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I'm a rare dual Beast Tamer with a common egg and five-star Fire Phoenix. The Phoenix betrays me at birth, deeming me too poor for resources. She doesn't know I have a divine Beast Cultivation System. When my egg becomes a Five-Clawed Golden Dragon, her regret comes too late!
Elliana was cornered by her stepmother, she had to conceal her beauty and talents. Fifteen years later, she discovers that she is already secretly married to Cole, the heir of the powerful Evans family, for two years without knowing! Everyone mocks her ugliness, while her stepmother and stepsister scheme against her. Little do they know, Elliana hides multiple incredible identities: a mysterious healer, a world-ren……
"Why would I reject you?" he asked. "Because I'm a lone wolf," I said, dejected. "No," he said firmly, "You will BE my Luna!" I’m not sure if Alpha Warren brought me here because he recognized me as his mate and he didn’t have the strength to reject me in the woods, or if he knew that his pack doctor was well past his retirement years. Either way, I’m here and since I am, I’ll help this Alpha. This is the reason I chose medicine. He doesn't have to lose his leg. It will take a lot of effort on my part, but I'm excited to finally get to work on a werewolf, an Alpha no less. “I’m assuming you want to do this now, Alpha?” I ask him. “Yes, the sooner the better.” “Okay.” I give him the list of items that I’ll need to get his bones put back together properly. “Oh, and we’ll need to sedate you,” I say, looking around the room to see how they have their hospital rooms set up. “Is this where…” “No,” Alpha Warren says. I turn to look at him. “No?” “No sedation.” “Okay then, a nerve block, I’ll just need…” “No,” he says again. “Alpha, please, I’m going to have to wash the area, scrub it clean, I’m going to cut your leg open, pin your skin and muscle back so that I can get to the bones and then slowly put them back where they belong. The pain will be excruciating. You need the nerve block.” “No,” he says again, holding my gaze. I finally look away, mumbling about stupid, stubborn Alphas. When I turn back, he’s watching me with a raised eyebrow as if he heard me. I wasn’t that loud, was I? Crap, I’ve been hanging around humans who can’t hear anything for too long. How much can he hear of my mumbling. The irritable Dr. Stevens comes in, throwing the things I asked for on the table. I jump when I hear a warning growl, looking up to see Alpha Warren glaring at him. “Will there be anything else, doctor?” Dr. Stevens asks. He somehow makes my title, which is the same as his, sound like a dirty word. “No, thank you, doctor. I’ll take it from here.” I go to the sink and begin scrubbing my hands. I’m nervous for a lot of reasons. First, I’m in an unknown pack with an Alpha who is my mate. I have no idea what to expect from him, or really why I’m here. And almost worse than that, he wants me to operate on him while he’s awake! What the hell kind of crazy Alpha is he? “You’re thinking so hard that there’s steam coming out of your ears, Yara. What are so worried about?” he asks me.I turn and look at him over my shoulder. How does he even know I’m worried? Why is he paying so much attention to me? Is this the mate bond? I’ve only had exposure to two Alphas in my life, Alpha Solomon and Alpha Simon. Alpha Solomon is a good Alpha, but he was never this in tune with what I was doing or thinking. And Simon…a shiver of revulsion rolls through me. He was in tune for a whole other reason. The man gave me the creeps. When I finish scrubbing my hands, I turn back to Alpha Warren. I see he’s waiting for a response to his question. “This is going to be very painful. Can I at least give you a local anesthetic?" “No, I need to be alert so I can protect my pack,” “You can’t exactly protect your pack with only one leg, Alpha," I snap, my nerves making me bold. “Warren. Call me Warren, and you said you could save my leg.” “I can, IF you are under sedation and I’m not worried about you flinching or yanking your leg away while I’m operating.” “I have a very high tolerance to pain.” That doesn’t surprise me. He wasn’t even whimpering when Annika and I found him. He also has multiple, very faint scars all over his body. The man has been fighting in the pack wars for a long time. He must have a very strong wolf that is able to heal him, over and over. “How strong is your wolf right now?” I ask, getting his leg prepped to wash. “I am very strong, little one,” a deep voice says, and my eyes snap up as Annika begins purring in my head. Warren's wolf is forward, answering for himself. Warren smiles, once again looking as if he knows the effect his wolf is having on mine. Can he hear Annika purring? I shake my head, trying to clear it. I need to focus my attention and NOT on Warren’s incredible teakwood scent. “If I hold the bones in place, one at a time, how long will it take for you to set them?” “Not long, little one,” he says but it’s practically a purr. “I am a very strong, powerful Alpha wolf.” The way he says it isn’t bragging, but more like preening. My brain flashes an image of a peacock strutting around flaunting his feathers for his chosen mate. “Right,” I say, feeling my body responding to the deep tenor of his voice. It feels like his voice is caressing the nerves in my body, making them all light up with a need I’m unused to feeling, especially when I’m about to do surgery. I look up into the intense, jade green eyes of Alpha Warren. “Are you ready, Alpha?” “Warren,” he corrects. I nod. “Are you ready, Warren?” “Yes, Yara.” I grit my teeth, hating that I know this is going to hurt him, but if he won’t let me at least numb his leg, I can’t help it. I begin washing the blood off his leg, laying a wet cloth over the bloody area, careful that I don’t tug on the bones that are still jutting out. His body is covered with caked blood, guts, and bits of bone, just like I thought it would be. Under the teakwood scent, he smells like war and death. It’s good practice for me, learning how to ignore the smell of battle while I work. I don’t get this kind of training at the university. “Talk to me,” he says through gritted teeth. “What do you want to talk about?” I ask, not looking up as I begin to scrub the blood from his leg. “You know what you are to me?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement than a question. My stomach feels like it’s twisting into knots. "Yes," I say without looking up. "After you have healed, you can reject me. If you do it before, it could impact your healing." I don’t know why the thought of this man rejecting me feels so painful. I don’t even know him. I have no intention of becoming his mate and returning to the packs, at least not until I’m done with school anyway. And this pack is much too close to Simon for my comfort. "Who says I'm going to reject you?" he asks, sounding offended. Now I do look up at him. “But I’m a lone wolf.” “What you are, is my future Luna.” “You don’t even know me,” I say going back to my work. “I know that you’re intelligent, you’re compassionate, you’re brave, and I know that you’re lonely,” The intelligent and compassionate parts I get. That could easily be discerned from me being a doctor and helping him. Those two make sense. The brave part I’m not sure about, but the lonely part… “Why do you say I’m lonely?” I ask him, wiping off the blood and turning to get the scalpel. I lift it up, showing him that I’m about to cut into his leg. He nods and continues. “The closest university with a medical school is about an hour north of here. Between here and there, there are many areas where a lone wolf could run, if she wanted to. But instead,” he stops, grunting as I carefully slice into his leg. “Instead, you chose to come to an area that is full of wolves.” He’s partially right. Annika misses being in a pack, she misses the companionship of being with other wolves. Me, I’d be fine living alone the rest of my life, but my wolf likes the smell of the forest and it makes her feel more settled to smell the scent of other wolves. Warren hisses and I glance up at him, watching him take deep breaths to control his pain. “How do you do that?” “Do what?” “Manage this level of pain?” “Mind over matter. Physical pain will break you mentally if you let it. That’s why people get tortured for information. If you can break the body, you can usually break the mind. My mind is stronger than my body and my body is very strong.” I glance at the scars on his legs again. They're a testament to the accuracy of his words. “You’ve been fighting for a long time?” He nods, jaw tightening as if recalling each battle. “Since before you were born.” A beat passes—long enough for the weight of decades to settle between us. His fingers tap once against the hilt of his blade, steady, precise, unyielding. “Every scar is a lesson. Every loss, a recalibration. I don’t fight to win. I fight to endure.” I ask, cutting and pulling the muscles away from where his bones have snapped into pieces. “Since I became an Alpha, nearly twelve years ago.” “Twelve years?” I exclaim, standing up and looking at him. He’s older than I thought. That eyebrow shoots up again. It’s an arrogant look, but on Warren, its oh so sexy. “I took over the pack when I was eighteen, I’m now thirty, that’s twelve years, little wolf.” “Annika’s not that little,” I say, returning my attention to his leg. “She is compared to Arric.” “Well, Arric is an Alpha wolf. Only another Alpha would be larger than an Alpha wolf,” I say, as I carefully pluck out the first bone. I look at it, checking to see where it goes and then I press it against the bone it snapped off of. “Okay, Arric, let’s see what you’ve got,” I say, carefully holding the bone in place so Arric can begin to heal the fracture. I watch as the bone begins to connect and seal in front of my eyes. “Cool!” I say, forgetting where I am and who I’m with. I’ve been working with humans for so long that I forgot how quickly wolves can heal, especially Alpha wolves. “Is it that exciting?” Warren asks me drolly. I shrug. I know not everyone finds medicine and surgery thrilling, but I do. “It is for me.” “Then it must be my lucky day,” he says, just as there is a knock at the door. I look at the door, then at Alpha Warren, wondering who could possibly be knocking. “I told you I would protect you,” he says smiling. His smile is so beautiful that it nearly takes my breath away. “Come in, Charlie,” he says, not taking his eyes off of me. “Alpha…what the fuck are you doing in here?” he asks angrily, striding quickly to the table and looking at Alpha Warren’s leg, filleted and open on the table.
"Why would I reject you?" he asked. "Because I'm a lone wolf," I said, dejected. "No," he said firmly, "You will BE my Luna!" I’m not sure if Alpha Warren brought me here because he recognized me as his mate and he didn’t have the strength to reject me in the woods, or if he knew that his pack doctor was well past his retirement years. Either way, I’m here and since I am, I’ll help this Alpha. This is the reason I chose medicine. He doesn't have to lose his leg. It will take a lot of effort on my part, but I'm excited to finally get to work on a werewolf, an Alpha no less. “I’m assuming you want to do this now, Alpha?” I ask him. “Yes, the sooner the better.” “Okay.” I give him the list of items that I’ll need to get his bones put back together properly. “Oh, and we’ll need to sedate you,” I say, looking around the room to see how they have their hospital rooms set up. “Is this where…” “No,” Alpha Warren says. I turn to look at him. “No?” “No sedation.” “Okay then, a nerve block, I’ll just need…” “No,” he says again. “Alpha, please, I’m going to have to wash the area, scrub it clean, I’m going to cut your leg open, pin your skin and muscle back so that I can get to the bones and then slowly put them back where they belong. The pain will be excruciating. You need the nerve block.” “No,” he says again, holding my gaze. I finally look away, mumbling about stupid, stubborn Alphas. When I turn back, he’s watching me with a raised eyebrow as if he heard me. I wasn’t that loud, was I? Crap, I’ve been hanging around humans who can’t hear anything for too long. How much can he hear of my mumbling. The irritable Dr. Stevens comes in, throwing the things I asked for on the table. I jump when I hear a warning growl, looking up to see Alpha Warren glaring at him. “Will there be anything else, doctor?” Dr. Stevens asks. He somehow makes my title, which is the same as his, sound like a dirty word. “No, thank you, doctor. I’ll take it from here.” I go to the sink and begin scrubbing my hands. I’m nervous for a lot of reasons. First, I’m in an unknown pack with an Alpha who is my mate. I have no idea what to expect from him, or really why I’m here. And almost worse than that, he wants me to operate on him while he’s awake! What the hell kind of crazy Alpha is he? “You’re thinking so hard that there’s steam coming out of your ears, Yara. What are so worried about?” he asks me.I turn and look at him over my shoulder. How does he even know I’m worried? Why is he paying so much attention to me? Is this the mate bond? I’ve only had exposure to two Alphas in my life, Alpha Solomon and Alpha Simon. Alpha Solomon is a good Alpha, but he was never this in tune with what I was doing or thinking. And Simon…a shiver of revulsion rolls through me. He was in tune for a whole other reason. The man gave me the creeps. When I finish scrubbing my hands, I turn back to Alpha Warren. I see he’s waiting for a response to his question. “This is going to be very painful. Can I at least give you a local anesthetic?" “No, I need to be alert so I can protect my pack,” “You can’t exactly protect your pack with only one leg, Alpha," I snap, my nerves making me bold. “Warren. Call me Warren, and you said you could save my leg.” “I can, IF you are under sedation and I’m not worried about you flinching or yanking your leg away while I’m operating.” “I have a very high tolerance to pain.” That doesn’t surprise me. He wasn’t even whimpering when Annika and I found him. He also has multiple, very faint scars all over his body. The man has been fighting in the pack wars for a long time. He must have a very strong wolf that is able to heal him, over and over. “How strong is your wolf right now?” I ask, getting his leg prepped to wash. “I am very strong, little one,” a deep voice says, and my eyes snap up as Annika begins purring in my head. Warren's wolf is forward, answering for himself. Warren smiles, once again looking as if he knows the effect his wolf is having on mine. Can he hear Annika purring? I shake my head, trying to clear it. I need to focus my attention and NOT on Warren’s incredible teakwood scent. “If I hold the bones in place, one at a time, how long will it take for you to set them?” “Not long, little one,” he says but it’s practically a purr. “I am a very strong, powerful Alpha wolf.” The way he says it isn’t bragging, but more like preening. My brain flashes an image of a peacock strutting around flaunting his feathers for his chosen mate. “Right,” I say, feeling my body responding to the deep tenor of his voice. It feels like his voice is caressing the nerves in my body, making them all light up with a need I’m unused to feeling, especially when I’m about to do surgery. I look up into the intense, jade green eyes of Alpha Warren. “Are you ready, Alpha?” “Warren,” he corrects. I nod. “Are you ready, Warren?” “Yes, Yara.” I grit my teeth, hating that I know this is going to hurt him, but if he won’t let me at least numb his leg, I can’t help it. I begin washing the blood off his leg, laying a wet cloth over the bloody area, careful that I don’t tug on the bones that are still jutting out. His body is covered with caked blood, guts, and bits of bone, just like I thought it would be. Under the teakwood scent, he smells like war and death. It’s good practice for me, learning how to ignore the smell of battle while I work. I don’t get this kind of training at the university. “Talk to me,” he says through gritted teeth. “What do you want to talk about?” I ask, not looking up as I begin to scrub the blood from his leg. “You know what you are to me?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement than a question. My stomach feels like it’s twisting into knots. "Yes," I say without looking up. "After you have healed, you can reject me. If you do it before, it could impact your healing." I don’t know why the thought of this man rejecting me feels so painful. I don’t even know him. I have no intention of becoming his mate and returning to the packs, at least not until I’m done with school anyway. And this pack is much too close to Simon for my comfort. "Who says I'm going to reject you?" he asks, sounding offended. Now I do look up at him. “But I’m a lone wolf.” “What you are, is my future Luna.” “You don’t even know me,” I say going back to my work. “I know that you’re intelligent, you’re compassionate, you’re brave, and I know that you’re lonely,” The intelligent and compassionate parts I get. That could easily be discerned from me being a doctor and helping him. Those two make sense. The brave part I’m not sure about, but the lonely part… “Why do you say I’m lonely?” I ask him, wiping off the blood and turning to get the scalpel. I lift it up, showing him that I’m about to cut into his leg. He nods and continues. “The closest university with a medical school is about an hour north of here. Between here and there, there are many areas where a lone wolf could run, if she wanted to. But instead,” he stops, grunting as I carefully slice into his leg. “Instead, you chose to come to an area that is full of wolves.” He’s partially right. Annika misses being in a pack, she misses the companionship of being with other wolves. Me, I’d be fine living alone the rest of my life, but my wolf likes the smell of the forest and it makes her feel more settled to smell the scent of other wolves. Warren hisses and I glance up at him, watching him take deep breaths to control his pain. “How do you do that?” “Do what?” “Manage this level of pain?” “Mind over matter. Physical pain will break you mentally if you let it. That’s why people get tortured for information. If you can break the body, you can usually break the mind. My mind is stronger than my body and my body is very strong.” I glance at the scars on his legs again. They're a testament to the accuracy of his words. “You’ve been fighting for a long time?” He nods, jaw tightening as if recalling each battle. “Since before you were born.” A beat passes—long enough for the weight of decades to settle between us. His fingers tap once against the hilt of his blade, steady, precise, unyielding. “Every scar is a lesson. Every loss, a recalibration. I don’t fight to win. I fight to endure.” I ask, cutting and pulling the muscles away from where his bones have snapped into pieces. “Since I became an Alpha, nearly twelve years ago.” “Twelve years?” I exclaim, standing up and looking at him. He’s older than I thought. That eyebrow shoots up again. It’s an arrogant look, but on Warren, its oh so sexy. “I took over the pack when I was eighteen, I’m now thirty, that’s twelve years, little wolf.” “Annika’s not that little,” I say, returning my attention to his leg. “She is compared to Arric.” “Well, Arric is an Alpha wolf. Only another Alpha would be larger than an Alpha wolf,” I say, as I carefully pluck out the first bone. I look at it, checking to see where it goes and then I press it against the bone it snapped off of. “Okay, Arric, let’s see what you’ve got,” I say, carefully holding the bone in place so Arric can begin to heal the fracture. I watch as the bone begins to connect and seal in front of my eyes. “Cool!” I say, forgetting where I am and who I’m with. I’ve been working with humans for so long that I forgot how quickly wolves can heal, especially Alpha wolves. “Is it that exciting?” Warren asks me drolly. I shrug. I know not everyone finds medicine and surgery thrilling, but I do. “It is for me.” “Then it must be my lucky day,” he says, just as there is a knock at the door. I look at the door, then at Alpha Warren, wondering who could possibly be knocking. “I told you I would protect you,” he says smiling. His smile is so beautiful that it nearly takes my breath away. “Come in, Charlie,” he says, not taking his eyes off of me. “Alpha…what the fuck are you doing in here?” he asks angrily, striding quickly to the table and looking at Alpha Warren’s leg, filleted and open on the table.
