The Prologue
When I was sixteen I thought my boyfriend, Brent, was the best-looking guy around. That was until he introduced me to his older brother Mike. From that moment on I had the biggest crush on him, and he was the star of most of my teenage fantasies.
At the time Mike was twenty-five and newly married, but that didn’t stop my overactive imagination. I was so shy back then, every conversation I had with the man left me a red-faced, tongue-tied mess.
To this day, Mike can still make me blush, even though I’m now twenty-six and have been married to Brent for three years. I have a great career in journalism and I’m sketching outlines for my first romance novel.
Brent and I both have great jobs, although he travels a lot for work as a territory auto parts sales rep. We own a nice house. We enjoy our life and each other. Everything is supposed to be perfect—except that my infatuation with my brother-in-law has never completely gone away.
A crush, by nature and definition, is something that’s supposed to be short-lived and should diminish over time. But, unfortunately, mine hasn’t, and it’s beginning to fuck with what I think should be perfection.
Mike and his wife of ten-plus years now, Cheryl, live nearby. They seem fairly happy, too, until you look a little deeper. Which I often do. With Brent away so much, I spend a fair amount of time with Mike and Cheryl. I go out with my friends too, but Mike and I have a lot in common, and not only interests-wise—we are both creative. I have my writing and he has this passion for photography that I think I’ve finally convinced him to pursue.
As long as I’ve known Mike, he’s worked in construction. I also know he hates it. Especially now that he’s getting a little older and his back and his knees have started to protest the constant activity. I mean, thirty-five isn’t old by any means, but it isn’t just his body that it’s taking a toll on. He isn’t happy, and I know from experience what a rush it is to have an article published, or some kind of recognition for a job well done. Mike’s photographs are really good, and I know in my heart that he could make a go of it, if he would just give himself the chance.
And how do I know all this? Well, even though we do a lot of things together as couples when Brent is home—which isn’t often—lately it’s just been Mike and me. We find ourselves spending more and more time together. Cheryl is often busy with her newest get-rich-quick scheme or charity events. To her, life is all about money, and other people’s perceptions of her and the life that she and Mike have carved out. She wants people to think that she and Mike live a whole lot more comfortably than they really do.
And my husband, Brent—when he isn’t away on business—has a passion of his own. And it isn’t me. Currently, she is housed in the garage under a custom-fit car cover. She is sleek, shiny, and midnight black with four hundred and six cubic inches of raw power, that I can’t compete with.
At the time Mike was twenty-five and newly married, but that didn’t stop my overactive imagination. I was so shy back then, every conversation I had with the man left me a red-faced, tongue-tied mess.
To this day, Mike can still make me blush, even though I’m now twenty-six and have been married to Brent for three years. I have a great career in journalism and I’m sketching outlines for my first romance novel.
Brent and I both have great jobs, although he travels a lot for work as a territory auto parts sales rep. We own a nice house. We enjoy our life and each other. Everything is supposed to be perfect—except that my infatuation with my brother-in-law has never completely gone away.
A crush, by nature and definition, is something that’s supposed to be short-lived and should diminish over time. But, unfortunately, mine hasn’t, and it’s beginning to fuck with what I think should be perfection.
Mike and his wife of ten-plus years now, Cheryl, live nearby. They seem fairly happy, too, until you look a little deeper. Which I often do. With Brent away so much, I spend a fair amount of time with Mike and Cheryl. I go out with my friends too, but Mike and I have a lot in common, and not only interests-wise—we are both creative. I have my writing and he has this passion for photography that I think I’ve finally convinced him to pursue.
As long as I’ve known Mike, he’s worked in construction. I also know he hates it. Especially now that he’s getting a little older and his back and his knees have started to protest the constant activity. I mean, thirty-five isn’t old by any means, but it isn’t just his body that it’s taking a toll on. He isn’t happy, and I know from experience what a rush it is to have an article published, or some kind of recognition for a job well done. Mike’s photographs are really good, and I know in my heart that he could make a go of it, if he would just give himself the chance.
And how do I know all this? Well, even though we do a lot of things together as couples when Brent is home—which isn’t often—lately it’s just been Mike and me. We find ourselves spending more and more time together. Cheryl is often busy with her newest get-rich-quick scheme or charity events. To her, life is all about money, and other people’s perceptions of her and the life that she and Mike have carved out. She wants people to think that she and Mike live a whole lot more comfortably than they really do.
And my husband, Brent—when he isn’t away on business—has a passion of his own. And it isn’t me. Currently, she is housed in the garage under a custom-fit car cover. She is sleek, shiny, and midnight black with four hundred and six cubic inches of raw power, that I can’t compete with.
+18 Excerpt:
“See, my biggest fan.” Mike looked away. “Cheryl booked me a bunch of baby portraits for this week.”
