your daddy?”
I blink and look at him dazedly. “How did you know?” I ask him
weakly.
His eyes darken with triumph, and he lets out a choked sound as
he slips down his joggers. His hard cock bobs free and slaps my
thigh. I feel the moisture leaking from the tip as it slides against me.
“I didn’t,” he confesses as he lines himself up with my hole, “but
I dared to hope. He grabs the nape of my neck and looks into my
eyes wildly as he tells me, “It’s a good thing you’ve never given this
pussy to anyone else, though, baby, because I’m a very jealous
daddy. I’ll fucking murder anyone who touches you. Do you
understand me? You’re mine now.”
He thrusts up into me, tearing through my innocence with one
swift plunge. I scream at the sting, but he shushes me. “You didn’t
think I was going to go easy on you, did you, sweet baby? No,
you’re going to take your stepbrother’s dick like a big girl. I know
you can handle it.”
I’m stretched impossibly wide at his girth. I cling to him, my arms
wrapped tightly about his neck as I shudder and wiggle on his
length, trying to ease some of it out of me, but it’s no use. He keeps
himself speared fully inside me and presses even deeper into me,
pinning my back to the wall.
I gasp out a breath, and he groans in my ear, “Don’t run from it,
baby. I promise you’ll get used to it, and then you’ll be begging
Daddy to give it to you deep and dirty.”
My pussy ripples at his words, and he groans a sound of primal
male satisfaction. “See?” he breathes in my ear triumphantly. “You
can’t hide from me. I know you’re a dirty little girl. You love it when
I talk dirty to you, don’t you? You want me to dick your little pussy
down, don’t you? Want your stepbrother to raw dog you and fill you
with my nasty cum, don’t you?”
My pussy clenches around him hard, and he presses deeper into
me, hitting a spot inside me that causes my eyes to roll back in my
head in pleasure. There’s still some pain, but there’s pleasure too,
and they offset each other, only heightening the experience.
“Fuuck,” Luke growls as he pulls out of me and presses back in,
the hot, wet slide of his huge cock stroking my inner walls creating
ripples of pleasure inside me in places I never knew pleasure could
exist.
I push back down on him, and he hisses in a breath. “Yes, that’s
it, baby. Throw that little virgin pussy back down on Daddy’s dick.
Show me how much you want this.”
“Yes, Daddy!” I moan, and that seems to detonate something
inside Luke because he stutters out a breath and then curses before
he begins pounding up into me savagely.
The wet slap of our sexes moving together fills the room along
with Luke’s ragged pants. Something builds inside me deep, and I
cling to Luke, begging incoherently. I don’t know what I’m begging
for, just that whatever it is he can give it to me and it’s going to be
monumental. Luke fists my hair in his hand and tips my head back,
scraping his teeth along my neck. “Come for Daddy,” he rasps out
against my ear, and as if all I was waiting for was his command, my
body explodes.
I let out a keening sound as I shatter, my body convulsing in his
arms. I feel his cock swelling inside me, getting impossibly bigger
and longer, and then he lets out a guttural roar as his release spurts
up into me in hot pulses.
He continues to grunt and groan as his body quakes with each
pulse. I don’t know how much a man is supposed to come, but Luke
seems to come forever. He comes until it won’t all fit in my body,
and I feel it dripping down the insides of my thighs.
I’m limp in his arms as he kisses my forehead and carries me
through his house to his bed. I’m still mindless from the orgasm he
gave me—my first orgasm—when I feel him tuck me into the covers
and slide in behind me.
No sooner does he wrap his arms around me, spooning me from
behind, do I give in to my tiredness and fall asleep.
six
Luke
I ROLL over and reach for Lucy, a smile already on my

face. I don't give a fuck if she is my stepsister. We aren't any blood
relation, and last night just proved that this girl is meant to be mine.
I knew it the first moment I looked at her, and it was pointless to
fight it.
I frown and sit up when I find the bed empty.
Somehow, I already know that she's not going to be in the
bathroom, but I check it anyway. My stomach sinks when I return to
the bedroom and find a note laying on my nightstand.
Luke,
Last night was a mistake. Let's pretend it never happened.
Please.
L
I stare down at the note incredulously before I ball it into a fist in

rage. “L.” She signed her name fucking “L.” she couldn't even sign
her full name.
After a night that changed my life forever, all she gives me is
three sentences. Three motherfucking sentences. Three sentences
to rip my heart out and stomp on it like it's nothing to her.
My heart twists within me. Last night may have been nothing to
her, but it was everything to me. I think back on how right she felt in
my arms, how she quaked on my cock and called me daddy.
I firm my jaw. No, she can deny it all she wants, but she feels
this connection too. I know she does.
I look at the time and pass a weary hand over my face. As much
as I’d love nothing more than to find her right now and make my
feelings known, it's well past eight o'clock, so I know she's at work
where I should be too.
I sullenly take a shower and throw on a pair of jeans and a black
T-shirt before I go into my studio. My employees are already there
getting to work on inking up some of our clients.
While I have a booking today, I hand it over to Darren, knowing
that he'll be able to handle the intricacies of the design. I'm in no
mood to be inking anyone right now. With my volatile temperament,
I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to focus.
Instead, I lock myself up in my office and spend my time on the
computer, finding out everything I can about Lucy Shay.
I creep her social media, my chest squeezing at every picture I
see of her. She's so pretty, so innocent-looking in each one with that
radiant smile of hers.
I get the name of the school where she works from her profile,
and then I sit there at my desk, drumming my fingers as I stare at
the clock like a student waiting for the bell to ring.
Fuck it. I'm going crazy here. As the clock gets closer to the end
of the school day, I grab the keys to my bike and head on over to
the school where I sit outside across the street and wait for all the
kids to leave.
When most of the kids have dispersed, I make my way into the
building. It doesn't take me long to find the room she works in. A
quick peek into the classroom shows that the coast is clear and she's
the only one in the room.
I slip inside and lock the door, making sure the blinds are closed.
She straightens from where she was bending over by the desk and
gasps when she sees me, dropping the papers in her hand. They
scatter to the floor between us.
She ignores them. I ignore them.
Instead, she stands there staring at me as I begin stalking over
to her like a predator sensing his prey.
“What’re you doing here?”
I cock my head to the side. “Isn't it obvious? Looking for you.”
Her hands tremble as she squats down to pick up the papers. I
bend down myself and gather them all up for her. My hands brush
hers in the process, and her breath catches at the touch. I feel her
shiver where our skin touches.
Her eyes flick up to me. Without ever looking away from her, I
reach up and lay the papers on the desk before I grasp her hands
and pull her up to stand with me.
“Luke, if this is about last night…” her voice wavers. “It was…”
I hold a finger up to her lips to shush her before finishing her
sentence, “Just the beginning.”
She frowns and moves to shake her head, but I fist my hand in
her hair at the nape of her neck and hold her still.
I lean in until her sweet flowery scent wraps around me
intoxicatingly. I inhale deeply like I’m taking a hit of her before I
speak directly into her ear, “You don't come all over a man's cock
and call him daddy if it doesn't mean anything. You’re not fooling
anyone, sweet girl.”
“Luke,” her voice trembles. “We’re stepbrother and stepsister. It's
not right.”
“Tell me that when I've got my face buried in your sweet pussy,”
I tell her as I lift her onto the edge of the desk. She lets out a
squeak as I kneel in front of her and push her little yellow dress up.
I pull her panties to the side.
“Luke,” she says my name like she's going to stop me, but I don't
give her the chance. Instead, I latch my mouth directly onto her clit
and begin to lick and suck in pulsing movements that I know will
drive her crazy.
“Oh god!” Her head falls back on a moan, and she spears her tiny
fingers into my hair, pulling me closer.
I wrap my arms around her thighs and drag her cunt closer to
my face as I eat her out enthusiastically, licking and sucking on her
like my life depends on it. And it does because she's my life, and
there's no way in hell I'm letting her slip through my fingers.
“Tell me you’re mine,” I prompt her.
She stiffens underneath me, and I suck on her harder, swirling
my tongue around her sensitive bundle of nerves until she melts
against me again.
“Tell me,” I order her again.
She presses her lips together and still resists, so I suck her more
earnestly, bringing her closer and closer to the edge only to back off
again.
“Say it!” I growl against her, my arms taut with tension. We’re in
a battle of wills, but I will dominate her.