Wrongfully accused of thesis plagiarism, medical grad Kelly can’t find work. She rescues an elder, Carl, who gets her a job at a military hospital—where the director is Carl’s grandson George, her contractual husband.Kelly hides their marriage to avoid attention, but is harassed by George’s admirer Victoria. George defends her, and their contractual bond grows into real affection as they spend time together.
Elliana was cornered by her stepmother, she had to conceal her beauty and talents. Fifteen years later, she discovers that she is already secretly married to Cole, the heir of the powerful Evans family, for two years without knowing! Everyone mocks her ugliness, while her stepmother and stepsister scheme against her. Little do they know, Elliana hides multiple incredible identities: a mysterious healer, a world-ren……
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...
"She looked at her second chance mate with disappointment. “Wynta, I didn’t mean to...” he panicked. “No,” she cut him off, “The truth was— you left me in the storm to pick up another woman. And I almost died.” The moon goddess had arranged another jerk Alpha for her. But she will never say “yes” to a toxic mate bond. If she could reject the first, she wouldn't hesitate to reject the second. “Please—” He stared at her with begging eyes. Yet she just turned around and finished her words. “I, Wynta Morgan, reject you, Jared Hayes, as my second chance mate.” ===== *Wynta aged 18* “Come on, Wynta. You will see the stars when we both have you.” The first time Wynta let Nolan tease her clothes off, he wanted to bring his Beta Yale into her bedroom. Wynta believed her lover and future Alpha Nolan, was trying to coerce her into believing she was not only his Goddess-Gifted Mate but also that of his Beta's as well. All, so the two of them could have her in their bed at the same time, and she knew it. “Are you kidding, Nolan?"" A cool, assessing stare settled in Wynta's eyes as she deliberately took a step back, creating space. ""No, we’ve both scented it. You’re ours. We are both your actual Goddess-Gifted Mates."" Nolan’s voice was a low, coaxing purr. He reached out, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Wynta didn't pull away, but she didn't lean into his touch either. ""No, Nolan. I didn't feel that."" ""You have to trust me, trust us, Wynta. The Goddess doesn’t make mistakes. Yale's outside now, you will let him in, right?"" His hand slid down to her waist, pulling her gently against him. His scent, usually a comfort, now felt cloying. “Imagine it. The three of us. No one will ever love you or protect you like we will.” She might be an orphan and wolf-less, but she wasn’t so stupid as to believe Nolan. Wynta pushed against his chest, creating a sliver of space. “What I want,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady, “is to wait for the moon. If what you’re saying is true, then waiting a few more days shouldn’t matter.” She decided to test them, it was only a week until the full moon and she was 18 now. She would be able to scent them both in just 7 days. If they were her Mates, why wouldn’t they just wait until they knew she could handle them, and would want them both? She had no interest in sleeping with Yale at all and didn’t really find him attractive. He was nice looking but not her type. He sighed, a sound of exaggerated patience. ""Fine, baby. The bond is already there, we will claim you, and you'd be the Future Luna."" He left a little on the annoyed side with her, and she’d heard Nolan stating, “These I’ll sweet talk her again, don’t you worry.” to his Beta from her window, they thought because she was wolf-less she wouldn't hear them, but they'd only been a few meters from her window. Even a human would have heard them. She’d not believed them, because she was, in fact, wolf-less and of an unknown lineage. All she had going for her was her pretty face, nice body and her brains. She’d liked Nolan’s sweet, charming attention over the past few months, and she had kind of stupidly fallen for him over the course of their relationship. He’d never rushed her for anything, took it slow and always wanted things to be at her pace. They’d only been sleeping together for two weeks and now, with this? What he’d said and told her, it was just wrong, and she knew it was all going to be a lie. And they would come to her again. Left with no other option, Wynta chose solitude over submission. So she had cuffed herself with Silver and chained herself to a tree in the deepest, darkest, most isolated part of the pack where there were no border patrols because this end of the woods was at the base of a steep, inaccessible gorge. Four days she sat out there chained and cuffed with silver, scent masked so no one would smell her or be able to locate her with a pack tether. She’d taken no water or food and was starving and dehydrating herself to prove it was all a lie. As that first day had turned into the second, there was no search for her. The third day came and still no warriors were scouring the pack for a missing pack member, which she’d seen the Alpha would do. Scouring every inch of the pack when searching for someone who was missing. The fourth day came and again, nothing: if Nolan and Yale were her Mates, they’d have gone to their father's and told them the truth of the matter, informed them she was missing, and they couldn’t find her anywhere. They would in fact be in a full-blown panic that their Mate was missing, and they had no contact with her. That night, on day four, she unchained herself and removed the cuff, stumbled her way back to her dorm and sank down in the shower, utterly exhausted by the long walk when she was already dehydrated. She kind of just fell out of the shower when she'd tried to get up and had mind-link to the pack doctor to tell him she needed help, and then had succumbed to the darkness of unconsciousness. Wynta woke up in the pack hospital with an IV in her arm and the pack doctor tending to the burn on her wrist from the silver cuff, “Finally awake after a full day, the Alpha will be happy, he needs to know what happened. He is investigating right now, tracking your scent to where you came from.” She’d said nothing at all; that just confirmed once more that neither Nolan nor Yale had known she was even missing. “Did I have any visitors?” she asked curiously. “No, I’m sorry, Wynta.” He sounded apologetic. “No one other than the Alpha and Luna wanting to know your actual state. “Alright,” she knew she had no family. She’d been given her name by the pack’s Luna, named after the season she had been found in. Winter, and given the last name Morgan for whatever reason the Luna had seen fit. That was how she’d become Wynta Morgan. That very night, as she lay there in the hospital bed wondering just what she was going to say to Nolan and Yale, about their behavior. Nolan connected a mind-link to her at 11pm, and he asked quite simply, “Where are you? It’s our date night, and I’m at your place. You’re not here.” She could hear the frown in his voice. Tonight was supposed to be their ordinary dating night. “I’m at the pack hospital,” she told him honestly. “On our date night? Why would you take a shift knowing we’re to be together?” he asked right back. He was only concerned about the fact that they weren’t going to be having sx. He had just presumed that she was working in the hospital, when she’d never once worked in the hospital before. “I’m sure you can wait until the full moon,” she stated blandly and cut the link. There was not one ounce of worry in his voice. It was she new without a doubt coercion. The full moon came and set just two days later, and it had been two hours since she’d scented out a Mate inside this pack. She even knew who it was because she recognized the two natural scents of her lover. There was, however, no other scent for her at all. She didn’t scent Yale, it was just more proof of the lie they had told her, to get what they wanted from her was all. She was still in the pack hospital, still attached to the IV with fluids running, the burns healing was slow-going because she didn’t have a wolf. There was a nurse sitting next to her bed with a wound trolley attending to the cleaning and redressing of the burn when Nolan walked into the room. Finally, he had tracked her down. He stood staring at her a little more than shocked. She stared at him as his eyes moved over her in that bed, being treated by a nurse, and he asked the nurse to give them a minute. Told her that his father had asked him to come and discuss something privately with her. He had to wait until the wound was dressed. She watched him pick up her chart and read through it, knew he was seeing all the details of what was wrong with her, how she’d been found; she’d read it herself. He put it back with a frown on his face without saying anything at all. She’d stupidly fallen for this man before her, who was the same age as her and would be off to Alpha College tomorrow morning if he didn’t scent out a Mate on this full moon. She also knew just from the fact that he was here alone, no parents trailing him to see who his Mate was, that he was here to reject her. That and the fact that it had been two hours since the moon had set, he would have recognized her scent as well. No one waited that long to hunt down a Mate they wanted to claim. The nurse finally left and Nolan closed the door. She understood that as well, it was going to be done privately, so none in this pack would know they’d paired up. “Why didn’t you tell me you were injured when I asked where you were?” he asked her directly. She raised an eyebrow at him, she’d told him she was at the hospital. That should have been all she needed to say. “I was missing for four days,” she stated. “You didn’t even know, did you? I was cuffed with silver and missing… if you had scented me out back then as you said, you’d have known and hunted everywhere for me… You and your Beta, just wanted to have sx with me at the same time is all, and I wouldn’t let you. “You’re also here two hours post the moon setting, Nolan, that speaks volumes… You’re not the man I thought you were.” She shook her head. She would not be accepting one such as his. “I, Wynta Morgan, reject you, Nolan Holland, as my Mate.” She voiced simply but meant every word. He just stood staring at her, almost not comprehending that she would reject him. “Imagine, Nolan, if I had been swayed by you and Yale, and let the two of you do me. You’d now be rejecting me on the basis that I did that, had sx with your own Beta…” she shook her head at him “I don’t want to be bound to one that clearly tried to coerce me. Just accept it Nolan.” He nodded slowly. “I, Nolan Holland, accept your rejection, Wynta Morgan. You are not my Mate or the future Luna to this pack,” he stated. She felt the complete severing of their bond and heard him hiss in pain. It only caused a dull ache in her chest. Being wolf-less had some perks, it seemed. “Wynta, we’ll come back to this when I get home from Alpha College,” he stated and turned and walked from the room. Did he expect her to just sit around and wait for him to change his mind? Because he was an Alpha and she was wolf-less. Not a chance. She was not going to just sit around and wait for an Alpha to decide if she was worthy of him. She would choose her future on her terms. *9 years later, Wynta aged 27* Wynta sat in the waiting room along with all the other job applicants, applying for the position of Marketing Specialist here at Hayes Enterprises. She had lost her previous job a few months back and was rapidly running out of funds. All the other applicants in this room were human. Though she had picked up a few wolves upon coming into the building, but there didn’t appear to be any working on this floor. But she was hopeful the interview today would be done by a panel of humans, seeing as all the applicants were human. She’d not been active in the wolfen world for nine years now. She had left it behind when she’d walked away from her home pack, the night she’d been released from the pack hospital. She’d simply gone to her single dorm two days after her future Alpha had left for Alpha College, and none had known what she was to him. She had packed her belongings into a suitcase and walked out of the pack. Turned herself rogue after stepping outside the pack’s territory. No one had come looking for her, as she’d walked calmly from that place, she was not going to just sit around and wait for an Alpha to decide if she was worthy of him. She’d fallen for him but also known it had all been a lie, everything he’d ever said to her, so no more would she be a part of that pack. She’d gotten on a train and just moved away, she’d picked up a couple of different jobs and put herself through university, getting scholarships where she could and student loans where possible, and now nine years later she was a marketing specialist, one that worked in the human world and stayed away from the world of wolves. She didn’t really consider Wolves to be her Kind, simply because she was in fact wolf-less. She considered herself to be human. So she lived and worked like a human did, she struggled to pay her rent and bills at times, like so many out here did. She bought only what she needed. Keeping five working outfits that could be mixed and matched to create different looks but were all professional at the same time. Then in her apartment she just lazed about in jeans and tee-shirts. She owned nothing fancy because she had no need of it. Her vacation days were spent laying in her apartment reading a good book or listening to music. She currently lived in a tiny studio apartment that just had a bedroom, a small kitchenette and a tiny bathroom. There was nothing fancy about it. She, at this time, couldn’t afford anything else at all. Having lost her previous job, she had already downgraded the one-bedroom proper apartment for a studio apartment. It was small, but she kept it neat and tidy, and after living there for a month, she’d realized it was all she actually needed. Though she had no luxuries here in this place, there was no TV or movie subscriptions, she’d canned everything to save money while looking for a new job. The only thing she had was her phone, which she needed for interviews and to take rejection calls, though she also used it for reading books online. She was aloof to all those around her. There were no contacts in her phone because she had no family and no pack attachments. She didn’t trust easily or form bonds with many around her. In an office environment she could do her job and hold proper conversations, work well in a team, but her trust was hard-earned. Despite being wolf-less, she could pick up things like the scent of other wolves, though couldn’t determine pack or bloodline, just understood wolfen kind smelt different to humans. They all had a more earthy/woodsy scent about them. She sometimes sat out in the parks and just watched the humans walk about interacting with other people. She could read mannerisms and facial expressions quite well. Pick a lie from the truth, because she listened to the inflexion of one’s voice, and saw the little things that humans did when lying. Fidgeting, no eye contact, excessive blinking or just closing their eyes, they bit their lips, a few even got flushed in the face. If she paid attention completely, she could hear the tone of their voice change and even pick up on the difference in sentence structure at times. Then there was that pause before they spoke, which often portrayed that they had to think about an answer, because they didn’t want to answer it honestly. She’d learn that humans were no different to wolves most of the time. They came to her when they wanted something from her and then screwed her over if they could, to take the credit for her own work. Both species were deceitful as far as she was concerned and all she was trying to do was live quietly unseen by all. She’d learned the hard way to live by herself, even roommates were deceitful and couldn’t be trusted. She’d found it was simply best to live alone and not make friends that would lie to her, and, or betray her trust. Steal from her or blame her for things that they’d done just to save their own ass. Her name and interview number were called, and it pulled her from her absent thoughts, and she stood and nodded to the woman looking for her, and then followed her quietly down the hall and around the corner to a room that stated Conference Room 2. The door was held open for her and she stepped inside. The moment she did, she could smell them, wolves, and not just any, she didn’t think. Just by looking at the sheer size of them and the way they were dressed and sat, they were going to be ranked members of some pack out there. She walked over and sat herself in the chair that was sitting before them as was expected of her, and looked at them. She knew they would all be able to scent her as not only a rogue but that she was wolf-less as well. They would have smelled it either while she sat out there in the waiting room or the moment she’d stepped into this room. Her sense of smell wasn’t the same as theirs, not even the same as an omega wolf. She watched as three of them leaned back in those chairs and left one leaning on the desk before him staring at her. That one thing told her they weren’t just ranked members but were, in fact, an Alpha and his Unit. The one that was watching her now, he was going to be the Alpha. He slid his eyes over her appearance and then turned his eyes to her application, read it through before returning his eyes to her and putting that paper down in front of him. “I’ll introduce myself formally to you,” he stated calmly. “I am Alpha Edward Hayes and this is my unit,” he waved a hand at the other wolves in this room. “May I enquire why you are a rogue?” he asked her directly, seems his curiosity about her non wolfen pack status outweighed the questions for this very job. Wynta frowned at his introduction. She didn’t really care who he was, and she didn’t think it was any of his business as to why she was a rogue. She knew one didn’t have to be part of a pack to live in this world. More and more wolves turned themselves rogue and left their packs to get away from the cruelty of their pack’s leadership. Especially those that were like herself. She’d seen and smelled many like herself over the past nine years, just out there like she was trying to make an honest living for themselves, and staying out of trouble in both the wolfen and human world alike. When she didn’t say anything to answer his question, he went on, “I see you’re 27. Surely someone with your skills could have found a pack to align yourself with… When did you go rogue or be turned rogue?” he asked once more. “I’m here for the job that was posted, not to relay my past history to