“Oh, my God, Mike, don’t do that! You don’t want to be known as a wedding or portrait photographer. Why would she do that? That’s not what your business is about!”
“And that, right there, is why I didn’t tell her that I registered a business name—and why I did tell you. You get it.”
“I don’t understand her. Doesn’t she want you to be happy in your work? I mean, money isn’t everything. I can’t imagine going to work every day to do something I hate.”
“So, how do I get out of these portraits?”
“Are they paying?”
“Oh, my God, Mike, don’t do that! You don’t want to be known as a wedding or portrait photographer. Why would she do that? That’s not what your business is about!”
“And that, right there, is why I didn’t tell her that I registered a business name—and why I did tell you. You get it.”
“I don’t understand her. Doesn’t she want you to be happy in your work? I mean, money isn’t everything. I can’t imagine going to work every day to do something I hate.”
“So, how do I get out of these portraits?”
“Are they paying?”
“Fifty bucks a sitting.” His mouth drew into a straight line.
“Fifty bucks? Well, I’ll pay you fifteen hundred for the nineties photos, and I need it before Thursday.” His eyes widened. “And I have another project I was hoping you could help me with. It’s more of a favor than a job, but I’ll pay for it, too.”
“That seems like an awful lot of money, Hails. Are you just feeling sorry for me?”
“No. Some photos can bring six-digit figures or more.”
“So, what’s the other project?”
“Well, you know Brent’s birthday is coming up. And I’ve really no idea what to get him.”
“Yeah, I remember the little shit’s birthday. I went from being an only child to having to pick up after him. Why is it the oldest kid is the one that gets blamed for everything?”
“Little bitter there, Mikey?” I teased.
He laughed. “No, not at all. So, what can I help you get the young prince?”
“I was hoping you might take some shots of the Impala, put together some kind of layout he can put in the garage or take to car shows with him. But not a calendar. I don’t want you known for that, either.”
“Yeah, that sounds doable. But can I go in on it with you? I don’t have anything in mind for him, either.”
“Sounds good, but I will pay for any supplies you might use or need. Deal?”
He gave his head a slight shake. “You’ve done enough for me.” Before I could speak, he said, “You ready to go?”
“Yeah.”
We paid the bill, then headed for the truck.
In the parking lot, he handed over the keys.
In a moment of sheer insanity on my part, I threw my arms around his waist and gave him a squeeze. “I really am proud of you, you know.”
He placed his arm around my shoulder and he pulled me closer. I felt his chest rumble. “Thanks, Hails.”
We slowed our progress, as if neither one of us was in any hurry to get to the truck. I laid my head back against his shoulder. We walked to the passenger’s side of the truck and I hit the remote on his key fob, unlocking the doors. I opened it for him. He laughed. “I’m supposed to get the door for you.”
“Oh, I thought that was just a shotgun thing, not a chivalry thing. A woman can open the door for a dude, ya know,” I said with mock impatience. “Just get in.”
He turned to face me and, to my surprise, he reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear. “You’re really lame, ya know?” He laughed at my expense.
“I think that’s an eighties catchphrase. And yeah, I know I’m lame, but you love me anyway.” I tossed his words from earlier back at him.
But his smile slipped. “Yeah. I do.”
Something in his voice made every body part I owned turn liquid. In my head, I rushed to tell myself that he meant like a brother and that he’d had a few beers, but his next words stopped my thought process cold.
“You might be the only thing I’ve ever envied about my little brother.”
He moved his hand to the side of my neck and grazed my cheek with his thumb. Then his lips were there, hovering just inches from mine, as if he were seeking permission. My senses swam with the possibilities.
I pounced, seizing what might be my only opportunity to kiss him. I didn’t hold back—he experienced the full-on, ravenous impact of years of worship and sexual fantasies that had run the gamut from sweet, innocent eighteen-year-old’s kisses to the tantalizing nocturnal fantasy that I’d created just the night before.
I flattened my chest against his, trying to get inside his coat. He spun me around, and nudged me onto the seat of the truck. I didn’t want to separate from his lips afraid that if we lost contact he would call a halt to this. So, I fisted my hands into his shirt and hauled him in after me. I opened my legs, encouraging him between them.
When he followed, I crabbed toward the driver’s side. My shoulder hit the steering wheel. I released his shirt long enough to grope for the tilt-steering lever. I pushed the wheel up to give us a little extra room. He was not a small man. The thought shot another little thrill through my already highly sensitized body.
He reached backward with one arm, trying to close the door, but I pulled him toward me with all my strength. I wanted to get as much as I could before he put a stop to this. I knew he would. He was too nice a guy to let this happen. What did that say about me?
“Let me get the door,” he said against my mouth. His breathing was choppy and heavy.