She doesn’t speak, so I edge her again.
She lets out a growl of frustration and glares down at me with
lust-riddled eyes.
I glare back at her from between her legs, flicking her clit
torturously slowly before she finally cries out angrily, “Yes! Yes! I’m
yours!”
“Good girl,” I snarl out in satisfaction before I hollow my cheeks
and finish her off by plugging her hole with two fingers while I bat
my tongue over her clit repeatedly.
She cries out, her fingers tightening in my hair painfully, but I
welcome the pain. Her sweet juices flood my face, and I drink her
up greedily.
My cock is aching so bad it's near to bursting. Fuck, I’ve got to
have her.
Just as I'm standing and getting ready to set my swollen length
free and plunge inside her sweet depths, there's a knock on the
door.
Lucy turns her flushed face to me, panic lighting her eyes before
she pushes me away and hops off the desk.
She struggles to right her clothing and smooth out her hair. Her
face is flushed, and she gives me a warning glance as she walks
over to the door and opens it.
“Miss Minerva,” she greets the teacher warmly. “I'm so sorry! I
don't know how that happened. The door must have fallen shut.”
The teacher's eyes flick between me and Lucy curiously before
Lucy volunteers, “I’d like you to meet my stepbrother, Luke.”
I nod at the teacher but don’t offer her my hand. She probably
wouldn’t appreciate shaking the hand that was just in her aide’s
cunt.
She smiles at me cordially as she gushes about Lucy. “Nice to
meet you. Your stepsister is a godsend. I don't know what I would
do without her.”
If the woman suspects what Lucy and I were just doing or smells
the scent of sex still lingering in the air, she makes no hint of it.
“Luke was just leaving,” Lucy says as she gives me a pointed
look.
I stuff my hands in my pockets and smile back at her. “I don’t
mind waiting for you, baby sis. Thought I’d give you a ride home.”
Lucy’s eyes cut daggers at me, and I have to fight back my
smirk.
“That’s okay. You go ahead,” she tells me. “I plan on staying late
tonight.”
The teacher pats Lucy on the arm and smiles at her kindly. “Now,
Lucy, darling, there’s no need for that. You've got me more caught
up than any other teacher in this hallway.” The teacher smiles at me,
and I grin back at her indulgently. “You go on home with your
stepbrother, dear. It was very sweet of him to stop by to take you
home.”
I smile at Lucy smugly.
Her face falls as she bids the teacher goodnight before she grabs
her purse and stalks out of the room in front of me.
She's pissed. I can feel it rolling off her in waves. But I grin to
myself because I know exactly how to make her purr.
seven
Lucy
“NO WAY,” I say when I see Luke's motorcycle parked on

the side of the curb. “You're not getting me on that death trap.”
He gives me that infuriating smirk of his as he says challengingly,
“Lucy, are you that uptight that you won’t ride a motorcycle?”
I huff and cross my arms over my chest. “It has nothing to do
with being uptight,” I retort back. “It has to do with having common
sense—something you obviously have none of.” I quote off statistics
of how many people die in motorcycle accidents every year, but he
walks over to the back of the bike and ignores me as he grabs the
helmet and plops it onto my head.
It's way too big for me, which lets me know it must be his, but
he still pulls the strap as tight as it can go under my chin.
I glare up at him, and he gives me a crooked grin that makes my
heart do a little flip in my chest. Damn him.
“You look adorable,” he murmurs before he bends down and
drops a kiss on my nose. “And you’re always safe with me,” he adds.
I look around, my cheeks flaming. “Someone could have seen
you,” I protest.
He shrugs nonchalantly. “So what? A brother can’t give his baby
sister an affectionate kiss on the nose?”
“You're not my brother,” I grit out.
“My point exactly,” he comments dryly.
I open my mouth to argue further, but he places his hands on my
waist and lifts me as if I weigh no more than a feather before
dropping me onto the back of his bike. His eyes rove over my
exposed thighs where my dress hikes up before settling on the
panties I know are showing in between my legs.
He climbs onto the bike in front of me and arranges the dress
under his butt to keep it from flying up before he grabs my arms and
winds them around his middle.
“Hold on tight, baby girl,” he tells me as he revs up the motor.
I close my eyes as he pulls off from the curb. I clutch tightly
against him, trying not to notice how good it feels to be this close to
him. The scent of his cologne wraps around me, and I open my eyes
and watch as we speed off down the highway.
Although I'm still terrified out of my mind, I enjoy the ride
despite myself. It actually feels good having the wind whipping
against my skin. There's a certain freedom in riding on the open
road like this.
Still, I'm glad when Luke pulls up to his house, and it ends. He
dismounts from the bike with one fluid motion before he turns me
and lifts me off it like he’s plucking me off a horse.
I unsnap his helmet and hand it back to him. He takes it and
then wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close against him,
but I keep my wits about me this time and place my palms flat
against his chest and push with all my might.
He stumbles back and releases me with a frown. I know better
than to let him get his lips on me because once he does, all rational
thought will go out the window. I know this.
“Thank you for the ride,” I tell him stiffly, “but this has to end
here.”
He shakes his head stubbornly.
“Luke,” my voice turns pleading as I beg him to understand. “You
have to see why this won't work, right? My mom is married to your
dad,” I remind him.
He just blinks at me and firms his jaw stubbornly before he
growls out, “I don't give a fuck about all that.”
I purse my lips and cross my arms as I glare back at him. “Well,
you should.”
“Well, I don't,” he bites back stubbornly.
I shake my head and begin walking toward my house. I feel his
hand wrap around my wrist.
I turn around and yank myself free from his hold.
“Stop!” I raise my voice at him firmly.
He stops in his tracks, though his eyes flare with anger.
“Leave me alone,” I tell him in as stern of a voice as I can
muster. I hear my voice wobble at the end and pray he doesn’t.
He narrows his eyes at me suspiciously before he growls at me,
“You don’t mean that, Lucy. You don't want me to leave you alone.”
“I do,” I lie before I turn and make my way quickly across the
yard to my house.
Just like I did two days ago at the chapel, I turn when I get to
the door. Luke is standing there with his feet spread apart, his hands
balled into fists at his side. My heart trips within me at how fierce he
looks.
The blue fires of his eyes blaze at me, and my heart aches as I
slip into my house and close the door.
It's not fair. Luke is everything I never even knew I wanted, and I
can't have him.
Because he's my stepbrother.
eight
Lucy
IT DOESN'T HELP that I dream of being wrapped up

in Luke's arms all night. My mind keeps playing back the way he
took me that first time and the deliciously filthy things he whispered
in my ear.
I remember the way he brought me to my knees with just his
mouth in the classroom yesterday. That was completely
unprofessional of me to let him do that, and I vow to myself that I
can't be alone with him anymore because he's too good at breaking
down my defenses.
Of course, it would be easier to avoid him if he didn't live right
next door to me.
When I walk out to go to school in the morning, he's up bright
and early, sitting on his porch, staring at me as I wait for my Uber to
pull up.
I throw myself into my work and try my best not to think of him,
but I’d be lying if I said that my mind didn’t constantly wander to
him.
At the end of the school day, I’m just ready to hurry up and get
home, but I wince when Coach Tomlin calls my name just as I'm
walking out the doors.
“Lucy!”
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath before I turn around
and greet him with what I hope is a passable smile. “Coach Tomlin,
how are you?”
I take in the man's buff physique and sandy brown hair. He's not
a bad-looking guy. Many women would love to have his attention,
and he's asked me out several times, but every time, I come up with
a reason to put him off. I just don't think it would be good protocol
to date a co-worker, even though he's a teacher and I'm technically
just a teacher's aide.
Not only that, I'm just not interested in him.
“Oh, you know, same old, same old. Looking forward to a night
off from coaching,” he laughs, and I brace myself for what I already
know is coming.
He rubs the back of his neck before he begins, “I was wondering
since I had some time off if you'd have dinner with me tonight?”
“Oh,” I'm already shaking my head and trying to come up with a
feasible reason why I can't. I've already killed off all of my
grandparents to get out of going out on a date with this man, and
I'm starting to wonder if maybe I shouldn’t just tell him as gently as
I can that I'm not interested.
I'm getting ready to do just that when I spot Luke sitting astride
his motorcycle across the street. His fiery blue eyes are pinned on
me, and I can see how hard his jaw is all the way over here.