you.” She finally spoke. “Do you have any questions for me that are related to my skills?” she asked him in return. He frowned at her now and she watched who she thought was the Beta lean forward and rest his arms on the desk “You could request sanctuary and ask to be a member of the pack. Then this job would be granted to you without issue,” he stated. Wynta raised an eyebrow at him, so that was the condition of getting this job, she thought absently. Clearly, all those humans out there were wasting their time coming here for an interview. This company was simply abiding by the human rules of appearing to hire honestly and fairly, when they intended to give the job to one of their own pack members. “Would you like to become a pack member, Wynta?” Alpha Edward asked her directly. “I would accept someone like yourself.” “Someone like me?” she murmured. “A rogue that is wolf-less and desperate for affiliation, you mean?” She shook her head a little dismayed, did she look desperate to them? She didn’t think so, her clothes were clean and presentable, as was her hair and light make-up. She certainly didn’t look underfed or unhealthy. “Are you going to ask me any actual interview questions about the position of a Marketing Specialist?” she asked once more. “My skills are as they are listed, and I have worked now for two separate companies as you can see.” “Wynta, we’ll get to your interview. I feel your rogue status is of more importance, and needs to be resolved first,” Alpha Edward stated. “Please, Mr Hayes, don’t address me so informally. I would prefer you call me Ms Morgan.” She put to him, showing him that she wasn’t interested in being a part of his pack, and she didn’t think that they were close enough to be on a first-name basis. All of them were frowning at her now, at her dismissing of them being an Alpha and his unit before her, but she was a rogue and didn’t have to acknowledge that. It was likely they’d not expected her to decline the offer of being initiated. But it wasn’t something she was looking for. She was just looking for a job to have an income once more, and to keep a roof over her head, and food in her belly, nothing more, nothing less. “How about you come and look at the pack? It’s an hour's drive from here, and you’ll see it’s a nice healthy pack; I even have several without wolves living there.” Edward offered. Again, she raised an eyebrow at him, this was not an interview anymore. She shook her head and stood up. “Thank you for wasting my time. I have other interviews to attend this week,” she stated simply and turned and walked from the room, showing them, she was clearly not interested in what they were offering. She handed in her lanyard and interview number to the lady out in the hall and made her way to the elevators to leave the building. She stood in that elevator as it took her to the ground floor and sighed internally to herself as she mentally ticked off another job that she’d not gotten; though this one was on her own doing. She’d walked away from it. Just one more day without working, that was going to eat into her savings. She knew the dollars in her bank account, knew she only had enough money to rent that studio apartment for three more months, and then she was going to be either out on the streets and in a women’s shelter or back to being an exotic dancer in a gentleman’s club just to make ends meet. Neither were nice thoughts for her; she’d been homeless for a few months after leaving her home pack, until she’d managed to get on campus living, but still it hadn’t been enough to survive on, so she’d had to take on a job that would bring in the dollars, and she wasn’t about to sell her body to men. So becoming an exotic dancer had been the only option open to her, that didn’t interfere with her class schedule. She’d not really liked it and only did it to make money was all. She pushed off the wall when the elevator stopped and walked out, as did several others and found herself face to face with who she thought was the Beta to that Alpha Unit. “Mr Hayes, would like a further word with you, Ms Morgan,” he stated with what appeared to be a friendly smile. “I’m not interested,” she told him, and went to step around him only to have his hand curl around her arm and halt her. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist,” he stated and tugged her along next to him down a bank of elevators and used a swipe card to have one open. She saw there were no floor markers on the outside or inside of it when she was escorted into it. The doors simply closed and the elevator moved. She understood it was an express elevator and likely only went to one floor, the top floor where the Alpha and his Unit all had offices. She leaned on the wall in there and just waited, said nothing at all to this man that was looking at her. She stared right back at him, uncaring of if it was offensive or not. Rogues didn’t have masters unless they chose to and she didn’t. It was a fast, smooth ride, and he escorted her out of the elevator down a corridor and directed her to sit on a couch. “Please stay here and wait.” He told her before turning to the woman at the desk next to the couch who was now looking at her with a slight frown on her face. “The Alpha will see Ms Morgan when his interviews are over for the day.” “Yes, Beta.” She nodded and he walked off. At least she’d guessed it right. He was the Beta to that group. She saw that she-wolf frown at her and wrinkle her nose as if she was offended by the stench of Wynta. She was, however, clean and, though of rogue status, took care of herself to make sure she didn’t scent terrible like other rogues out there in the wilderness. Though she honestly didn’t know what a Rogue scented like to other wolves, but to her, they kind of smelled like they were unclean and needed a bath. She didn’t think she smelled like that. She just sat as she was told. She wasn’t out to cause trouble for herself and knew how to behave herself. Even if she didn’t want to. After an hour of just sitting there, she was bored shitless, and so she stood up and stretched herself out and then walked away to have a look around the top floor for herself. There were a dozen offices up here, three conference rooms and an open coffee hub-like area where they all obviously ate. There were half a dozen tables and chairs and a couple of vending machines. She saw only the one elevator to this entire floor, and it had that swipe card access to it. She wasn’t going to be able to leave if she didn’t have one of them. She found the emergency stairwell and smiled to herself and pushed the door only to find it wouldn’t open, and frowned. It, too, had a swipe card box next to it. She appeared to be stuck here for now. She returned to the couch and sank down once more. Another hour passed, and she was more than unhappy, that she-wolf at her desk looked at her and stated, “Just be patient, he’s interviewing.” “You can’t keep me here like this,” she stated flatly. “I’m guessing he can, seeing as you’re still here. Just sit there,” she was told. Wynta thought about that, she knew there had to be away around the swipe card for everything, and as she leaned back there on the couch her eyes fell on the red emergency box, that had the words ‘Break glass in case of emergency.’ That she knew was going to unlock the emergency exit stairwell. A smile played on her lips as she sat up now. She’d get lost in the crowd of those all heading out of the building and be gone before they could find her once more. “Don’t do it Ms Morgan, it’s a very large fine.” Her thoughts were interrupted by the she-wolf. Her eyes moved towards her, and she watched her point to the ceiling, where she saw a camera, “It’ll be caught on camera, and the fine will come to you. Can you afford it? I believe it's $1600, and you could also face criminal charges. It’s a felony in this state, so you’ll also likely wind up with a criminal record if you don’t already have one.” “I don’t,” Wynta stated, and the she-wolf’s half smirk she likely thought that just because she was a rogue she did all sorts of illegal things to get by. She leaned back on the couch as she resigned herself to the fact that she was currently stuck here on this floor until someone escorted her from the building. By the third hour, she had laid down on that couch and made herself comfortable, ignored the she-wolf’s comment of it wasn’t very ladylike or professional to do so, and used her phone to read a book until she dozed off on that couch. Not one person on this floor had paid her the slightest bit of attention, except for the Alpha’s secretary, and she was just annoyed to have to watch over her, it seemed. She rolled over at one point in her half sleeping stated to try and be more comfortable and fell right off the couch, just lay there for a moment before sitting up with a huff. That secretary was staring at her. “You’re a lazy one I see,” she muttered. “I’ll tell the Alpha you’re finally awake.” And her eyes had glazed over. She picked herself up off the floor. He must be back up here, and she’d slept right through it, and he’d not woken her. That was a bit odd. He appeared in his office doorway, “Did you sleep well?” he smiled at her. “Come in, Ms Morgan.” He waved her into his office. She checked the time on her phone and saw it was the middle of the afternoon. Her interview had been at 10am this morning. The day was nearly over. It was nearly 3pm. She walked into the Alpha’s office and sat where he told her to. “Why am I still here?” she asked him directly. “Because I’m not willing to let you continue to be of rogue status, it’s unsafe for female rogues out there in the world. Even more so for those without wolves, who are defenseless against wolfen strength.” “Other rogues leave me alone, the wolf-less aren’t of interest to roaming bands of rogues. We’re worth nothing to those wanting to kidnap and sell she-wolves, we can’t take a beating or a lashing without winding up in the pack hospital or dying from it. It’s a waste of money to buy the wolf-less.” She informed him. “So, I’m perfectly safe out there on my own. Always have been.” She told him simply. “Mm, I see… but in all good consciousness, I can’t let you leave as you are. So, here’s what I’m willing to offer you. The job you applied for today, a house or apartment within the pack and full sanctuary where no harm will come to you. “You’ll be able to have full access to proper wolfen medical, at no cost to you. You’ll also be able to train with others like yourself, to be able to protect yourself when outside the pack. Attend mating balls to find your Mate and have a full wolfen social life.” He smiled at her as if that was an appealing offer. “I have an apartment here in the city, just a few blocks away. I don’t drive, so wouldn’t be able to get from the pack to the office if I took up that offer. I’ve never come to harm out here in the human world, and I’ve been in it for many years now. “I can also protect myself if I need to, and I have no interest in being initiated into or living inside a pack or attending any pack functions, including that of Mating Balls,” Wynta countered him, “I’ll, however, take the job that I do need.” He was frowning at her now. “All wolves need the social aspect, or they can become…” he trailed off. “Anti-social creatures.” She nodded. “I’m already that, and I don’t care that I am.” She shrugged but would take this opportunity to tell him how she’d work. “I will work quietly and cause you nor this company any problems. I get my work done on time or stay back, working late doesn’t particularly bother me all that much. “I can and will collaborate within a team and listen to and follow the instructions of my supervisor. I know how to be a contributing member of a working team and how to be professional even though I don’t take an interest in socializing personally with those on my team,” she told him. He leaned back in his chair and stared at her with narrowed eyes, and she mimicked his pose after a minute of silence. She would not be giving him what he wanted today. Another minute passed, and his mouth twitched in one corner. He seemed amused by her stubbornness. “What will it take,” she finally asked, breaking the silence, “to let me leave this office and get the job?” He smiled at her, “You agreeing to be initiated into my pack. I’ll allow you to retain your city apartment, seeing as you already have one and don’t drive.” She stared at him for a long moment and then laid out her own terms to get the job she needed. “Initiation into your pack will be on my terms.” She offered a compromise. “What exactly does that mean?” he frowned once more. “I’ll let you initiate me, only when I willingly set foot into your pack's official pack territory, and that’s what? An hour away, you stated.” “I did.” He nodded. “I can agree to that.” He smiled at her. “Let’s go and look at your work space then, shall we?” *5 years later, Wynta aged 32* Wynta got the pack invitation delivered right to her desk. She’d not known what it was at first; just had the mail delivery girl Louise, walk into her office at 10am and ask her to sign for a package as she’d put it on the desk. There was a small white sticky note on it that had her name clearly printed on it. Wynta had asked in return what the package was for and gotten “A gala invitation, I’m on delivery duty today for all of them.” And she’d indicated to her cart by the door. Wynta had seen that there were indeed many blue boxes in her delivery cart, that looked just like the one Louise had placed on her desk. She’d nodded and signed the slip to say she’d received it, and Louise had taken the sticker and attached it to her clipboard next to Wynta’s signature. Then she had smiled at Wynta and stated, “I’ll see you there. Signing for the invitation is you stating you’ll attend.” That had snapped Wynta’s head up, and she’d frowned right at Louise, who’d then smiled a little apologetically, “Sorry Ms Morgan, but Mr Hayes specifically told me I wasn’t to inform you of that, until after you signed for it.” She’d just nodded and waved the woman out, sat and watched her leave. Bloody Alpha Edward had finally found a way to make her step onto pack territory willingly, it seemed, and she didn’t know at this time if she could say it wasn’t willing or not. She’d have to do some research into the nitty-gritty of that one. He’d clearly tricked her into signing for it, so she’d technically stated she'd attend of her own free will. Which she knew was going to be considered, that it meant she would be stepping into pack territory of her own free will as well; to attend this Luna Ceremony. But was it really of her own free will? When, in reality, he’d gone about this in an underhanded manner, leaving out important information, and all in order just to get her to sign for that invitation. He knew she wouldn’t sign for it if she knew it meant she had to step foot inside his pack's territory. She shook her head, just knew it was his roundabout way of forcing her hand into being initiated into his pack. Though a small part of her was very amused by his underhanded tactics, because it had taken him five long years to get that which he wanted from her. She’d thought he’d have just learned to live with the fact she didn’t want to be a pack member, and that she was, in fact, happy living as a rogue, seemed not even after all these years. Wynta returned her attention to the invitation. It was a very pretty navy-blue box with embossed letting on it, and she even knew whose they were. She’d heard that Edwards' youngest son and fourth heir, Lance, had found his Fated Mate on the previous full moon. It was still the current talk of not only the office, but in the human world as well. This was the Luna Ceremony invitation by the look of it. Pack colors were in fashion, it seemed. She did know Cedar Rapids pack colors were navy blue, silver and, of course, the color of red cedar. She knew why, because the pack had rapids that ran right through it and there were many red cedar trees inside the pack. It was aptly named, she thought. Wynta opened the box and inside it was an envelope with a wax seal in there. She shook her head and wondered what the box was for. Was it a pack tradition or just that they wanted to be extra fancy. She broke the seal, which also held their initials L&R, and slid out the actual invitation; a nicely folded invitation, and again there was another seal. Only this one had three fine pieces of golden thread to hold it together and bound to the wax. It was all very fancy, she realized; Edward and Marian were going all out. She broke that seal and opened the actual invitation, and their names, Lance and Raelynn, were written in a big, bold flashy script, and then the event name time and the place, the pack’s ballroom of course, where all Luna Ceremonies were held, she supposed. Not that she had ever been to one, but she’d heard they were a grand event. On the inside of the right-hand side was a list of details, of what not to wear and the type of attire that was expected. It was a black-tie event and full formal wear was expected, and no pack member or affiliated guest was allowed to wear anything white or cream, in color. The Luna would be wearing a white gown and any upstaging of her or attempts at it would be fully punishable by three lashings on the shaming post. The event was mandatory, and the entire pack was expected to attend the event to celebrate the happy couple. Those that opted not to attend would see themselves on the shaming post and given one lash for disrespect. In brackets, it read, (those without wolves, one day on the shaming post and full admonishment by Alpha and Luna) Then on the left side of the invitation was the RSVP details. There was a QR Code and under that it stated all women had to state the color of the dress they would be wearing on the RSVP. It was preferred that bright or dark colors were to be worn, and all full pastel colors were to be avoided. She just shook her head. Though she sat and stared at that invitation for a long time, she’d worked for Hayes Industries now for five years, and still she’d managed to never set foot inside the pack itself. She had not attended a single mating ball because she saw no need to. She’d had a Mate once, and rejected him long ago, 14 years now, and so there was no reason to think she’d get another. She’d, however, gotten three invites a year for the past five years and ticked the decline box on all occasions. After that first year, those invites had stated that she was to list the reason she would not be attending. She’d shaken her head, understanding it was Alpha Edward’s way of trying, she thought, to find a way to get her onto pack territory. She’d written on three of them 'not a ranked member', on three others, 'I’ll be away on vacation', and on several of them she’d simply written ‘I don’t fit the criteria for the mating ball.’ She was still a rogue and so held no rank inside that pack, not even when she’d been sent and omega only invite, she’d declined that on not being an omega. But being of rogue status, she actually didn’t fit any of their criteria, and could claim just being a rogue, but it was she thought annoying for Edward to have to read all her reasons as to why she wouldn’t be attending. The last refusal had been ingenious on her part, she’d thought, because he’d thought he’d had her with that invite for all otherworldly creatures, regardless of having non-pack status within their own realms or the human realm, were invited to come and see if they might find their Mate. She’d actually laughed at the wording of it. It had been so she couldn’t play, she didn’t fit the criteria, or I’m a rogue card as a way of not attending the ball. Wynta thought she was now even beginning to frustrate Alpha Edward, that he now had to find other ways to try and get her into his pack. It was clear to her that he had read all her reasons for getting out of setting foot inside his pack territory. It kind of amused her more than a little bit to see all the effort he was going to. She’d used 'I'm going to a Marketing Conference' on him, and she had actually done so. It had also been booked four months prior to that mating ball, paid for by his own company. She’d written a politely worded email about she didn’t want to be seen as wasting the company's money because the event was nonrefundable, and she didn’t want to disappoint her team, who were also all going to the conference with her. It was out of state and fully booked and organized months in advance. She’d attached the booking list of employees and the accommodation and conference details for him to check it all. She’d laughed softly to herself when she’d hit the send button on that one, it had just been perfect timing for her, nothing more. She’d leaned back in her chair all happy that day and chuckled softly because it wasn’t the first time she’d used skills building courses to get out of mating balls. She always kept track of when and where those skill-building conferences took place, and if they ever fell on a full moon, or the travel to and or from one did, she signed herself up for them; did it months in advance just so she could state she hadn’t deliberately avoided the invite at the last minute. She had an education and team building budget to use, and that’s what she used it on. Sometimes she would take the whole team with her. Hell, once all three marketing teams had gone to it, including her and the other supervisors, everyone had signed up for it when she’d put it on the bulletin board in the office. The three departments had even split the cost of hiring a bus to get them there and back. He couldn’t stop her from continuing to learn what was needed, in the ever-changing world around them, that was considered the best way to target their buyers and promote their businesses; it was all necessary skill building. This invitation, however, she had a feeling she was unlikely to be able to get out of, he’d already probably checked into it himself. Though she did earn decent money now, and had moved up in the company from a Marketing Specialist to a Marketing Supervisor and that had come with a new office, and a higher pay check. She still begrudged the idea of having to go out there and buy a formal dress for this occasion. She wasn’t a pack member, so it shouldn’t be mandatory for her to attend, but he’d gotten her to sign for that bloody invitation, and now she had an obligation, even as a rogue, to attend it. Wynta sighed and shook her head, just knew there was not going to be a way to get out of it. He’d done his homework on this one. He was likely going to push for her to move into pack territory or that new apartment building he’d just finished building. It wasn’t massive, just six storeys high with six apartments on each floor, but the top that only had four and they were considered penthouse apartments. He’d given her and her team the job of marketing the ground floor space, where he’d wanted a restaurant and a café along with two boutique stores to go there for revenue, things that would need marketing not just advertising. Edward had even sent her and her team down to check out that building. They’d all been met there by Chester, the pack’s Gamma, or to her team, one of the founders of the company they worked for. She and her team had been walked onto every floor and allowed to look at the apartments. Just showing them around so they could get a feel for the type of people that were going to rent the apartments out. Chester had told them they would likely all be executive-type people. Nothing here was more than two bedrooms, and the space was large. There was no real room for children. Chester had been watching her as they’d walked around. He walked right next to her the entire time and, although he’d been professional in his talking to her and the team, telling them what they wanted. She wasn’t so dumb as to not know why she had been chosen to lead this little project. He’d stood and leaned on a window in one of the penthouse's living areas and stated, “It’s a nice apartment, got a fantastic view, close to the office,” He’d even pointed it out in the distance, for her to see. She knew where it was, she had walked down here with her team, a casual 30-minute stroll where they’d all gotten coffee along the way. “I think this particular penthouse apartment would be fit for a single woman like yourself, don’t you think? It’s got lots of closet space too.” Wynta had nodded and smiled at him, rolled her eyes a little and commented, “I’m certain one of the managers would like it.” and then casually walked away from him. She wasn’t going to be swayed into moving into a pack-bought apartment. She understood it was Edwards way of getting her to likely take a baby step into being part of his pack. She was not fooled by this; she’d heard Chester chuckle softly and murmur, “You’re one tough nut to crack.” “No, I’m not. I like my simple life, is all. It’s uncomplicated and no one tells me what to do.” She’d smiled at him. She’d looked at Chester after walking about that penthouse, “You may tell Edward, I have a place of my own, and I’m comfortable living there, have been now for five years. I have a good rapport with my landlord.” She’d tipped her coffee to him and left the apartment. She still lived in her ground floor studio apartment, just five blocks away, and she saw no need to upgrade to something bigger and better just for status’s sake. She also didn’t need the extra room; that just meant more cleaning to her, and shelling out more dollars for rent, not something she wanted to do. That was completely unnecessary in her eyes. Her landlord actually maintained the building she lived in. She’d gotten new carpet two years ago and the entire place had been painted as well. It looked really nice, her rent was always paid on time, and she caused no trouble for him at all, so she was considered a good tenant. Though the place had lots of people moving in and out of it, mostly students from the local university lived there, so she got new neighbors quite often. Living in her studio apartment had allowed her to create a nice amount of savings for herself, that money sat in her bank account, for that inevitable rainy day, when it came; that would see her up and leave, move away to a new place for whatever reason. It could be a bigger, better job or that she just wanted a change of scenery, but she was comfortable right now, and that was the only reason she’d not moved on. Well, that, and she liked annoying Alpha Edward with her constant refusal to step onto his pack territory and making him stick to their original handshake deal upon hiring her. She placed that invitation back into the envelope and then the box and put it on a shelf behind her desk. She had noted that there was no plus one on there. So at least she wasn’t expected to bring a date. Though that also told her Edward knew she didn’t have a date to bring. She sighed to herself at the thought of spending her hard-earned money, and although she had the money to spend, she didn’t want to spend it. She saw it as a complete waste of her savings. She had a dozen suits, all of which were acceptable to wear to functions and made her look professional and presentable. But now this having to buy a full formal dress, she wondered if she could sell it after wearing it just once, to get some of her money back? Buying a dress, she also knew she was going to have to buy some sort of heels to go with that dress as well. Wynta sighed at that thought, she didn’t wear heels. Even here in the office, simple, comfortable business style, black walking shoes was all. She was not out to attract attention to herself, and that aloof demeanor she had, kept most men at bay. Not all, but most, and she turned those that did ask her for coffee of lunch down, with a polite but firm “I’m sorry, I’m not interested.” She was straight to the point with all of them, so there were no misunderstandings to be had. Though she’d never once been hit on by a wolf within the company, only the humans, and she knew why. It was because she was of rogue status, and none of them knew how she’d become a rogue. She did smell like one to those that worked here. Several of the she-wolves didn’t like that a rogue worked within the company. Went out of their way to make sure she knew it as well, though she just ignored their so-called off-handed insults at how she smelled. One of her team had actually frowned once and muttered, “What the hell is she talking about? There’s no stench in here.” Looking about and that she-wolf, Carlotti had looked right at her on purpose, and then wrinkled her nose for her team to see and then just walked off. They’d all looked at her after she’d left, and she’d just shrugged it off. Carlotti, or Lotti to the wolves of the pack, was from what Wynta could tell the youngest stepdaughter of the pack’s Beta, she’d seen that she-wolf call him daddy at times. She knew Ernesto was mated, and that girl wasn’t, so it wasn’t a euphemism for something else. She’d also seen the Beta’s actual daughter roll her eyes at the girl’s behavior and try to pull her into line once. “He’s not your actual father and doesn’t need to give you anything.” Had come out of Meredith when Ernesto had left, “If you want money, go and get a bloody job and earn it like the rest of us do.” It had become a sibling dispute between one that worked hard, and one that apparently did nothing and thought she was entitled to everything. She’d seen Carlotti leave in tears when Meredith had snapped at her in front of the office, “You’re just a stepchild, will inherit nothing are not father’s actual kin. Just a greedy spoiled girl and when my brother takes over, you’ll be out on your ass for this behavior. I’ll gladly back him up.” She’d looked to the gathered crowd and muttered, “Sorry family dispute, back to work all of you.” Meredith didn’t seem to care that she was a rogue, but several others did. Likely Meredith saw that Wynta did her actual job within the company and didn’t cause any trouble either, so she was not offended by having a rogue work here. The weeks passed and there was suddenly talk of Jared Hayes, Edwards' oldest son, coming home from Europe for his brother's wedding. It was the talk of the office. She’d seen several pictures of him over the years in the company magazine, highlighting all the achievements he was making and the growth of the company with a new office in France. He was apparently the company’s hottest Batchelor, and still unmarried at 42, she’d nearly laughed at that, if only they knew his real age. Wynta knew that all of Edwards' children had reinvented themselves over the years and that Jared was in fact 82 years old but barely looked a day older than 35. He had jet black hair and blue eyes, and was rumored to be six-four. But all his brothers were roughly that height as Edward was, so it didn’t really surprise her. She’d never met the Alpha’s oldest heir. He rarely, if ever came home, and was busy it seemed off building his own empire. Though she’d seen all the others over the course of the years, Edward had walked them all through her department and stopped to introduce them all to her. She’d nodded and been polite in greeting them, then just turned back to her work. They didn’t pay her anymore attention than she did them, she only interacted with them if there was a need for it. Which mostly there wasn’t. None of them were in marketing, so it limited her exposure to them. Though each one of them had seen how aloof she was and that she only kept things to work terms. She never just talked freely with any wolf here in the building. Though she was good with her human team now, she could smile and chuckle at the things they did or the stories they told about something funny happening to them. She’d worked with them all for five years now, and only taken this promotion on the condition that her team went with her to the new floor. They worked like a well-oiled machine and she actually liked them. The office she had now was on the floor above the one they’d all originally worked in, and she had a large office with a glass wall and door between her and their desk out there. Though she had an open-door policy, and they could, at any time, holler out to her or just stroll in and talk to her. That window would frost over at the touch of a button, they’d been here now for a year and not once had she used it. Saw no need to. She looked at them now. They were all a buzz with the news that Edward was bringing Jared to walk through all the departments, to see if things needed improvement, the Monday after his brother’s wedding. Meanwhile, far away in Europe... Jared stood in his penthouse apartment listening to his father tell him that his brother Lance had found his Goddess-Gifted Mate, his band had lit up blue and when they put one on the she-wolf Raelynn, it had lit up as well. She’d not rejected Lance, and they were marked and mated. His father was very happy that finally one of his sons had found their Mate. Jared pinched the bridge of his nose at the thought that it was likely Lance who would be the first to have an heir, and then, when he turned 100, the pack would belong to his youngest brother. It wasn’t like Jared wasn’t looking for his Mate. He’d just simply moved countries to do so, he’d exhausted a lot of packs in the US looking for his Mate. Either she wasn’t born yet or lived in another country. He knew there were just as many packs here in Europe as there were in America, so he’d opted to move here and branch the pack’s business out at the same time. He’d made quite a few business allies over here in France, and there were many of their European allies, wolves, working in this building that he lived in. His penthouse was on the top floor like all of his units were. He was 82 years old and had not only searched in the US but in the Wolfen Realm as well back in his younger days. Now he was just simply here in Europe was all. “So, Jared, you’ll be coming home for Raelynn’s Luna Ceremony on the next full moon. Invites will be sent for you and your unit via email. Those here in the states will get one in person, though your mother will send you pictures of the actual invitations as well.” “Why would she need to do that?” he frowned. “Son, it’s so you can see what to expect when you find your own Mate, of course. She has been planning these events for many decades and allocated different colors to each of you. Well, actually her words were according from first to last mated. So where I know you, being the eldest would expect pack colors, Lance is getting that because he was the first to find his Mate. Sorry son.” “It’s fine.” He murmured. “I don’t think it really matters anyway… Isn’t it usually up to the Luna being celebrated?” he asked and turned to see his unit all walking into his apartment. He knew why they were here, it maybe 9pm in San Francisco, but it was only 6am here in France, and it was likely they’d all gotten a call from their fathers. Just like he was getting. ""Normally, it is son. It’s not yet discussed, but I know Lance wants that. So, it’s likely Raelynn will also agree.” Did it surprise him that his brother was going to want pack colors? No, the importance of him choosing and his mother agreeing to give him those colors; a full formal event in pack colors. It was a bold statement from Lance to his three brothers, himself, Ethan and Colby. That he was going to be the next Alpha to Cedar Rapids. ""Father, when I find a Mate I will allow her to choose whatever color she wants. Mother won’t get a say. Please remind her of that.” He told him simply, “She may plan for all her other heirs Luna Ceremonies, but I will follow wolfen tradition of letting the Luna that is being celebrated choose the color of the event.” “That is fine, son. So you’ll be coming home when exactly, how many days prior to the next full moon? There are a few people I want you to meet and talk with while you're here, so please plan to stay a week to a month would be good.” “A month?” he questioned right back. “Yes, like I said, I’ve got people I want you to meet.” “Goddess father, it’s not some bloody she-wolf of your choosing, is it? You know I won’t settle. Can’t if I want a chance to be the next Alpha.” “I’m aware of that Jared. I need your help with one very stubborn she-wolf on something; we’ll discuss it when you come home. Drives me a bit batty she does, so very resistant to all offers to come and live within the pack.” “Why do you need her to? If she’s allied she likely has a nice pack and likes it.” “A brilliant marketing mind. I’ve made many offers.” His father huffed at him, “I'm stuck, as are my unit and I need someone to charm her, so to speak.” He rolled his eyes and his entire unit snorted, fully amused. They all knew it was his father’s way of trying to get him to date someone he thought would be good for him. He let it go. “Just put Ethan or Colby to the task. They are right there.” “Hmm, she’s not interested in either of them, kind of dismissive of all ranked members.” His father sighed once more, a little on the heavy side. “Not even Chester is having any luck… seems to be immune to even a Gamma’s charm. Help your old man out, won’t you?” That was a curiosity to him. Though he wondered if it was true at all, not many could get past a Gamma. “I’ll have Dwane do it,” he stated, “I’ll get back to you on the date I’ll be arriving. I’ll have to look at flights and see what’s available.” His father sighed at the comment about him having his Beta charm the girl, but he let it go and stated, “I could send the Jet over.” “No need, Wolf Airline branched out into Europe this year, so we’ll travel safely and in wolfen