I released him long enough so that he could reach behind him. The door clicked and I didn’t even have to coax him back—he was there and kissing me. I strained to get closer to him. He settled his hips between my thighs. His thick erection prodded my entrance through my jeans. I rubbed my aching cunt shamelessly over his rock-hard cock. I was soaking wet.
Needy sounds erupted from the back of my throat. I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anything, and at that very moment I didn’t care about anything else. Not Brent. Not Cheryl. Not even the fact that I was probably making an absolute fool of myself. There was one thing on my mind, and that was getting him inside my body.
Impatiently, I yanked at the bottom of his shirt. As I dragged the flannel up his chest, he pushed at my t-shirt. His large, warm palm passed over my ribs. Skin met skin, but it wasn’t enough for me. I let him push my top all the way up, exposing my bra. He smoothed his hand over me, before cupping my breast. I pressed more fully into his hand. My nipple pearled against his palm.
“Mmm,” he hummed, a deep affecting sound. He gave my breast a firm squeeze as he hunted around back for the hooks, but the bra had a front clasp. I made a protest into his mouth as I directed his hand back around to the front. He undid my bra, setting my breasts free. He released my mouth, then kissed a slow scorching path down my neck and chest, finally fastening his hot lips around my nipple.
I moaned at the exquisite sensation, arching my back, giving him full access. He growled in return and I wanted to laugh out loud. This was incredible! He swirled his tongue—my nipple tightened into a hard knot, and my pussy contracted. He rocked his hips. I could almost imagine he was inside me. If not for the goddamn clothes between us, he would be. I wanted it. I wanted it now!
He fluttered his clever tongue, and thrust his hips faster. Christ! I was so beyond turned on, I was going to come, and I wanted him inside me when I did.
I reached between us and undid the snap of his jeans. I grazed my fingers over the tip of his smooth cock with one hand, while unzipping his pants with the other.
All of a sudden, he blocked my hands, and released my breast.
“Hails!” He gasped for breath.
And there it was. He was too good a guy to let this happen.
“What are we doing?” The anguish in his voice broke my determination to push him over the edge.
I made a disappointed, frustrated noise and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see the guilt on his handsome face. He sat up. I slid my leg out from behind him and pulled my shirt down, then struggled to refasten my bra. My fingers shook with latent need and embarrassment. I fought against the hot tears that threatened to cascade down my cheeks and make us both more miserable than we already were. I knew my tears would only double his guilt, so I tried not to let them fall.
I fumbled to put the key in the ignition. I wanted to get the hell out of there before he tried to talk to me. I only had a thin hold on the tidal wave of emotion that was threatening.
Calmly, he placed his hand over mine and helped me fit the key in. But to my horror, he didn’t let go of my hand. “Hails.”
“I’m fine,” I blurted, snatching my hand away.
I started the truck and tried to drive through the haze of stinging, shameful tears. It wasn’t even shame that we were both married people that I was feeling. It was deep disappointment that I hadn’t gotten what I’d wanted. My body still screamed for release. Maybe I’d feel the right kind of guilt tomorrow.
We drove all the way to his house without a word.
I pulled into the driveway and prayed he would just get out and go inside.
From the passenger’s seat, he looked anywhere but at me.
“What the hell was that?” he finally said.
I gave an impartial shrug. “Maybe you’re just one of those drunks that loves everybody.” I tried to joke at the not-so-funny situation we’d found ourselves in. My voice was raw and raspy, and I knew he caught it.
“Yeah, that must be it.” He pulled on the door handle, then got out of the truck.
I looked over at him for the first time since he’d called a halt to our wrestling match.
He returned my stare. “But we both know that I’m not drunk. And what’s your excuse?” He held my gaze for an extra ten uncomfortable seconds or so, then shut the door. He walked slowly toward the porch.
I didn’t wait to see if he looked back before he went inside—I threw the truck in reverse and backed out of the driveway, before racing down the street.
About a block from the house I shared with Brent, I pulled over to the side of the road and let loose with the tears. I couldn’t face Brent like this. I had to get it out before I went home.
After about twenty minutes, I pulled myself back together enough so I could continue the rest of the way home.
Thankfully, I found the house in darkness.
As quiet as possible, I let myself in, then went straight to the bathroom where I washed my face, before pulling on a tank top and some panties. I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest.
I checked on Brent, who was sound asleep. Again, I was grateful.
I made my way into the den and worked on my articles. I finished the economy piece and sent it in early. Their editors would be pleased—I normally took things right to the deadline, using every last second to make every word perfect.
I moved on to the lost nineties piece, rattling off eighty per cent of it before I finally thought I could lie down and sleep.
Tiptoeing to the bedroom, I carefully slid into bed next to Brent, praying he wouldn’t wake up and pull me against him, as was his habit. He didn’t budge. His breathing remained deep and even.
I tried to clear my mind, and will myself to sleep.
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