My eyes flick between the two men. It looks like I have two
choices. If I get out of a date with Tomlin, there's no way Luke is
going to let me get by him.
My eyes slip back to Tomlin. I won't have any problem resisting
him, so it looks like he's the safer of the two options.
Plus, maybe if Luke sees me with another man, he'll finally get
the picture and give up, realizing that we can never be.
I look back at Tomlin and smile. “I'd love to.”
He blinks in pleasant surprise and then smiles a wide grin that
splits his face. “Yeah? That's wonderful. Well, my car's right this
way.” He motions for me to walk ahead of him, and I do, feeling
Luke's fiery gaze on me with every step I take.
A pang of remorse hits me at letting Luke watch me walk away
with another man, but I tell myself that it's necessary. I have to be
cruel to be kind. Isn't that how the saying goes?
I try to keep up with the conversation as Tomlin makes small talk
with me on the way to whatever restaurant he has picked out for us.
He doesn't even ask what I prefer, and I'm honestly okay with that
because the last thing on my mind right now is food. I don't think I
could choose a place if I had to.
He pulls up to the curb of some Italian place he swears is the
best restaurant in town, and I let him lead me into the building. He
secures us a table in the back corner of the room, and I glance
halfheartedly at the menu to pick something out to order. I'm not
super hungry, but I know that if a girl just gets a salad when she's
on a date with a guy, the guy will automatically assume that she's
just trying to look dainty in front of him. I don’t want Tomlin thinking
I’m trying to impress him’ so I pick a mid-sized meal to order as I
absently wonder what Luke would order.
I start when I suddenly feel a hand on mine. I look up to find
Tomlin regarding me with adoration in his eyes, and I feel the prick
of guilt at leading him on like this, knowing that I am not at all
interested in him.
I move to pull my hand from his, but before I ever get the
chance to, Tomlin is violently ripped from his seat by the scruff of his
collar.
I gasp as I look up and see Luke staring down at the man, his
eyes blazing furiously. “Keep your fucking hands off her,” he growls
at Tomlin.
Tomlin sputters as I hiss at Luke, “What are you doing here?”
His blue eyes turn to me with molten fury before he throws
Tomlin roughly back in his seat and bends over to pick me up and
fling me over his shoulder.
My cheeks color as I feel the stares of the other patrons in the
restaurant watching the scene we’re making.
“Put me down!” I hiss at him angrily.
He ignores me and stomps out of the restaurant with me slung
over his shoulder, though I notice he takes great care to plant his
arm over the bottom of my dress so he doesn’t flash everyone my
ass.
Once we get by Luke's bike, he sets me on my feet. I plant my
hands on my hips and glare up at him, vibrating with my own rage.
“Just who do you think—”
He cuts me off by grasping my face in his hands and smashing
his lips onto mine. His kiss is hard and punishing, and it silences me
immediately as my brain short circuits.
My knees give out from underneath me, and he clutches me
against his chest to keep me from falling.
“If you think I'm just going to stand here and watch you run off
with another man when you know exactly who you belong to, you're
fucking crazy,” he growls into my mouth angrily before he gives me
another bruising kiss. “I'm your daddy. No one else.”
“But—" I shake my head, but he cuts off my protests with
another kiss that makes me go limp in his arms again.
“You feel the way you melt against me every time I touch you?” I
look down, but he tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“What we have is special, Lucy, and I'll be damned if I let it slip
through my fingers just because our parents are married. You’re
mine, and I'm not letting you go.
“You can run all you want, but I'll chase you every fucking day.
Go on dates with other men, and I promise you they'll end up worse
than this one. I won't have it. I'm not going to stand by and let
another man touch what’s mine.”
My lips tremble as I stare at Luke's impassioned eyes. God help
me, but my heart is fluttering wildly in my chest at his words. Heat
pools in the center of my belly.
As if he can sense it and wants to further confuse me, Luke grabs
the back of my neck and kisses me hard again.
“Lucy? Luke?” Two voices break through to us, and Luke pulls
back from me, breathing heavily. His eyes flick over to the intruders,
and my stomach plunges to my feet when I look over and see my
mom and his dad standing there with shocked expressions on their
faces.
“What is this?” My mom shakes her head, and I try to pull away
from Luke, but he won’t let me.
He tightens his arms around my waist and hauls me to his side
as he stands tall and faces our parents.
“I love your daughter, Mrs.,” Luke shakes his head and trails off
when he realizes my mom isn’t Mrs. Shay anymore and it would
sound odd for him to call her Mrs. Callahan since that’s his surname
too.
My cheeks flame—both at the awkwardness of the situation and
the fact that Luke said he loved me.
He loves me!
I can’t help the warm glow that fills my chest at those words.
“I intend to marry her.”
Both my mom and I gasp at the same time. Luke’s father has
been silent for the entire exchange.
When he finally speaks, his voice is stern and directed at me. “Do
you love my son?”
I swallow and glance at first my mom and then Luke. Luke’s
looking down at me with stubborn adoration and wariness. My heart
twists within me when I realize that what I’m seeing on his face is
vulnerability. He’s afraid I don’t love him back.
I take in a deep breath before I look back at Mr. Callahan and
nod. “Yes,” I answer truthfully. “I do.”
I don’t even get to see Mom and Mr. Callahan’s reaction because
Luke suddenly lifts me in his arms and crushes his lips to mine
again, completely oblivious to our parents watching us.
I can’t help it and soon melt under his ardor. When he finally
pulls back from me and strokes my hair back from my face, I smile
at the possessive happiness I see shining in his eyes.
Luke is right. It’s not our fault our parents are married, and we
aren’t related by blood, so fuck what the world may think. We love
each other, and that’s all that matters.
He takes my hand, and we both turn to face our parents
together.
Tears are shining in my mom’s eyes, and she claps her hands
under her chin as she smiles. Mr. Callahan is grinning ear to ear as
well as he claps his son on the back. “Congratulations, you two,” Mr.
Callahan says.
“So, you’re not mad?” I ask my mom anxiously, desperately
needing confirmation that she’s okay with all this.
She shakes her head and lets out a little laugh. “Mad? Honey,
why would I be mad? It’s not like Luke is your real brother. All I want
is for my girls—and boys,” she adds with a fond glance at Luke as if
she’s formally adopted all of her new husband’s children, “to be
happy. And if you two are happy together, then that’s even better.”
My heart swells as I glance over at Luke. My head is still spinning
in disbelief at how well they’re taking everything.
“How about a celebratory dinner?” Mr. Callahan proposes.
“Sure,” Luke answers for us as he wraps an arm around my
shoulder and looks down at me for confirmation, “but I think Lucy is
more in the mood for Chinese, right, honey?”
I fight back a grin as I realize what he’s doing. He’s saving us
from the embarrassment of having to walk back into the restaurant
he just carried me out of.
“Right,” I agree.
“Chinese sounds great!” Mom chimes in happily, and I could kiss
her for her exuberance.
I kiss Luke instead, the man who proved he wasn’t going to let
anything stand in our way.
epilogue
Four Years Later
Luke
I DRINK in my wife's beautiful form in her little floral print

dress. I love the cute little dresses she wears to teach school.
They’re conservative enough for school and come down to just
above her knees but give her husband easy access to everything
that belongs to him when she gets home from work.
As much as I've been dying to put a baby up inside her, I
begrudgingly agreed to wait until she finished getting her teaching
degree, but now that she's got it, all bets are off.
She's officially been teaching in her own classroom for a month
now, and every day when she gets home, her daddy is here waiting
for her with a hard cock, ready to breed her.
“Good afternoon, honey,” she greets me sweetly, looking like the
perfect little angel she is.
I’m sitting at my desk where I've been sketching out a new
design. It's a surprise for her birthday.
I roll my chair away from my desk and pat my knee, motioning
her to come over and sit on my lap.
She obeys easily, straddling me like a good little girl. I fist her
dress in my hands and pull it up over her head, leaving her in
nothing but her little lacy bra and panties.
“Fuck,” I growl out. “You’re the hottest little school teacher at
that school, you know that? Good thing you don’t teach high school
or you’d have all the boys daydreaming about you.”
She smiles at me coyly. “I've got the hottest husband,” she purrs.
My cock rises at the way her breath fans over my ear, and I pull her
chest close to me so I can look behind her.