comfort.” Jared stated simply, “Tell Lance congratulations, I’m looking forward to meeting Raelynn, that I’ll bring something from France as a Luna Gift. Get mother to find out what the woman likes and email me.” “Alright, but a few days prior to the full moon son, is what I expect and at least a week after as well. Business reasons, of course. I will not be meddling in your love life; I learned my lesson when you opted to move halfway around the world.” Jared smiled “Well done, father. I see old wolves can be taught.” He chuckled and clicked the line closed to his father's shocked gasp at hearing his words. He shook his head and turned to his unit, “I guess we’re finally going home, Dwane, you’ll be seeing to that she-wolf.” He shook his head. “It’s your department anyway.” “Hmm, I don’t think things are going to go your way, Jared. Your father can be underhanded and tricky. Sometimes what he says isn’t actually what he means,” Dwane stated. “I’m fully aware of how he goes about getting what he wants.” He nodded. He spent the next few weeks leading up to going back to the pack, attending business as usual, and reorganizing his schedule to fit in with his father’s request of a week to a month-long stay. He’d split that to make two weeks. A compromise that he was happy with, and he’d managed to get a flight that would see him arrive the day of the ceremony, but he needed that for himself, due to business meetings here and the rearranging of his schedule to fit in around others. His father had to deal with it. Though the boys were all headed back before he was, arriving a few days before the ceremony. His flight, however, couldn’t be helped, though he took a very unhappy call from both his parents about it because Lance was of the opinion it was disrespectful, and that he was trying to weasel his way out of being there at all. That he was going to claim that something came up, and so he couldn’t catch his flight. All because he was ticked off that Lance had found his Mate before him. Jared had rolled his eyes, “I’ve bought the ticket, I simply had to rearrange things here to suit others that I had scheduled meetings with over the period you insist I'm there and so have to be away from here. Not everyone fits around your schedule. They're not all wolfen so don't understand. It has nothing to do with my not being happy for Lance. I’m actually very happy for him. Lessens the pressure on me to find my Mate.” Both his parents had gone quiet with his words, and he’d smiled to himself, “Mother, father, I am one to abide by the rules you set out. I will not object to whoever is mated and has an heir first by the time they are 100. Lance has nothing to fear from me. My life is currently very busy anyway, as you both know.” “Well son, Lance has asked that a new stipulation be added to the invitation about attendance,” his father told him. “Oh, has he.” Jared leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “Pray tell, father, what is it?” “That no one turns up late and interrupts the ceremony. So, everyone must have arrived and be seated a full 1-hour prior to the event starting, or on the shaming post and a lashing they will receive for disrespect.” “That is fine. I believe my flight will get in around one thirtyish, and the ceremony is at 7pm. I’m certain father, it won’t take me 4 hours to get through customs, hire a car and drive the one hour to the pack.” “Good. That is what I want to hear. Now I have one thing to ask of you. A favor, so to speak.” Here we go he thought to himself, “And that would be?” “I just need you to stop and pick up a new pack member. She doesn’t drive and has no way to get out to the pack, it’ll be on your way, and take but a moment of your time.” He could hear the smile in his father’s voice and just knew this was part of his plotting. “Fine, send me the address,” he stated, “And make sure she is ready and waiting for me to pick her up. I’m not one for standing around waiting on people, especially she-wolves that are just putting on make-up.” “I’ll make sure she is aware of your attitude and request. Though I don’t see it being a problem, she’s not one to wear a great deal of make-up. A natural beauty, wouldn’t you say Marian?” his father asked his mother. “Oh, yes, pretty as a picture.” He was betting she was, and willing to climb right into his bed at his father's request as well, just like all the others. "
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each h1p, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no sh1t. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” ashole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my @ss cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right @ss cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Ashole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd@mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d@mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ###Chapter 2 Becca Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h1ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rubs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th1ghs. “My h1ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my period. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h1ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h1ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my h1ps and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my h1ps eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my h1ps. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your h1ps a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hel that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. I unintentionally swivel my h1ps once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pvssy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white th0ng. On the third roll, his hands slip lower, massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again. “Fvck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your h1ps for me again.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each h1p, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no sh1t. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” ashole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my @ss cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right @ss cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Ashole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd@mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d@mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ###Chapter 2 Becca Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h1ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rubs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th1ghs. “My h1ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my period. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h1ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h1ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my h1ps and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my h1ps eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my h1ps. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your h1ps a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hel that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. I unintentionally swivel my h1ps once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pvssy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white th0ng. On the third roll, his hands slip lower, massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again. “Fvck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your h1ps for me again.”
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each h1p, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no sh1t. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” ashole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my @ss cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right @ss cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Ashole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd@mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d@mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ###Chapter 2 Becca Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h1ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rubs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th1ghs. “My h1ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my period. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h1ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h1ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my h1ps and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my h1ps eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my h1ps. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your h1ps a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hel that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. I unintentionally swivel my h1ps once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pvssy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white th0ng. On the third roll, his hands slip lower, massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again. “Fvck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your h1ps for me again.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each h1p, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no sh1t. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” ashole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my @ss cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right @ss cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Ashole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd@mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d@mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ###Chapter 2 Becca Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h1ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rubs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th1ghs. “My h1ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my period. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h1ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h1ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my h1ps and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my h1ps eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my h1ps. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your h1ps a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hel that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. I unintentionally swivel my h1ps once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pvssy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white th0ng. On the third roll, his hands slip lower, massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again. “Fvck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your h1ps for me again.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each h1p, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no sh1t. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” ashole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my @ss cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right @ss cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Ashole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd@mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d@mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ###Chapter 2 Becca Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h1ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rubs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th1ghs. “My h1ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my period. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h1ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h1ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my h1ps and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my h1ps eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my h1ps. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your h1ps a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hel that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. I unintentionally swivel my h1ps once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pvssy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white th0ng. On the third roll, his hands slip lower, massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again. “Fvck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your h1ps for me again.”
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each h1p, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no sh1t. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” ashole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my @ss cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right @ss cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Ashole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd@mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d@mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ###Chapter 2 Becca Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h1ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rubs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th1ghs. “My h1ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my period. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h1ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h1ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my h1ps and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my h1ps eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my h1ps. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your h1ps a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hel that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. I unintentionally swivel my h1ps once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pvssy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white th0ng. On the third roll, his hands slip lower, massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again. “Fvck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your h1ps for me again.”
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each h1p, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no sh1t. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” ashole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my @ss cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right @ss cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Ashole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd@mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d@mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ###Chapter 2 Becca Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h1ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rubs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th1ghs. “My h1ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my period. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h1ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h1ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my h1ps and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my h1ps eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my h1ps. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your h1ps a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hel that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. I unintentionally swivel my h1ps once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pvssy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white th0ng. On the third roll, his hands slip lower, massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again. “Fvck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your h1ps for me again.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each h1p, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no sh1t. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” ashole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my @ss cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right @ss cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Ashole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd@mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d@mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ###Chapter 2 Becca Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h1ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rubs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th1ghs. “My h1ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my period. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h1ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h1ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my h1ps and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my h1ps eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my h1ps. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your h1ps a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hel that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. I unintentionally swivel my h1ps once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pvssy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white th0ng. On the third roll, his hands slip lower, massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again. “Fvck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your h1ps for me again.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each h1p, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no sh1t. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” ashole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my @ss cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right @ss cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Ashole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd@mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d@mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ###Chapter 2 Becca Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h1ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rubs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th1ghs. “My h1ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my period. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h1ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h1ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my h1ps and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my h1ps eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my h1ps. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your h1ps a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hel that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. I unintentionally swivel my h1ps once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pvssy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white th0ng. On the third roll, his hands slip lower, massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again. “Fvck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your h1ps for me again.”
Elliana was cornered by her stepmother, she had to conceal her beauty and talents. Fifteen years later, she discovers that she is already secretly married to Cole, the heir of the powerful Evans family, for two years without knowing! Everyone mocks her ugliness, while her stepmother and stepsister scheme against her. Little do they know, Elliana hides multiple incredible identities: a mysterious healer, a world-ren……
Elliana was cornered by her stepmother, she had to conceal her beauty and talents. Fifteen years later, she discovers that she is already secretly married to Cole, the heir of the powerful Evans family, for two years without knowing! Everyone mocks her ugliness, while her stepmother and stepsister scheme against her. Little do they know, Elliana hides multiple incredible identities: a mysterious healer, a world-ren……
Elliana was cornered by her stepmother, she had to conceal her beauty and talents. Fifteen years later, she discovers that she is already secretly married to Cole, the heir of the powerful Evans family, for two years without knowing! Everyone mocks her ugliness, while her stepmother and stepsister scheme against her. Little do they know, Elliana hides multiple incredible identities: a mysterious healer, a world-ren……
My son is 19. He will probably get married in the next ten years. I will have to be in the photographs. And until last spring I was genuinely terrified of that, because the woman I had become in pictures did not match the woman I was supposed to be — his mother, his proud, well, capable mother — and I did not know how to fix it. I had been quietly hiding from cameras for six years. Eye creams had not worked. I had access to dermatologists at the GP practice I manage. What I should have asked them years before, I finally asked last May.My name is Diane. I am 54. I live in Edinburgh with my husband Iain, our son Cameron who is at Glasgow Uni, and a muddy Springer Spaniel called Hamish. I manage a busy GP practice in the New Town. And until last spring, I had not been properly in a family photograph for nearly six years. Not because we did not take them. We took them. Iain takes one every Christmas, every birthday, every holiday. The dog goes in. Cameron goes in. Iain takes them himself with the timer. And every single time, when the photograph came up on the family WhatsApp, I would scroll past, screenshot the bit with Cameron in it, and quietly delete the rest from my own phone. I had been doing it for so long I had stopped noticing I was doing it. Before I tell you what actually changed, I need to tell you about the holiday last May. Because that holiday is the reason any of this happened. We went to the Algarve for ten days. The first proper family holiday since Cameron started university. Iain had wanted to take photographs the whole way. I had spent the ten days finding excuses. I was the one with the camera, so I was behind it. I was reading my book, so leave me be. I was making lunch, so take one of Cameron and Hamish. On the last evening Iain caught me. He had set the camera on a tripod and put it on a self-timer, and when I tried to step out at the last second he physically blocked me. He said, "Diane, please. Just one." The photograph came back through email the next week. The four of us, on the cliff path at sunset, with the sea behind us. Hamish was looking the wrong way. Cameron was laughing. Iain looked tanned and well. And I, who had spent the whole holiday eating well, sleeping well, swimming in the sea every day, looked like someone twenty years older than I was. The bags under my eyes were so heavy you could see them from the angle. The hollow underneath had become a shadow. My face looked tired in a way that did not match my body or my life or how I had felt on that holiday. I closed the email. I did not delete the photograph this time. I kept it. I opened it again the next morning and looked at it properly, and I cried in the shower for the first time in years. Iain found me in the kitchen later. I said, "I cannot keep doing this. I cannot keep hiding from every camera for the rest of my life. Cameron will have one wedding photograph of me at some point and I do not want it to be of someone who would not stand still." Iain, bless him, said, "Then fix it. You have access to half the dermatologists in Edinburgh. Fix it." Which is what I did. I work with three dermatologists. The most honest of them is called Anjali. We have coffee in our staff kitchen most weeks. I asked her, properly this time, what was going on with my face and what to do about it. She walked me through it. After 45, oestrogen-driven lymphatic drainage in the orbital area slows down dramatically. The under-eye region has almost no lymph nodes to compensate. Fluid pools. The skin stretches. Bags form. At the same time, collagen drops by up to 30 percent in the first five years after menopause, and the under-eye area is the first place it shows. So you get two problems at once: fluid retention from the drainage slowdown, structural collapse from the collagen loss. Most eye creams cannot fix either. "What you have," she said, "needs a product that supports the drainage and rebuilds the structural side. Both. Together. There are a few formulations doing it now. Most are not on the high street yet." She told me what to look for in an ingredient list. Adenosine for fine lines. Hydrolysed elastin and collagen for the structural rebuild. Bisabolol or similar anti-inflammatory. Pracaxi or similar pigment-correcting botanical. Skin-tolerant botanical oils rather than heavy synthetic emollients. A balm format that stays on the skin rather than a watery serum that evaporates. I went home and spent the weekend reading product pages with Anjali's list next to me. Here is what I had tried over the previous four years, because I had tried a great deal. Olay Total Effects. The Body Shop's vitamin C eye serum. A retinol eye cream from The Ordinary that irritated my under-eyes so badly I gave up after three weeks. Two pots of Liz Earle. A Caudalie product Iain bought me for Christmas. A SkinCeuticals serum at £95 for fifteen millilitres. A Drunk Elephant eye gel. £840 in total. The bags were exactly the same. Most of the products I now read failed Anjali's list within thirty seconds. "Peptide complex" without specifying which peptides. Caffeine for "depuffing." Hyaluronic acid as the main active, which is too heavy for the orbital area on its own. No drainage support whatsoever. No structural rebuild. The one that matched was a British brand called Melapure, dermatologist-formulated by Dr. Melaxin. Built around something called Lymphatic Reactivation Technology™. Drainage support paired with structural rebuilding, exactly as Anjali had described. The ingredient list was published in full. Adenosine — Anjali's first recommendation, the actual clinical active for fine lines. Tremella Fuciformis mushroom extract, which holds five hundred times its weight in water and is light enough for the orbital area. Hydrolysed Elastin and Collagen Extract — both of them, the structural ingredients Anjali had named specifically. Bisabolol from chamomile for inflammation. Pracaxi Seed Oil from Brazil for pigment. Six botanical oils — sweet almond, avocado, jojoba, macadamia, olive, sea buckthorn. Balm stick format. The applicator does the work. No finger-dragging on already-thinning skin. Dermatologist approved. Featured in Grazia, Elle, Vogue, Women's Health and Harper's Bazaar. Over 173,000 customers. Their consumer survey reported 96 percent visible depuffing in two weeks, 94 percent brighter eyes, 92 percent reduced crow's feet at four weeks. A 90-day money-back guarantee even if you use the whole stick. I ordered the buy-one-get-one-free offer on a Sunday afternoon. I told Iain. He said, "Good. Now stop hiding from my camera." The first thing I noticed at about day ten was that I had stopped flinching when I caught my reflection. The bags were not gone. But the heaviness had reduced enough that I could look at myself without that small inward wince. By week three the bags were visibly smaller and the shadow underneath had lightened. The morning swelling that had been taking three hours to ease was easing in forty minutes. At week six Iain took a photograph of me in the garden with Hamish. I did not move out of frame. I looked at it on my phone afterwards and I did not delete it. By week ten Cameron came home for the weekend and Iain ambushed us with a family selfie in the kitchen. I let it happen. Cameron sent it to his girlfriend and I let that happen too. The big moment came at fourteen weeks. We were going to a family wedding — Iain's cousin's daughter — and the formal family photographs were being taken on the lawn. I stood in the middle of the line, between Iain and Cameron, and I smiled at the camera instead of trying to step backward out of frame. The photographer said, "Beautiful, love. Don't move." And I did not. When the photographs came back the following week I did not screenshot the bit with Cameron and delete the rest. I printed three. One went on the mantelpiece. One went to my mother. One I put in a small frame on my desk at the practice. Here is what I would say to any woman who has been hiding from cameras for years. It is not vanity. It is grief. You are grieving a version of your face you used to recognise. And the longer you hide, the smaller the world gets, because life is mostly other people's cameras and you are missing yourself out of all of them. The reason the eye creams have not worked is that they were not built for what is actually wrong. After 45 you have two problems happening at once — slowed lymphatic drainage and structural collagen collapse — and almost no product on the market addresses both. Melapure does. Dermatologist-formulated by Dr. Melaxin. Adenosine, Tremella mushroom, hydrolysed elastin and collagen, bisabolol, pracaxi seed oil, six botanical oils. Balm stick format. 90-day guarantee even if you finish it. If you want to look at it yourself, this is the one I use: 👉 https://mela-pure.com/products/melapure-eye-bag-removing-balm (They are running a Buy One Get One Free offer at the moment. I would take it. The second one is genuinely worth having.) — Diane
Six years. That is how long it had been since I had let myself be properly in a family photograph. Not because we did not take them. Christmas, birthdays, holidays — my husband took one for every occasion. Every time the photograph came up on the family WhatsApp, I would screenshot the bit with our son in it and quietly delete the rest from my own phone. I had been doing it for so long I had stopped noticing I was doing it. Until my husband ambushed me on a cliff in the Algarve last May and forced me to see what I had been hiding from. My name is Diane. I am 54. I live in Edinburgh with my husband Iain, our son Cameron who is at Glasgow Uni, and a muddy Springer Spaniel called Hamish. I manage a busy GP practice in the New Town. And until last spring, I had not been properly in a family photograph for nearly six years. Not because we did not take them. We took them. Iain takes one every Christmas, every birthday, every holiday. The dog goes in. Cameron goes in. Iain takes them himself with the timer. And every single time, when the photograph came up on the family WhatsApp, I would scroll past, screenshot the bit with Cameron in it, and quietly delete the rest from my own phone. I had been doing it for so long I had stopped noticing I was doing it. Before I tell you what actually changed, I need to tell you about the holiday last May. Because that holiday is the reason any of this happened. We went to the Algarve for ten days. The first proper family holiday since Cameron started university. Iain had wanted to take photographs the whole way. I had spent the ten days finding excuses. I was the one with the camera, so I was behind it. I was reading my book, so leave me be. I was making lunch, so take one of Cameron and Hamish. On the last evening Iain caught me. He had set the camera on a tripod and put it on a self-timer, and when I tried to step out at the last second he physically blocked me. He said, "Diane, please. Just one." The photograph came back through email the next week. The four of us, on the cliff path at sunset, with the sea behind us. Hamish was looking the wrong way. Cameron was laughing. Iain looked tanned and well. And I, who had spent the whole holiday eating well, sleeping well, swimming in the sea every day, looked like someone twenty years older than I was. The bags under my eyes were so heavy you could see them from the angle. The hollow underneath had become a shadow. My face looked tired in a way that did not match my body or my life or how I had felt on that holiday. I closed the email. I did not delete the photograph this time. I kept it. I opened it again the next morning and looked at it properly, and I cried in the shower for the first time in years. Iain found me in the kitchen later. I said, "I cannot keep doing this. I cannot keep hiding from every camera for the rest of my life. Cameron will have one wedding photograph of me at some point and I do not want it to be of someone who would not stand still." Iain, bless him, said, "Then fix it. You have access to half the dermatologists in Edinburgh. Fix it." Which is what I did. I work with three dermatologists. The most honest of them is called Anjali. We have coffee in our staff kitchen most weeks. I asked her, properly this time, what was going on with my face and what to do about it. She walked me through it. After 45, oestrogen-driven lymphatic drainage in the orbital area slows down dramatically. The under-eye region has almost no lymph nodes to compensate. Fluid pools. The skin stretches. Bags form. At the same time, collagen drops by up to 30 percent in the first five years after menopause, and the under-eye area is the first place it shows. So you get two problems at once: fluid retention from the drainage slowdown, structural collapse from the collagen loss. Most eye creams cannot fix either. "What you have," she said, "needs a product that supports the drainage and rebuilds the structural side. Both. Together. There are a few formulations doing it now. Most are not on the high street yet." She told me what to look for in an ingredient list. Adenosine for fine lines. Hydrolysed elastin and collagen for the structural rebuild. Bisabolol or similar anti-inflammatory. Pracaxi or similar pigment-correcting botanical. Skin-tolerant botanical oils rather than heavy synthetic emollients. A balm format that stays on the skin rather than a watery serum that evaporates. I went home and spent the weekend reading product pages with Anjali's list next to me. Here is what I had tried over the previous four years, because I had tried a great deal. Olay Total Effects. The Body Shop's vitamin C eye serum. A retinol eye cream from The Ordinary that irritated my under-eyes so badly I gave up after three weeks. Two pots of Liz Earle. A Caudalie product Iain bought me for Christmas. A SkinCeuticals serum at £95 for fifteen millilitres. A Drunk Elephant eye gel. £840 in total. The bags were exactly the same. Most of the products I now read failed Anjali's list within thirty seconds. "Peptide complex" without specifying which peptides. Caffeine for "depuffing." Hyaluronic acid as the main active, which is too heavy for the orbital area on its own. No drainage support whatsoever. No structural rebuild. The one that matched was a British brand called Melapure, dermatologist-formulated by Dr. Melaxin. Built around something called Lymphatic Reactivation Technology™. Drainage support paired with structural rebuilding, exactly as Anjali had described. The ingredient list was published in full. Adenosine — Anjali's first recommendation, the actual clinical active for fine lines. Tremella Fuciformis mushroom extract, which holds five hundred times its weight in water and is light enough for the orbital area. Hydrolysed Elastin and Collagen Extract — both of them, the structural ingredients Anjali had named specifically. Bisabolol from chamomile for inflammation. Pracaxi Seed Oil from Brazil for pigment. Six botanical oils — sweet almond, avocado, jojoba, macadamia, olive, sea buckthorn. Balm stick format. The applicator does the work. No finger-dragging on already-thinning skin. Dermatologist approved. Featured in Grazia, Elle, Vogue, Women's Health and Harper's Bazaar. Over 173,000 customers. Their consumer survey reported 96 percent visible depuffing in two weeks, 94 percent brighter eyes, 92 percent reduced crow's feet at four weeks. A 90-day money-back guarantee even if you use the whole stick. I ordered the buy-one-get-one-free offer on a Sunday afternoon. I told Iain. He said, "Good. Now stop hiding from my camera." The first thing I noticed at about day ten was that I had stopped flinching when I caught my reflection. The bags were not gone. But the heaviness had reduced enough that I could look at myself without that small inward wince. By week three the bags were visibly smaller and the shadow underneath had lightened. The morning swelling that had been taking three hours to ease was easing in forty minutes. At week six Iain took a photograph of me in the garden with Hamish. I did not move out of frame. I looked at it on my phone afterwards and I did not delete it. By week ten Cameron came home for the weekend and Iain ambushed us with a family selfie in the kitchen. I let it happen. Cameron sent it to his girlfriend and I let that happen too. The big moment came at fourteen weeks. We were going to a family wedding — Iain's cousin's daughter — and the formal family photographs were being taken on the lawn. I stood in the middle of the line, between Iain and Cameron, and I smiled at the camera instead of trying to step backward out of frame. The photographer said, "Beautiful, love. Don't move." And I did not. When the photographs came back the following week I did not screenshot the bit with Cameron and delete the rest. I printed three. One went on the mantelpiece. One went to my mother. One I put in a small frame on my desk at the practice. Here is what I would say to any woman who has been hiding from cameras for years. It is not vanity. It is grief. You are grieving a version of your face you used to recognise. And the longer you hide, the smaller the world gets, because life is mostly other people's cameras and you are missing yourself out of all of them. The reason the eye creams have not worked is that they were not built for what is actually wrong. After 45 you have two problems happening at once — slowed lymphatic drainage and structural collagen collapse — and almost no product on the market addresses both. Melapure does. Dermatologist-formulated by Dr. Melaxin. Adenosine, Tremella mushroom, hydrolysed elastin and collagen, bisabolol, pracaxi seed oil, six botanical oils. Balm stick format. 