I lift the band of her panties to find the tattoo she has on the top
of her right ass cheek. It's just a little heart. She told me the story
about how she got it with a fake ID when she was seventeen. It was
her small act of rebellion that nobody knows about but me.
I didn't like the thought of any other tattoo artists seeing even
the top part of her ass and was only mildly placated whenever she
informed me it was a woman who did it for her.
“I’ve got something for you,” I whisper against her skin before I
drop a kiss on her shoulder.
She pulls back from me and smiles. “Yeah? What is it?”
I pull the drawing I've been perfecting for a week over to the
edge of the desk and rotate us in the chair where she can see it.
Her eyes soften when she sees it. It’s an intricate heart design,
not too big yet not too small. It'll compliment her small heart nicely.
“I thought we would place it right by your current tat.”
“Who’s going to do it?” I see the teasing glint in her eyes.
I smirk at her. She already knows the answer to that. “I am.”
She tilts my head up and kisses my lips softly. “I love it.”
“I love you,” I tell her.
“I love you too,” she tells me as she wraps her arms around my
neck.
I grab her ass cheeks in both hands as I drag her back and forth
against my aching staff. “It's been too long since this morning, baby.
Daddy needs his fix.”
Lucy moans the way she always does when I call myself her
daddy. Maybe it’s fucked up the way we like to play, but it’s what we
crave, and I’ll always give Lucy what she wants.
I pull the cups of her bra down and suckle on her little breasts as
I slip her panties from her body. She settles back down on me just
as I pull my hard cock from my pants and aim it up at her.
I'm so hard there's already a stream of moisture leaking down
the side of my swollen cock.
Lucy throws her head back as she slides down onto me. I pump
into her a couple of times to seat myself fully inside her.
It doesn’t matter how many times I bust her pussy wide open,
she’s always as tight as a virgin, and I imagine she always will be—
even after she has my children.
Some days she can take me better than others, but that doesn't
mean that we don't always try.
“You ready for Daddy to breed his sweet girl?” I ask her.
She begins to bounce around on my lap by way of answer.
“Fuck,” I hiss in a breath as her liquid cunt quickly brings me
close to the edge. “I need you to come with me baby girl,” I tell her
as I lick my thumb and then use it to massage her clit in rhythmic
circles just the way she likes.
Just as I feel my seed rising up within me, she falls apart on me,
fluttering around my cock like a flower in bloom. “Oh, fuck, baby,
you want Daddy’s nut?” I ask her as I feel my release shooting up
my stalk.
I hold it back as long as I can until she moans out, “Yes!”
“Then, take it, dirty girl,” I growl out as I release my load and
give it to her in hot spurts. I come even harder when I imagine my
sticky sperm finding its way to her egg and impregnating her.
“Fuck, I can't wait to see your belly rounded with my child,” I tell
her as I splay a hand on her stomach.
She pulls back from me and gives me one of her radiant smiles.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I'm pregnant.”
I go completely still as I stare up at her. Her eyes are shining,
and a wide smile finally breaks across my face as my stomach
flutters with hope. “What? Really? When did you find out?”
“Just this morning,” she smiles at me beautifully. “I took a
pregnancy test at school.”
I hug her close to me and kiss the crown of her head before I
frown and ask her, “Why did you take it at school?”
She laughs and pushes at my shoulder playfully. “Because I knew
you'd freak the fuck out if you saw me taking one here.” Her eyes
soften. “I wanted to be sure before I got your hopes up.”
My frown disappears. She’s right. She knows me so well. She
knows how much I want children with her and how long I've waited.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?” I ask her as I grab the
nape of her neck and bring her lips down to mine for a kiss.
“Only every day,” she smiles before she kisses me back.
My life, my love, my stepsister.
Keep reading for a sneak peak into the next Sinful Stepbrothers
book!
Chapter 1
Charlie
I take a sip of the champagne and frown when it doesn't quite

roll on my tongue the way I expect it to. This vintage certainly isn't
of the quality I'm accustomed to, but I'm no snob. This is my dad's
big day, and I'm not going to bitch about the champagne—no matter
how subpar it is.
I glance around the reception from my corner of the room. This
is how you get a read on people. You stand back and observe and
only make your move when you understand all the players on the
field. It's what makes me a good businessman. That’s why I'm the
CEO of the biggest financial firm in the city.
I glance over at my brother, Luke. He's got about a foot on me in
height, and I can tell from over here that he's uncomfortable in his
fancy get-up. All the tattoos that decorate his arms and chest are
completely covered, but some peek out from underneath his dress
shirt that certainly can’t hide the ones on his knuckles. Tattoos were
never my thing, but I have to admit that they seem to lend my
moody brother that dangerous air that women seem to love so
much.
He pulls at the neck of his shirt and scowls furiously. I shake my
head. No doubt he'd be more comfortable in a pair of faded jeans
and black T-shirt, but fuck, can’t he pull it together for one day?
I glance over at my other brother, Noah. He's the youngest of us
three brothers, and while he's the shortest, he's definitely still tall,
and he's the biggest and burliest, which is probably why he does
well in his chosen career field providing security.
I'm the brains. Noah is the brawn, and Luke is just…well, a
temperamental asshole.
I take another sip of the champagne before I grimace and set it
to the side. Just because I'm here to support my dad doesn't mean I
have to stomach the subpar shit. I stuff my hands casually in my
pockets, my eyes continuing to scan the room until a flash of gold
glinting on red catches my gaze.
Time stops. My breath catches in my throat as my eyes light on
the beauty before me. Her shoulder-length hair is a mass of auburn
curls. The coils look soft and shiny, and I have the crazy desire to
pull on one just to see if it bounces back like a spring.
She looks like a fierce little lioness. While she's not as short as
the petite brunette standing next to her, she's still tiny compared to
me. She can't be more than five-foot-five, and I'm a good six-two.
She has on a light pink dress that’s sinfully modest. The square
neckline shows the barest amount of cleavage, and two thin straps
hold up the gown that goes all the way down to her feet. I'm dying
to get a look at what I already know are going to be shapely legs,
but a thrill goes through me when she turns around to speak to
someone and I get a look at the back of her dress.
It dips down low in the back to show off her creamy flesh, and I
feel myself hardening in my pants.
Fuck, who is this goddess? She must be with Karen's party
because I know if I'd ever met this woman before, I’d definitely
remember her. She's not anyone from my dad's side.
I make my way through the crowd over to her. I couldn’t stop
myself from drifting over to her if I wanted to. It’s like she's pulling
me to her with a magnetic force.
I grab a flute of the subpar champagne from a tray on my way
over and hold it out to her once I reach her.
“Hello there. I'm Charlie.” I waste no time in introducing myself
and giving her my most charming grin.
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“You needn’t answer my question, ma’am,” resumed Johnny
Kent. “This pestiferous Cuban gent wanders over here without bein’
invited and makes himself unpopular. It’s as plain as a picture on the
wall.”
The spinster realized that it was her duty to intervene as a
peace-maker between these belligerents, but she felt powerless to
move from the spot, which happened to be in the middle of Johnny
Kent’s imaginary pasture, between the brook and the hay-field. The
proprietor thereof, advancing close to Colonel Calvo, thundered, “Ha!
Ha!” and firmly grasped the warrior’s nose between a mighty thumb
and forefinger. The colonel yelled with rage and pain, and fumbled
for the hilt of his sword. With dignified deliberation the chief engineer
released the imprisoned nose, turned the colonel squarely around by
the shoulders, and kicked him until his spurs jingled like little bells.
“There! I hope you’re real insulted, right down to the heels,”
commented the avenger.
Colonel Calvo painfully straightened himself, managed to haul
the sword clear of the scabbard, waved it undecidedly and shrieked:
“Mos’ likely you have the pistol in your pants to kill me with. I will
fight the duello with you. You have insult’ me in my mortal part. You
refuse me to fight with pistols, quick, as soon as it can be arrange’?”
“Bully for you,” cordially answered Johnny Kent. “Sure thing. I’ll
be delighted.” He had one eye on Miss Hollister as he continued in
resonant tones: “We will duel to the death.”
“I will sen’ my frien’ to see your frien’, señor,” was the
grandiloquent response of Colonel Calvo. “An’ I will kill you mos’
awful dead.”
“It will be a pleasure to turn up my toes in defence of a lady,”
fervently declaimed the engineer as Colonel Calvo limped in the
direction of his own camp, filling the air with such explosive
imprecations that it was as though he left a string of cannon-crackers
in his wake. Johnny Kent mopped his face, smiled contentedly, and
turned his attention to the dumfounded spinster.
“But are you in earnest?” she gasped.
“Never more so, ma’am,” and he added, with seeming
irrelevance, “I suppose you have heard that Cap’n O’Shea and Mr.
Van Steen came near fightin’ a duel yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes, Mr. Van Steen admitted as much. It was a most
inexplicable affair. What in the world has it to do with your terrible
quarrel with Colonel Calvo?”
“You understand just why I am perpetratin’ the duel with the
colonel, don’t you, ma’am?” asked Johnny Kent, showing some
slight anxiety.
“I—I imagine—” She blushed, looked distressed, and said with a
confusion prettily girlish, “I am afraid I had something to do with it.”
“You had everything to do with it,” he heartily assured her. “You
don’t feel slighted now, do you? I thought you might take it to heart,
you understand—being sort of left out. Says I to myself last night,
there’ll be no invidious distinctions in Miss Hollister’s neighborhood.
She deserves a duel of her own, and I’ll hop in and get her one the
first minute that conceited jackass of a Colonel Calvo gives me a
chance to pull his nose for him. That is strictly accordin’ to Hoyle,
ma’am. Pullin’ the other fellow’s nose is the most refined and elegant
way of starting a duel. Kickin’ him was an afterthought, to make sure
he was insulted a whole lot.”
“I appreciate your motive,” murmured Miss Hollister, “but, oh,
dear, it wasn’t at all necessary. You and I are too good friends to
require a duel as a proof of esteem. And I did not feel in the least
slighted.”
“Perhaps not; but you are bound to feel sort of gratified,”
stubbornly argued the portly squire of dames. “It’s the nature of
women to like to have duels fought over ’em. The colonel is as thin
as a shad, and I suppose he’ll stand edgewise, but maybe I can wing
him.”
“But what about you?” tremulously besought his lady fair, whose
emotions were chaotic in the extreme.
“Me? Pooh! I’ve had too many narrow escapes to be bagged by
a google-eyed shrimp like this Calvo person,” easily answered the
knight-errant. “Now you just sit tight and don’t get fretty, ma’am. You
can bank on me every time. I’m shy of culture, but my heart is as big
as a basket. And when I see my duty plain, I go to it in a hurry.”
Miss Hollister’s perturbed glance happened to fall on the half-
obliterated plan of Johnny Kent’s farm, in the midst of which she still
stood. It appealed to her with an indefinable pathos. She could not
understand why, but she began to weep, although a moment before
she had perceived the wild absurdity of Johnny’s Kent arguments.
“Why, you ain’t supposed to cry,” he exclaimed in great agitation;
“I’m trying to please you.”
“I—I—can see your good intentions,” she tearfully faltered, “but I
shall go to Captain O’Shea and beg him to forbid this duel—to
prevent bloodshed. I shall be perfectly happy without it.”
“Please don’t interfere in men’s affairs,” implored the alarmed
hero. “Women are too delicate to go prancin’ in among us
professional pirates. You’ll feel better after it’s over. I guess I had
better leave you.”
He fled from the sight of her tears, greatly distressed, wondering
whether he might be mistaken in his theories concerning the
operations of the feminine mind. She had behaved as if she did not
want a duel, but he reflected:
“They’re all geared contrariwise. You can never tell just what
they do want. And it’s a good bet that she’d feel worse if I
disappointed her about this duel.”
The first assistant engineer called him to repair the condenser,
which had been set up on the beach, and it was there that Captain
O’Shea found him some time later.
“For the love of heaven, Johnny,” exclaimed the skipper, “what
infernal nonsense have you been up to now? The Cuban colonel
came surging into me tent, foaming and sputterin’ like a leaky boiler.
He got all choked up with language, but I made out that ye have
handed him seventeen kinds of deadly insults, and agreed to fight
him with revolvers. Are ye drunk? The Cuban crowd is hard enough
to handle as it is, and you have been me right-hand man. Is it one of
your bad jokes?”
“Not on your life, Cap’n Mike,” earnestly affirmed the engineer.
“He made himself unpleasant to a friend of mine—ladies’ names are
barred. We fixed up this duel in perfectly gentlemanly style, and as a
favor to me I ask you to keep your hands off. It won’t be a public
ruction.”
“You butt-headed old fool, he may shoot you!”
“Well, Cap’n Mike, speakin’ seriously,” and Johnny’s face was
genuinely sad, “just between you and me, I wouldn’t care a whole lot.
I’ve lost my ship, and I’ll never have money enough to buy a farm.
And—well—she wouldn’t look at me twice if we were in civilization
among her own kind of folks. I didn’t mean to slop over this way, but
you are a good friend of mine, Cap’n Mike.”
O’Shea laid a hand upon his comrade’s shoulder and was
moved to sympathy.
“You are making heavy weather of it, Johnny. Suppose I forbid
this high-tragedy duel. I am still in command, ye understand. It would
give me no great sorrow to see Colonel Calvo wafted to a better
world, but I will be hanged if I want to lose you.”
“I ask it as a favor, Cap’n Mike. I’ve done my best for you, blow
high, blow low,” doggedly persisted the other.
“’Tis not fair to put it that way, Johnny. Cool off a bit, and we will
talk about it to-night.”
“You’re the boss, Cap’n Mike, and I’d hate to mutiny on you, but
I’ve passed my word to the finest lady in the world that this duel
would be fought. And a man that will break his word to a lady ought
to be strung to the yard-arm.”
O’Shea walked away and sat down in front of his tent. The
Cuban camp was buzzing with excitement, and a grumbling
uneasiness was manifest among the crew of the Fearless. The two
factions cordially disliked each other. The story of the duel had
spread like a fire. If anything happened to Johnny Kent, the Fearless
men were resolved to annihilate the Cuban camp. Such intentions
being promptly conveyed to the patriots, they swarmed about
Colonel Calvo and announced their readiness to avenge him with the
last drop of their blood.
O’Shea summoned Jack Gorham as his most dependable aid
and counsellor. The melancholy sharp-shooter listened respectfully.
O’Shea waxed torrid and his language was strong.
“Johnny Kent is a great engineer and I swear by him,” he
declared, “but he is full to the hatches with sentiment, and it makes
him as cranky as a wet hen. He is dead set on this comical duel, and
I dislike to disgrace him by putting him under arrest. He would never
sail with me again.”
“Better let them fight,” said Gorham.
“’Tis your trade,” replied O’Shea. “You are biassed. I want ye to
figure a way to make this duel harmless. Let them shoot all they like,
but don’t let them hit each other. You know how I feel about Johnny
Kent, and little as I love Colonel Calvo, I am sort of bound to deliver
him safe somewhere.”
“When is this pistol party scheduled to happen?” asked Gorham.
“Early to-morrow morning.”
“It will be easy enough to steal their revolvers while they’re
asleep, sir, and work the bullets out of the shells and spill most of the
powder. Or I could file down the front sights. Why not make ’em
postpone it for another twenty-four hours? The seconds will have a
lot of pow-wowin’ to do, and perhaps we can work out a better
scheme.”
“I agree with you, Gorham. A duel should be conducted with a
great deal of etiquette and deliberation. ’Tis not a rough-and-tumble
scrap, but more like a declaration of war. We will do it proper, even if
we are ragged and shipwrecked.”
Shortly thereafter Captain O’Shea issued his ultimatum to the
combatants. They were to observe a truce until the morning of the
second day. Meanwhile negotiations would be conducted in a
dignified and befitting manner. Violation of this edict would be
punished by confinement under guard. Johnny Kent grumbled
volubly until O’Shea convinced him that the etiquette of the duelling
code forbade unseemly haste.
“I take your word for it, Cap’n Mike. I don’t want to make any
breaks. This affair aims to be strictly accordin’ to Hoyle.”
V
Shortly after sunrise next morning the sentries, the cook, and a
few sailors and Cubans who were early astir discovered a faint
smudge of smoke on the horizon to the northward. They shouted the
tidings, and Captain O’Shea tumbled out of his tent, rubbing his
eyes. A long scrutiny convinced him that the steamer was heading to
pass within sighting distance of the key. She was coming from the
direction of the Cuban coast. Possibly she might belong to the
Spanish navy. On the other hand, she might be a cargo tramp bound
to the southward and seeking a South American port.