90-day guarantee even if you finish it. If you want to look at it yourself, this is the one I use: 👉 https://mela-pure.com/products/melapure-eye-bag-removing-balm (They are running a Buy One Get One Free offer at the moment. I would take it. The second one is genuinely worth having.) — Diane
Vanessa Stewart was reborn—back to the fateful night when her husband, Emiliano Cunningham, had been drugged with an aphrodisiac. This time, she didn't give him her precious first time. Instead, she punctured his condom, knocked out Georgina Caldwell—his first love—and carried her into his room. The reason was simple. In her previous life, Emiliano had mistaken Vanessa for Georgina. Under the influence of the drug, he'd spent a wild night with her. But once he sobered up, he had called her shameless, accusing her of stealing the virginity he'd reserved for Georgina for thirty years. Forced into marriage with Vanessa, Emiliano began exacting brutal revenge. He gave her endless silent treatment, then violently vented his desire on her at night. Even when Vanessa was pregnant with his child, he showed no mercy. Yet she still clung to the marriage, refusing to let go. Then one day, their daughter, Emma Cunningham, was in a car accident—her life hanging by a thread. Yet Emiliano ignored his own flesh and blood and chose to save Georgina's son, Lamont Cunningham. He scooped up the boy, who had only suffered minor scrapes, and boarded the only ambulance at the scene. Even when Vanessa swallowed her pride and begged on her knees, he remained unmoved. "Vanessa, I told you long ago—only Gina is fit to be the mother of my child. "You and your daughter are nothing but unwanted trash. "And bring me the signed divorce papers as soon as possible." Watching Emiliano's retreating back, Emma released her final, labored breath in Vanessa's arms. On the day Emma was cremated, Emiliano held an extremely lavish wedding for Georgina. Lamont was lively and well, serving as their page boy and presenting them with expensive rings. Emma, meanwhile, didn't even receive a proper funeral or burial. Vanessa couldn't afford to buy her daughter a burial plot. When she walked out of the crematorium holding Emma's urn, rain was pouring from the sky. A girl who worked there hesitated, then finally asked in concern, "Ma'am, it's raining hard. Is anyone coming to pick you up?" Vanessa lowered her gaze to the urn, her face deathly pale. No one was coming. Her only family was too busy marrying his first love to care about her or her daughter. He probably didn't even know Emma had died. And even if he had been free, he would never have come to get her. Emiliano hated her guts. And he certainly didn't like the child she had borne him. Vanessa let out a cold laugh, her voice hoarse. "I can get back on my own. Thanks." She stepped into the downpour. The girl stared at her retreating figure, taking a step forward before stopping herself. She had done all she could, and she couldn't afford to offend Emiliano. Walking through the rain, Vanessa removed her coat and draped it over the urn, hunching protectively around it to shield it from the storm. "Emma, Mommy won't let you get wet." A beam of headlights pierced the mist. With a honk, a black Maybach pulled up beside her. She didn't stop, stubbornly moving forward. *** Half an hour later, she returned to the house she had shared with Emiliano. No—this was Emiliano and Georgina's house now, festooned with joyful wedding decorations. Soaked to the bone, Vanessa stood in the living room, feeling utterly out of place. The maid forced her to remain by the entrance, afraid she would dirty the freshly mopped floors. Vanessa set the urn on the floor and pulled the soaked divorce papers from her pocket. The maid took the papers, then kicked at the urn hidden beneath the coat. "What is this trash? Get rid of it now." The coat slipped aside, revealing part of the urn. The maid froze when she saw the name engraved on it. Wasn't that Vanessa's daughter? Vanessa pulled the coat back over the urn and turned to leave. An hour later, she reached the beach. Cradling the urn tightly, she walked into the ocean. Her face was pale, her gaze resolute and unwavering. "Emma, don't be afraid. Mommy will always stay by your side, even if it means death." The seawater rose higher and higher, until it swallowed her whole. *** At the wedding venue, Georgina changed into her gown and entered the lounge. The burgundy dress hugged her body to perfection, highlighting her fair skin and striking beauty. "Liano, all the guests are waiting. Come out with me to toast them." She extended her soft, delicate hand. "Alright." Emiliano's eyes softened as he took it and led her outside. Just then, his personal assistant rushed in, panic etched across his face. "Mr. Cunningham, Mrs. Cunningham has jumped into the sea and drowned herself." Everyone was dumbfounded. Then someone piped up, "What Mrs. Cunningham? Mr. Cunningham already divorced Vanessa. Her life has nothing to do with him. Don't ruin the big day." In the next second, Emiliano strode over and stared at the assistant, his face clouding over. "What did you just say?" Then he let out a short, incredulous laugh, as if trying to convince himself. "No way. Is she pulling another stunt? How could someone as cunning as her possibly kill herself?" The assistant's voice trembled slightly. "Mr. Cunningham, it's true. The search team just pulled her body out of the sea, along with ... her daughter's urn..." Emiliano—whom everyone believed Vanessa could never shake—suddenly went pale. His brows drew together, sharp eyes staring blankly into the distance. The guests stood frozen, quietly exchanging uneasy glances. Only Georgina rushed over and grabbed his hand, her gaze cautious and affectionate. "Liano..." Emiliano didn't even glance at her. He simply shook her hand off and strode away. All color drained from Georgina's face in an instant. Emiliano didn't remember how he floored the accelerator and reached the beach. When he saw the body surrounded by medical staff, it felt as though his heart had been cleaved in two. He staggered forward and collapsed to his knees. In a daze, he seemed to see a translucent Vanessa in the distance, smiling at him just like the first time they met. "Goodbye. I hate you. If I had another chance... "Never mind. "Emma has come for me..." ###Chapter 2 In the vast living room of the Cunningham's villa, Vanessa looked down at her still young hands and stared blankly for a long while before finally confirming that she had been reborn. Seated in the center of the sofa, Emiliano's grandfather, Hubert Cunningham, fixed a sharp gaze on her, his voice aged and grave. "Vanessa, are you sure you want to go on a business trip to Cleveland with Liano?" Vanessa's eyelashes fluttered slightly. She realized this was exactly the turning point of her previous life. Emiliano was going to Cleveland under the pretense of a business trip, but in reality, he was going to meet Georgina. Upon learning this, Vanessa threw a fit and insisted on going with him. Her father had been Hubert's driver and had died saving him. To show their gratitude, the Cunningham family had taken her in and raised her, giving her everything she wanted, making her almost a family member. That was why Hubert had agreed to let her go on the trip with Emiliano. She glanced at Emiliano by Hubert's side. Emiliano was dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, every button fastened meticulously to the top. He sat with one leg crossed over the other casually, a lock of hair falling over his forehead and hiding his cold, sharp eyes, pressing his lips as usual. The second she saw him, Vanessa felt a suffocating tightness in her chest. Everything from her previous life flashed through her mind. Her heart jolted. Her blood ran cold all over. This was the man who had controlled her and seen her as nothing but trash. She hated him to her bones, so much that all her mind was constantly filled with how he had despised and oppressed her. The look of weariness on Emiliano's face deepened. He tapped his fingers slowly against his knee. Vanessa knew that was his sign of impatience, as if he was certain she would pester him until he let her go along. But since she had been given a second chance, she would not repeat the same mistakes. Before she could speak, her mother Rosalyn Chavez behind her said in a servile tone, "Yes, yes. Vanessa is very close to Mr. Cunningham. She follows him everywhere, so she definitely..." "No need," Vanessa cut Rosalyn off softly. As the words fell, everyone in the living room instantly looked at her—except for Emiliano, whose expression remained as cold and detached as ever. Vanessa raised her face, her clear, bright eyes meeting Hubert's gaze, her voice steady. "Hubert, I'll be taking my SAT soon and need to focus on studying. I won't disturb Liano on his business trip." Surprise flickered in Hubert's eyes. Rosalyn gritted her teeth in anxiety. She rushed over and grabbed her wrist, muttering, "Sir Cunningham, Vanessa is talking nonsense. Don't mind her. You can all see how badly she wants to go." "Mom." Vanessa pulled her wrist free from Rosalyn's grip. "I really want to focus on my studies." Rosalyn couldn't see the reality clearly, but she could. Hubert appeared indulgent toward her, but in truth, he only kept her around as a meaningless little pet. When she had fallen on hard times in her previous life, Hubert hadn't even come to see her once. He had never cared about his own great-granddaughter Emma. Vanessa stated firmly, "Hubert, Liano, I was being immature before, but now I can see that Liano is busy. I won't get in his way this time." Before Hubert could speak, Emiliano stood up as if his patience had run out. His narrow, cold eyes glanced her way, his gaze grim, his voice indifferent. "Suit yourself." Emiliano left without hesitation. Hubert didn't push it. He waved a hand and told them to go back to their rooms. Vanessa let out a relieved breath. Outside the Cunningham's villa, in the Maybach, Jiraiya Delgado cautiously glanced at Emiliano through the rearview mirror. He was Emiliano's personal assistant and knew a thing or two about the Cunningham family. He figured that Emiliano had come back to the villa only because that restless, annoying adopted daughter had caused trouble again. He also knew that Emiliano had never liked Vanessa—despised her, in fact. That was why Emiliano's brow had remained furrowed ever since he entered the villa. And now, Emiliano was clearly in an even worse mood than he had been before entering the house. Jiraiya thought to himself that Vanessa must have used Hubert to make unreasonable demands on Emiliano again. He was certain that she'd begged to go on the business trip with him, just like always. Jiraiya glanced outside the car, but he didn't see the girl who usually clung to Emiliano. He spoke up boldly, "Mr. Cunningham, I think you ought to stand your ground from now on. Turn Ms. Stewart down and make her back off." Unexpectedly, Emiliano looked up, his eyes dark and his voice cold. "Quit talking nonsense. Drive." Jiraiya snapped his mouth shut and obediently started the car. After a short while, Emiliano pinched his forehead wearily and said, "What are you waiting for?" Jiraiya muttered, "Why isn't Ms. Stewart here? She always sticks with you wherever you go." It was the weekend, so Vanessa didn't have classes. Usually, she'd be pestering to go with Emiliano to the office or his private penthouse. Emiliano pressed his lips together. His eyes flicked casually toward the mansion's entrance. The entrance was quiet, with only servants walking back and forth. The girl who was supposed to be there was nowhere to be seen. Emiliano was unused to the sudden change. His frown deepened slightly. "Never mind her. Drive." Jiraiya nodded and put the car in gear. It seemed Vanessa had really made Emiliano angry this time. Emiliano leaned back casually against the seat and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he recalled what Vanessa had said earlier: Didn't want to disturb him. It seemed like a simple tactic of retreating to advance. It wasn't even a smart move. In Vanessa's room, Rosalyn was frustrated, feeling disappointed. "Why wouldn't you go? "Don't you know who Emiliano's going to see?" Vanessa said calmly, "I know." Rosalyn became even more exasperated. "Then why wouldn't you go with him? Are you just gonna watch him rekindle things with his ex? Once that happens, you'll miss the chance to be with Emiliano for good!" "So be it," Vanessa said with a cold expression. "Mom, they have feelings for each other. What's the point in fighting over him?" Rosalyn refused to listen to a word she said. She pinched Vanessa's ear hard and yelled right into her ear, "No way! "I'm gonna make Sir Cunningham let you go. You're gonna do exactly as I say!" Vanessa couldn't be bothered to argue with her. Rosalyn was still clinging to the foolish dream of Vanessa becoming Mrs. Cunningham. Time would wake her up. She pulled a workbook out of the cabinet. In her previous life, though sheltered by the Cunninghams, she had studied day and night to be worthy of Emiliano, never neglecting her studies. Unfortunately, she'd had the accident the day before the SAT, missing it entirely. After a series of events that followed, she never went back to repeat her final year of high school and ended up not attending college at all. This time, she would cherish the chance to take the exams. She'd pick a university far away from the Cunningham family and from Emiliano and just leave it all behind. But she would never forget the pain she suffered in her previous life. Someday, everyone who had hurt Emma would pay the price they deserved. ###Chapter 3 She studied until night fell. Suddenly, Rosalyn came into the room, pulling a suitcase to pack her things. Vanessa snatched the suitcase from her hand. "Mom, what are you doing?" Rosalyn poked her forehead with a bright smile. "Sir Cunningham has already agreed to let you go on a business trip with Emiliano. Hurry up and pack. You've gotta sweet-talk Emiliano later. Don't make him mad like you did today." Vanessa caught on at once. "I said I'm not going." Rosalyn glared at her resentfully. "What the hell are you being stubborn for? This is an amazing opportunity." Vanessa