There is such a thing as becoming accustomed to the
unexpected. Those who dwell in the midst of alarms acquire a
certain philosophical temper which views life as a series of hazards.
On this lonely key in the Caribbean the daily routine of things had
run along without acute symptoms of worry and dread, although the
peril of discovery by a Spanish war-vessel was discussed by the
evening camp-fires. So long as Captain O’Shea appeared unruffled,
his followers saw no reason why they should lose sleep. To him it
was like the toss of a coin. They were to be rescued or they were to
be found by the enemy.
If he had seemed inactive, it was because this was an
extraordinary shipwreck. To send the life-raft in search of succor was
a forlorn hope, a desperate expedient, but even this was denied him.
The wind was blowing steadily from the southward, day after day,
and the raft would drift straight toward the coast of Cuba where no
mercy was to be looked for. Because of the destruction of the
Spanish gun-boat, these refugees were something else than
castaways. They were men without a country, and death awaited
them wherever flew the red and yellow flag of Spain.
Captain O’Shea turned from gazing at the distant smoke and
awakened Johnny Kent.
“Rouse out, ye sleepy old duellist,” he called. “Take a look at this
vessel.”
The engineer emerged from the tent and the two men stood side
by side, their emotions weighted with poignant anxiety.
“We won’t be able to tell what she is for some time yet,” said
Johnny Kent. “The sea is hazy. Yes, she’s sure enough comin’ this
way, Cap’n Mike.”
“’Tis best for us to be ready, whatever she is,” replied O’Shea.
“I guess we’ll postpone the arrangements for my duel. What’s the
orders?”
“All hands will move inside the earthworks right after breakfast,”
briskly spoke O’Shea. “Take charge of the men in your department,
Johnny. See that the rifles are clean and serve out plenty of
ammunition. And store all the fresh water ye can.”
“If it’s a Spanish vessel, can we stand her off at all, Cap’n Mike?”
“She will have a hard time shellin’ us out, Johnny. That four-
sided refuge we piled up with our shovels is nothing but a big sand-
bank. Shells will bury in it without explodin’. ’Tis the theory of modern
fortifications. We can do our best, and maybe luck will turn our way.
Anyhow, ’tis more sensible than to be shot by drum-head court-
martial, which is what will happen to us if we throw up our hands and
surrender. If they find us a hard nut to crack, perhaps we can make
terms of some kind.”
“What about the ladies? I was hopin’ they wouldn’t have to go up
against any more excitement,” wistfully said Johnny Kent.
“I have delivered me cargo. It stands no longer between us and
our guests, Johnny. And ’tis my opinion that you and I will not let
them suffer for the sake of saving our own skins.”
“Right you are, Cap’n Mike. I don’t care a cuss what becomes of
me if you can get Miss Hollister—I mean both of ’em, of course—on
board a respectable vessel of some kind.”
Soon the camp was in commotion. The methods of the leaders
were brutal and direct. This was no time for soft words. Jack Gorham
moved quietly, in several places at once, and when a man would
argue or expostulate he was threatened with the butt of that terrible
Springfield. At his side, like a huge, black shadow, stalked Jiminez, a
militant assistant who jumped at the word of command.
Johnny Kent, no longer a sighing sentimentalist, bellowed at his
engineers, oilers, and stokers, and the discipline of shipboard took
hold of them. There was the loudest uproar in the Cuban camp.
Because of their race, the patriots had to be melodramatic, to defy
the unknown steamer by running to the beach and brandishing their
rifles and machetes at the ribbon of smoke that trailed across the
opalescent sea. But Colonel Calvo, very much more of a man in this
emergency than when he had been afloat on the bounding billows,
drove them back to camp and got them well in hand.
The canvas shelters were hastily ripped down and set up inside
the earthworks as a protection against the sun which blazed into this
windless enclosure with fierce intensity. Johnny Kent paused to say
to O’Shea:
“It’s goin’ to be hades in there for the women. They can’t stand it
long.”
“They won’t have to, Johnny. This will be a short performance.
Ye can expect a show-down between now and sunset.”
The haze had vanished. The steamer was visible beneath a far-
flung banner of smoke. A tiny foremast, a ring around it, and O’Shea
exclaimed:
“A fighting-top! It looks to me like the cruiser that chased us
down the coast.”
“That’s her, dollars to doughnuts, Cap’n Mike. She ain’t in such a
hurry to-day.”
“No need of it. We can’t get away.”
“Do you think she’s really lookin’ for us?”
“’Tis not a bad guess, Johnny. As soon as word was telegraphed
to Havana that the gun-boat was destroyed, the whole blockadin’
fleet must have been ordered to watch for us at both ends of Cuba.
They knew we had to round Cape Maysi or San Antonio to get
home. And when we were not seen or reported anywhere they may
have begun to look for us down here to the south’ard.”
“She can’t help sightin’ the wreck of the Fearless,” said the
engineer.
“And then she will know who we are. ’Tis time for all hands to
take to cover.”
The Spanish man-of-war, gray, and slim, and venomous, slowly
lifted her hull above the sea-line, and was heading to pass to the
eastward of the sandy islet. It was a fair conjecture that her captain
was roving away from his station on the coast in the hope of finding
the Fearless disabled or short of coal. Some of the refugees
surmised that she might pass them unobserved, but at a distance of
two or three miles she turned and laid a course to pick up the key at
closer range.
Captain O’Shea climbed the rampart and lashed an American
ensign to a spar thrust into the sand. The bright flag was neither half-
masted nor reversed as a signal of distress. The breeze flaunted it
as a defiance, a message from men who had forfeited its protection,
who cheered the sight of it for sentimental reasons which they could
not have clearly explained. The governments of the United States
and Spain were at peace. This was not an affair between the two
Powers. It was a little private war, a singular incident. And yet it was
somehow fitting, after all, that these outlaws should prefer to see the
stars and stripes waving over their heads.
Presently Colonel Calvo planted beside this ensign the tricolor of
the Cuban revolutionaries, with the lone star. It was done with a
certain amount of ceremony which commanded respect and
admiration. It signified that he, too, speaking for his men, was ready
to make the last stand, to accept the decree of fortune. Johnny Kent
grasped his hand and apologized.
The cruiser moved cautiously nearer the key, taking frequent
soundings. The wreck of the Fearless had been discovered and
must have been identified, for the cruiser cleared for action, and the
bugles trilled on her decks. The huge, four-sided mound of sand
heaped upon the back of the key evidently puzzled the officers. After
a long delay, the vessel let go an anchor a thousand yards from the
beach and spitefully hurled several shells into the shattered hulk of
the Fearless.
Then a pair of eight-inch turret-guns were trained at Captain
O’Shea’s thick walls of sand. A string of small flags fluttered from the
cruiser’s signal-yard. O’Shea comprehended the message without
consulting the international code-book.
“She invites us to surrender,” he explained, “which I decline to do
at present. Let her shoot away. Maybe she will tire of it and leave
us.”
No white flag was displayed on the rampart, and the cruiser lost
her temper. A projectile passed over the key with a noise like a
derailed freight-train. Others followed until the sand was spurting in
yellow geysers. Such shells as struck the earthwork burrowed deep
holes without causing appreciable damage. The Spanish
commander soon perceived that this impromptu fortification was
costly to bombard. His gunners were merely burying shells in a large
heap of sand, and his government had not been lavish in filling his
magazines. A mortar battery was needed to discommode this insane
crew of pirates. And undoubtedly, if a landing-party should be
disembarked on the open beach, these rascals of Captain O’Shea
would fight like devils. The cruiser had been ordered to fetch them
back to Havana alive and they would be formally executed in the
Cabañas fortress as a warning to other hardy seafarers in the
filibustering trade. These men had not only fired on the Spanish flag,
but they had also blown it out of water.
But how were they to be extracted from their refuge without
sacrificing the lives of Spanish sailors and marines? Carramba, here
was a tough problem!
It might be feasible to starve them out by means of a siege, but
the cruiser had no abundance of coal and stores. A storm would
compel her to steam out to sea, or run for the coast. And if the key
were left unguarded a merchant-vessel might happen along and
rescue O’Shea and his men. And for all the commander knew, they
had already sent a boat to summon help.
The cruiser ceased firing. Thereupon Captain O’Shea convened
a council of war within his defences. The enclosure had been
deluged with flying sand, but there were no casualties.
“There will be no more bombardment,” he told his people. “The
cruiser will do one of two things. She will lay off the key and wait for
us to give in, or she will send her boats ashore to-night and try to
rush us in the dark.”
“We’ll make it unhealthy for ’em,” stoutly declared Johnny Kent.
“Me and my men will die for Cuba Libre,” said Colonel Calvo, his
theatrical manner fled, his words spoken with a fine simplicity.
“There don’t seem to be any way out,” observed Jack Gorham.
O’Shea gazed at them in silence. There was no reproach in their
speech or manner, no thought of blaming him for this tragic
predicament. And yet it was his responsibility and his alone. He
might have abandoned the Fearless in the bay and taken these
people ashore where they could find refuge with the Cuban army of
Gomez. If he had been guilty of an error of judgment, then he should
pay the price. There dawned upon him a clear conception of his own
private duty.
“We will stick it out as we are till sunset,” he said abruptly.
“Nothing more can happen before then. How are the ladies,
Johnny?”
“I’m afraid they’ll go under if we have many days like this, Cap’n
Mike. This is an infernal place to be cooped up in.”
“I am ashamed to face them, Johnny. ’Tis all my fault that they
are in this mess with us. I should have put them ashore when I had
the chance. But a sailor will think of his ship when he can save her,
and ’tis his chronic notion that he is safer at sea than anywhere
else.”
Through the long, long day the sun poured wickedly into the
fortification. The cruiser rolled lazily at her anchorage and made no
sign of renewing the attack. O’Shea lay flat behind a small
embrasure and vainly searched the sea for the sight of a merchant-
steamer which might intervene in behalf of the castaways. This was
his last hope.
With a weary sigh he watched the red sun slant lower and lower.
His lucky star had failed him. He made his decision. Presently he
beckoned Gerald Van Steen and asked him to go outside the
fortification, where they could have speech in private. The young
man was sullen, but O’Shea smiled with engaging friendliness and
said:
“’Tis no time to nurse grudges, me lad. Let us shake hands and
forget it.”
“Oh, I’m not thinking of that row of ours,” wearily muttered Van
Steen. “It’s of no consequence now. I’m not such a howling cad as to
consider myself in any way. What do you propose to do with Miss
Forbes and Miss Hollister? I have kept my mouth shut all day,
waiting for the great Captain Mike O’Shea to do what would have
occurred to any man with his wits about him.”
“May I ask what it is that ye would call so plain to see?” patiently
queried the shipmaster.
“Signal to the cruiser that you have in your company three
persons who were picked up from their yacht. Or you could have
sent us off on the life-raft, and given me a chance to explain matters
to the commander and show him my credentials. I don’t want to be a
quitter, you know, but really this is none of my affair, and my first duty
is to get these ladies home in safety.”
“I grant ye that,” slowly replied O’Shea. “And I think no less of
you for wishing to leave us to stew in our own juice. You have
behaved very well, barring the one flare-up with me. Now I will
explain why what ye suggest is not so easy. The cruiser would pay
no heed to signals about you. ’Twould be looked at as some kind of
a trick. Can ye not realize that the master of the navy vessel yonder
is wild with rage to exterminate me and the rest of the Fearless
company? He sees red, man. As for sending ye on the life-raft, it
means that several of me own men must go with you to handle the
lubberly thing. And they would be dragged aboard the cruiser and
held there. I was willing to go meself, but I could not navigate the raft
so short-handed. And I hoped the luck might turn before night.”
Van Steen had lost his hostile expression. He regretted his hasty
words of condemnation. The intonations of O’Shea’s voice strangely
moved him. And the sailor’s face, no longer bold and reckless, held a
certain quality of gentleness, one might almost call it sweetness.
“Oh, confound it!” cried Van Steen. “You put me in the wrong, as
usual. And I’m damned if I can feel square in trying to quit you and
leaving you to take your medicine. I am one of the crowd, don’t you
see, and proud of it. They are a bully sort.”
“I have never been crowded into such a tight corner,” said
O’Shea with a smile, “but ’tis the way of life that when a man is
young and strong, and used to long chances, he thinks he will not be
tripped. This is my affair, not yours, so trouble yourself no more.”
“What do you propose to do, Captain O’Shea? You have made
up your mind, I can see that.”
“The cruiser will be in a mood to hold communication with us
now. ’Twould have been useless to try it this morning. But they have
discovered that ’tis not easy to smoke us out of our hole.”
Presently he unrolled a bundle of signal-flags saved from the
Fearless, and selected those he wished to use. Knotting them
together, he hoisted the string on the spar beneath the American
ensign. The commander of the cruiser read the message requesting
that a boat be sent ashore in order to discuss terms of surrender. He
was in no mood to discuss terms of any kind, but it appeared
necessary to parley with these unspeakable scoundrels on the key.
Perhaps they realized the hopelessness of their obstinacy and their
spirit was broken.
A cutter was manned, and as it skimmed over the calm sea and
drew near the breakers Captain O’Shea walked to the beach,
Colonel Calvo accompanying him as interpreter. Van Steen followed
as a rightful participant in the conference. The ladies were requested
to remain within the fortification. It was not to be taken for granted
that the cruiser would respect a truce. The seamen and the Cubans
behind the banks of sand were savage and desperate, as was to be
expected of men for whom surrender meant the firing-squad.
The crew of the cutter held her off the beach as the part of
caution. They were ready to pull out to sea at a moment’s notice.
O’Shea and Colonel Calvo splashed into the water and stood beside
the boat. The commander himself was in the stern-sheets, a
corpulent, black-bearded man of an explosive temper. He waited,
glowering, for O’Shea to speak. He would waste no courtesy on
pirates.
“You will play fair with me,” said the shipmaster, and Colonel
Calvo translated as well as he was able. “I have ye covered with fifty
rifles. I am Captain Michael O’Shea. Ye may have heard tell of me.”
The commander nodded and profanely replied that he knew
nothing good of Captain O’Shea or the Fearless. It was an act of
God that they would make no more voyages.
“Much obliged for your kind wishes,” resumed O’Shea. “I am
sorry to have put you to so much trouble. I will waste no more words.
I have in me party the young man standing yonder on the beach and
two ladies that I picked up adrift from a stranded American yacht. ’Tis
not right for them to suffer any longer. I want ye to carry them to
port.”
The commander had heard of no wrecked yacht in these waters.
As for the women, it was most unfortunate for them. Captain O’Shea
had only to surrender his force and the women would be taken on
board the cruiser and properly provided for. Then the story could be
investigated.
O’Shea broke in angrily to say to Colonel Calvo:
“He is like a mad bull. There is no reason in him at all. He will
make us surrender sooner, he thinks, to save the ladies. He will use
any weapon that comes to hand.”
The Spanish commander raised an arm in an impassioned
gesture. As if unable longer to restrain himself, he shouted:
“My brother was the captain of the gun-boat that perished in
Santa Marta Bay, and he died with his vessel. By the blood of God,
shall I parley with you?”
Gerald Van Steen waded out to the boat. He would speak for
himself. That there should be any question of rescuing Nora Forbes
and Miss Hollister fairly stunned him. His bearing was intrepid, but
his lip quivered as he imploringly exclaimed to Colonel Calvo:
“Tell him that I don’t care a hang about what happens to me if he
will take the women off. And if money will tempt him, I’ll pay down my
last dollar to save the lives of the whole party. He will be a rich man.”
The Spanish officer laughed with a contemptuous shrug. His
heavy visage was inflamed. He was of that type of his race which
regarded Americans as “Yankee pigs.” Personal hatred and the
desire of private vengeance made him proof against bribery.
Moreover, he had no faith in the protestations of Van Steen. As
O’Shea had put it, he was a man who saw red. The futility of
appealing to him was so obvious that O’Shea interfered to play his
trump card.
“If you land your sailors to-night and try to take us,” said he, and
his voice was hard and deliberate, “’twill be the toughest job ye ever
tackled. We have nothing to lose, and we will be behind the
earthworks yonder. You can gamble that there will be two dead
Spaniards for every one of us ye wipe out. As for starving us, I have
thought it over, and ye will not try it. You would be laughed at from
Havana to Madrid for not daring to attack a handful of shipwrecked
men. Ye have a dilemma by the horns. And your rage has made ye
blind as a bat. You are all for giving us a short shrift, and no doubt
your hot-headed officials in Havana have egged ye on to it. But it will
make a big diplomatic row, and when the smoke clears ye will be
sorry. It will sound very rotten that ye had no mercy on a crew of
castaways. And I will say, for your own information, that Uncle Sam
has been very touchy about these quick-action executions ever since
the Virginius affair.”
The commander had ceased to fume. He was doing O’Shea the
favor of listening to him. The stronger personality had made an
impression. O’Shea perceived this and he went on to say:
“What I am leading up to is this:—I am ready to surrender meself
and face the consequences if you will take my guests aboard and
leave my men and the Cubans on the key. They will take chances of
being found by a friendly vessel. You will lose no lives. I am the man
your government wants. You will win the big reward offered for the
capture of Captain Michael O’Shea. And there will be no
complications between your government and mine. ’Tis me own fault
that the party is stranded here. I will pay the price. ’Twill be easy
enough for ye to explain it. You can keep your crew quiet, and the
story will go out that ye took me off the wreck of my steamer and the
others got away.”
This was a proposal which took the commander all aback. He
considered it in silence and his gaze was less unfriendly. O’Shea
concluded with dogged vehemence:
“You can take it or leave it. If you refuse, you must come and
take us, and, so help me, as I tell ye, it will cost you a slather of men
before ye wipe out my outfit.”
Here was a lawless castaway, a man beyond the pale, who
insolently defied the arms and majesty of Spain. But there was a
certain plausible method in his madness which caused the
commander to waver. His implacable hostility had sensibly
diminished. It would, without doubt, win him great distinction to return
to Havana with the redoubtable Captain Michael O’Shea a prisoner.
As for the men of the outlawed party, most of them had been
invisible from the cruiser, and their number was a mere matter of
conjecture. It was therefore possible for the commander to inform his
officers that in accepting the surrender of Captain O’Shea he had
captured all of the expedition that was worth while seizing. He had
served thirty years in the Spanish navy without seeing a man slain
by bullet or shell. The prospect of a fierce and bloody engagement
with men who would fight like wolves failed to arouse his
enthusiasm.
“I will signal my answer in one hour,” said he. “What you propose
has surprised me. It is most unusual. It was not expected.”
O’Shea waded ashore and Colonel Calvo offered his hand as
they stood on the beach and watched the cutter dip its flashing oars
in the ground-swell.
“I have dislike’ you sometimes,” said the colonel. “But now I tell
you I have been much wrong. I will be ver’ proud to go with you to
Havana if it will save the lives of my braves’ of soldiers.”
“You are a good man yourself when ye have terra firma under
you,” was the hearty response.
Johnny Kent came trotting to meet them, exclaiming
beseechingly:
“What was it all about, Cap’n Mike? Why couldn’t you put me
next before you flew the signals?”
O’Shea painstakingly retold the argument which he had unfolded
to the Spanish commander, and the chief engineer listened with his
chin propped in his hand. He breathed heavily and grunted
disapproval.
“But what else was I to do?” impatiently demanded O’Shea. “I
got you all into this, and I must get you out. And maybe I have found
a way.”
“That ain’t what I’m growlin’ about,” strenuously protested
Johnny Kent. “Why didn’t you let me in on this deal? Why not let me
surrender with you? Doggone it, I’m no slouch of a pirate myself,
with considerable of a reputation. Perhaps the Spaniards might think
I was worth bargainin’ for, too.”
“I want to go it alone, Johnny. ’Tis the only square thing to do.”
“But you and me have been playin’ the game together, Cap’n
Mike. And you don’t ketch me layin’ down on you just because
you’ve come to the end of your rope.”
“Not this time, Johnny. ’Tis only making us feel bad to wrangle
about it.”
The castaways had ceased to gaze at the encircling horizon for
sight of smoke or sail. It came, therefore, as an incredible thing when
a sentry at an embrasure yelled and capered like a lunatic. Every
one rushed out and beheld the black hull and towering upper-works
of a huge passenger steamer. She was coming up from the
westward and had altered her track as though curious to discover
why the Spanish cruiser should be at anchor near the key. Would
she halt or pass on her way? Captain O’Shea, unable to credit his
vision, told his men to fire volleys, and ran up the signal-flags to
read:
“Stand by. We need assistance.”
It was more than he dared hope that the steamer would read his
call for help, but she drew nearer and nearer the key, slowed speed,
and rounded to within a few hundred yards of the Spanish cruiser.
“It’s a British vessel, a White Star liner,” bawled Johnny Kent.
“What is she doin’ in these waters?”
“One of those winter-excursion cruisers out of New York, I take
it,” replied O’Shea. “She is making a short cut across from the
Leeward Islands or somewhere below us, running from port to port. I
hope she will realize that this is no holiday excursion for us.”
The refugees made little noise. They were no longer actors but
spectators. They saw the liner exchange signals with the cruiser.
Apparently this method of communication was unsatisfactory, for
soon a boat passed between the two vessels. There followed a
heart-breaking delay. Dusk was obscuring the sea when a yawl
pulled by a dozen British seamen moved from the liner’s side and
danced toward the key. The ramparts of sand were instantly
deserted. O’Shea’s men and the Cubans ran wildly to the beach, no
longer afraid, confident that salvation had come to them. They
rushed into the water and dragged the stout yawl high and dry.
There stepped ashore a stalwart, energetic man in the smart
uniform of a captain in the White Star service. The crowd fell back as
he brusquely demanded:
“What kind of a queer business is this? Where is the chief
pirate?”
“O’Shea is me name,” acknowledged the leader. “’Tis quite a
yarn, if ye have time and patience to hear it.”
“So you are O’Shea,” and the skipper of the Caronic chuckled.
“Take me inside that extraordinary sand-heap of yours, if you please,
and talk as long as you like.”
He grasped O’Shea’s arm and they vanished within the empty
defences.
“I have come ashore to get at the bottom of this fantastical
situation,” said Captain Henderson of the Caronic, whose smile was
both friendly and humorous. “The commander of the Spanish cruiser
told me to keep my hands off and to go about my business. Cheeky,
wasn’t it? He swore he had a nest of bloody pirates cornered on this
key, and he expected to capture them to-night.”
“So he decided to turn down my proposition,” muttered O’Shea.
“He referred to it. But his officers were keen to win a bit of glory
for themselves, and they argued him the other way round, as I
figured it from his heated remarks. He didn’t relish the job of sailing
into you chaps. In fact, the black-whiskered don was in a state of
mind. Are you, by any chance, a British subject?”
“No, Captain Henderson, but I might find ye a Britisher or two
among me crew. I have an assorted company of gentlemen of
fortune.”
O’Shea explained matters at some length, and Captain
Henderson vehemently interrupted to say:
“I don’t know that it makes a lot of difference whether you are
British subjects or not. Blood is thicker than water. Shall I steam
away and leave you to be shot on the say-so of a raving Spanish
skipper?”
“I should be disappointed in you if ye did,” gravely answered
O’Shea. “’Tis not what I would do for you.”
The master of the Caronic permitted O’Shea to finish his
narrative.
“So you picked up the Van Steen party?” he rapped out. “We
heard of the loss of the Morning Star. The Spanish skipper out
yonder said I might take them off in my ship before he attacked you.”
“And what do ye propose to do about us?” wistfully asked
O’Shea. “Of course this is none of your row, and your ship is not a
British navy vessel——”
“But I am a British seaman,” snapped Captain Henderson. “And
you are shipwrecked people who have asked me for assistance.
That is all I have to know. And, by George, it’s all I want to know.”
“And ye will take us off?”
“At once. And I imagine I had better land you in a British port.
What about Jamaica?”
“Jamaica will suit us, Captain Henderson. The United States will
not be salubrious for us until this piracy charge blows over. And the
Cubans can dodge across to their native land. But what will ye do if
the Spanish cruiser objects?”
“She will not fire on my flag,” thundered the master of the
Caronic, “nor will she dare to take shipwrecked men from my decks.
Tell your people to be ready to go aboard. I will signal my chief
officer to send more boats.”
Cheering and weeping, the company of the Fearless abandoned
their stronghold. It was an evacuation with the honors of war, and the
American ensign was left flying above the huge heap of sand.

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