clenched her fists, refusing to back down. "Opportunity for what?" Rosalyn raised her voice. "To seduce Emiliano. Don't you like him?" Perhaps due to the trauma of her previous life, Vanessa flinched involuntarily at the mention of Emiliano. Her eyes almost welled up. "I don't..." A sudden knock at the door interrupted her. Vanessa didn't have time to hide the grief in her eyes before she met Emiliano's cold, detached gaze from the doorway. The second their eyes locked, Vanessa suddenly remembered that Emiliano had looked at her the same way in her previous life, as if she were a piece of trash, something lifeless. Almost instinctively, she felt transported back to that miserable previous life. She took a few steps back. Even after turning her eyes away, she could still feel Emiliano's intense, piercing stare fixed on her face. He'd heard her conversation with Rosalyn. He'd always despised scheming people. And Rosalyn's scheming was blatantly directed at him. Emiliano could pretend he hadn't heard a thing. Rosalyn was also stunned, a hint of panic on her face. "Mr. Cunningham, I didn't mean it like that..." "Enough. I don't wanna hear any of this disgusting nonsense." Emiliano frowned and looked away in disgust. He seemed unwilling to look at them any longer. Turning around, he said, "Grandpa sent me to get you for dinner." The room fell dead silent after Emiliano left. Vanessa collected herself and muttered, "Mom, is this really what you want?" Rosalyn shut the door and remarked, "Now that it's come to this, we can't give up." "I don't care what you think. I'm not packing." Vanessa couldn't reason with Rosalyn, who was dead set on her foolish plan. She turned and headed downstairs. Rosalyn followed her down resentfully. At the dining table, Hubert and Emiliano sat facing each other on opposite ends, with several vacant seats left around the table. Vanessa paused right behind Emiliano. In the past, she'd always sat right next to him, clinging to him and trying to serve him food, even though Emiliano would always throw the food she'd picked out right off his plate. Looking back, she realized just how foolish and pathetic she had been. She walked over with a calm expression, pulled out the chair beside Hubert, and sat down. Her movements were smooth and natural, but Hubert and the other servants all stared at her in shock. Even Emiliano, who'd always acted like she didn't exist, set down his fork and shot her a cold glance. Before, no matter who the guests were, Vanessa would always sit right next to Emiliano, chattering nonstop, never realizing how much she annoyed him. This was the first time something like this had ever happened. Rosalyn immediately rushed over, grabbing her wrist. "What are you doing sitting here? Go sit next to Mr. Cunningham. Hurry up." Vanessa gently pulled her hand free from Rosalyn's grasp and looked at Hubert. "Hubert, may I sit here?" Hubert's cloudy eyes held a flicker of interest. "Sure. But you've always sat next to Emiliano before. Did you two fight?" "No," Vanessa said softly, lowering her head. Upon hearing her words, Emiliano let out a soft, derisive snort. Vanessa's voice trailed off at once. Hubert's gaze shifted between her and Emiliano, a hint of a smile in his eyes. "Alright, you're already seated." Rosalyn had to let go and sat down resentfully beside Vanessa. Emiliano lowered his eyelids with a cold expression. He picked up a piece of green vegetable with his fork as if he didn't care at all. Vanessa shot a glance at him. She hoped Emiliano would forget what had happened in the room earlier, since she was no longer pestering him at the table. After all, she and Rosalyn could only stay with the Cunninghams for the time being. The Cunningham family was already largely under Emiliano's control. Offending him wouldn't bode well for either of them. She'd barely taken a few bites when Hubert suddenly asked, "Emiliano, are you confident about this trip to Cleveland?" Emiliano answered briefly, "Yes. I'll bring back good news." Hubert thought highly of the grandson he'd raised himself. He nodded with a smile. "Good. You've never let me down in business matters." But then he changed the subject, "You have another purpose for going to Cleveland, don't you?" Emiliano didn't answer immediately this time. He was silent for a moment before replying in a low, even tone, "Yes. Gina has some trouble and needs my help." Hearing the name Georgina come out of Emiliano's mouth suddenly, Vanessa was surprised to find that she felt nothing. She was surprisingly calm, able to view Emiliano and Georgina's relationship from a bystander's perspective. Hubert thought for a moment and said, "The thing between you and her..." "Grandpa," Emiliano cut him off sharply. "This is between her and me. No one else needs to be involved." Vanessa had to admit that, from Georgina's point of view, Emiliano was truly a good man. Georgina had moved abroad for several years for her career and studies. Even so, Emiliano still held Georgina in his heart. All these years, he had remained chaste, without a single scandal. Even after she'd been forced to sleep with Emiliano and given birth to Emma, his heart still belonged only to Georgina. Just like now, Emiliano wouldn't let anyone talk about his relationship with Georgina, not even his grandfather, who had raised him. Beside her, Rosalyn pinched her thigh, hinting that she should make herself noticed by Emiliano. Vanessa ignored her completely and kept her head down to eat. Hubert glanced over at her again. In the past, whenever anyone mentioned Emiliano's first love, Vanessa would always look upset and tell him to stop talking. But why did she look completely indifferent now? Even Emiliano, who usually paid Vanessa no mind, noticed her unusual behavior. A sarcastic smile tugged at the corner of Emiliano's mouth. They'd just been talking about seducing him. Why was she acting like this now? Before Vanessa could set down her fork, Emiliano stood up. "I have work at the company. I'm leaving." At eleven o'clock at night, Vanessa was already asleep in bed when she suddenly heard a car pulling into the courtyard. It was probably Emiliano, back from working overtime. She was drowsy when a knock suddenly sounded at the door. She turned on the light and sat up. "Come in." The servant stood at the doorway, her voice arrogant. "Ms. Stewart, Mr. Cunningham seems drunk. Would you like to make him some hangover cure?" Vanessa lowered her eyelids in silence. In her previous life, to win Emiliano over, she would always make him a hangover cure whenever he came home from a party. She never let the servants help. She insisted on doing it all herself and had to personally watch him drink it. But now, she was unwilling. She lay back down and closed her eyes. "You make it. I'm tired." ###Chapter 4 The servant's eyes showed surprise and doubt. She hesitated, staring at the lump under the blanket. She felt resentment. Vanessa was just the daughter of Hubert's driver. Who did she think she was to boss her around? "Ms. Stewart, this is what you're supposed to do." Vanessa ignored her. After a while, the servant glared at the lump in the bed and slowly closed the door. After showering, Emiliano stepped out of his room. He saw the kitchen light on downstairs, with faint clinks of bowls and plates coming from inside. He half-closed his eyes, rubbing his temples with his knuckles to ease the discomfort from drinking. Without thinking, Emiliano went downstairs. He sat on the living room sofa and closed his eyes to rest. Five minutes later, the servant came out of the kitchen and set the steaming hangover soup in front of Emiliano. "Mr. Cunningham, the hangover soup is still a bit hot. Be careful." Hearing a voice different from what he'd expected, Emiliano opened his eyes. He looked at the servant, his brows furrowing slightly. "You're making it?" The servant watched his face carefully, a hint of malice flashing in her eyes. This job was supposed to be Vanessa's. If Vanessa hadn't shirked it, she wouldn't have to wait on Emiliano so cautiously. "Ms. Stewart refused to come. I called her several times, but she wouldn't. Mr. Cunningham, you really should teach her a lesson. This kind of attitude won't do." Emiliano glanced at Vanessa's closed door across the hall. It looked exactly as the maid described. She was asleep. Emiliano picked up the bowl, his face calm and indifferent. "I see." He took just one sip before his brows furrowed. The servant got nervous."Mr. Cunningham, is it not to your taste?" Emiliano took another sip of the soup and said nothing. The taste was definitely off. Vanessa moved in with them at fourteen. Six months after arriving, she'd started making him hangover soup. She had a sweet tooth herself and assumed everyone else did, so she added a lot of sugar to the soup, making it very sweet. He'd never liked sweet things. When he first had it, he couldn't stand it. Considering Vanessa was still young, he'd asked her to stop. But she hadn't seemed to get his hint and kept making it whenever he drank. Over time, he'd gotten used to the sweet-tasting hangover soup. The bland-tasting one in front of him now just didn't suit his palate. He set the bowl down after two mouthfuls. The servant froze, carefully watching Emiliano's expression."Mr. Cunningham, you're not finishing it?" She was nervous. Emiliano seemed annoyed. She had just tasted it. The hangover soup tasted fine. Emiliano responded with an "Mm" and went upstairs. The servant didn't pay much attention to where Emiliano went at first, but when the door opened, she got startled. She looked up to see Emiliano opening Vanessa's door.
"Oh, God, Adam! Just like that! Don't stop…" screamed my sister. "God, Fiona, I love you!" my fiancé, Adam, followed. I thought to myself. "So, this is why I was asked to take his place on a business trip." "Adam, you're not going to marry Anna, are you?" Fiona's voice pleaded. "I don't want to, my love. But you know the marriage contract has been signed. If I don't go through with it, then the company will revert to sole ownership of Anna. If she were to find out about us, you and I would lose our jobs, income, everything! It's only for a year. We just have to stay married for a year, then when she dies, I inherit everything. The business, the house, and her vehicles will all be mine. We'll be set." "So, you still plan on arranging an accident for her? Like Dad arranged for her mother?" Fiona questioned, her voice full of undisguised glee. "Of course I do. She disgusts me. Except for being unable to babytrap her, I am thankful she won't have to sleep with me. The thought of it makes me sick. Do you really think I would have pretended to love her if it wasn't for her wealth? I mean, twenty million dollars. Think of the life we can live with that kind of money." Adam chortled. I pulled my cell phone from my suit coat jacket and started to record. I needed all the evidence I could get. Once in my car, I drove to the apartment complex I owned, parked in the underground garage, and took the private elevator to the penthouse. I was thankful I had never told Adam or Fiona about this building. It was here I ran my multi-billion-dollar business empire. An empire they knew nothing about.
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"Oh, God, Adam! Just like that! Don't stop…" screamed my sister. "God, Fiona, I love you!" my fiancé, Adam, followed. I thought to myself. "So, this is why I was asked to take his place on a business trip." "Adam, you're not going to marry Anna, are you?" Fiona's voice pleaded. "I don't want to, my love. But you know the marriage contract has been signed. If I don't go through with it, then the company will revert to sole ownership of Anna. If she were to find out about us, you and I would lose our jobs, income, everything! It's only for a year. We just have to stay married for a year, then when she dies, I inherit everything. The business, the house, and her vehicles will all be mine. We'll be set." "So, you still plan on arranging an accident for her? Like Dad arranged for her mother?" Fiona questioned, her voice full of undisguised glee. "Of course I do. She disgusts me. Except for being unable to babytrap her, I am thankful she won't have to sleep with me. The thought of it makes me sick. Do you really think I would have pretended to love her if it wasn't for her wealth? I mean, twenty million dollars. Think of the life we can live with that kind of money." Adam chortled. I pulled my cell phone from my suit coat jacket and started to record. I needed all the evidence I could get. Once in my car, I drove to the apartment complex I owned, parked in the underground garage, and took the private elevator to the penthouse. I was thankful I had never told Adam or Fiona about this building. It was here I ran my multi-billion-dollar business empire. An empire they knew nothing about.
My husband caught me trying to step out of the family photograph at sunset on a cliff in the Algarve. The four of us, on holiday, last May. He physically blocked me from leaving frame. He said, "Diane, please. Just one." The photograph came back the next week. The dog was looking the wrong way. My son was laughing. My husband looked tanned and well. And I — who had spent the holiday eating well, sleeping well, swimming every day — looked like someone twenty years older than I was. I kept the photograph this time. I did not delete it. I opened it the next morning and cried in the shower for the first time in years.My name is Diane. I am 54. I live in Edinburgh with my husband Iain, our son Cameron who is at Glasgow Uni, and a muddy Springer Spaniel called Hamish. I manage a busy GP practice in the New Town. And until last spring, I had not been properly in a family photograph for nearly six years. Not because we did not take them. We took them. Iain takes one every Christmas, every birthday, every holiday. The dog goes in. Cameron goes in. Iain takes them himself with the timer. And every single time, when the photograph came up on the family WhatsApp, I would scroll past, screenshot the bit with Cameron in it, and quietly delete the rest from my own phone. I had been doing it for so long I had stopped noticing I was doing it. Before I tell you what actually changed, I need to tell you about the holiday last May. Because that holiday is the reason any of this happened. We went to the Algarve for ten days. The first proper family holiday since Cameron started university. Iain had wanted to take photographs the whole way. I had spent the ten days finding excuses. I was the one with the camera, so I was behind it. I was reading my book, so leave me be. I was making lunch, so take one of Cameron and Hamish. On the last evening Iain caught me. He had set the camera on a tripod and put it on a self-timer, and when I tried to step out at the last second he physically blocked me. He said, "Diane, please. Just one." The photograph came back through email the next week. The four of us, on the cliff path at sunset, with the sea behind us. Hamish was looking the wrong way. Cameron was laughing. Iain looked tanned and well. And I, who had spent the whole holiday eating well, sleeping well, swimming in the sea every day, looked like someone twenty years older than I was. The bags under my eyes were so heavy you could see them from the angle. The hollow underneath had become a shadow. My face looked tired in a way that did not match my body or my life or how I had felt on that holiday. I closed the email. I did not delete the photograph this time. I kept it. I opened it again the next morning and looked at it properly, and I cried in the shower for the first time in years. Iain found me in the kitchen later. I said, "I cannot keep doing this. I cannot keep hiding from every camera for the rest of my life. Cameron will have one wedding photograph of me at some point and I do not want it to be of someone who would not stand still." Iain, bless him, said, "Then fix it. You have access to half the dermatologists in Edinburgh. Fix it." Which is what I did. I work with three dermatologists. The most honest of them is called Anjali. We have coffee in our staff kitchen most weeks. I asked her, properly this time, what was going on with my face and what to do about it. She walked me through it. After 45, oestrogen-driven lymphatic drainage in the orbital area slows down dramatically. The under-eye region has almost no lymph nodes to compensate. Fluid pools. The skin stretches. Bags form. At the same time, collagen drops by up to 30 percent in the first five years after menopause, and the under-eye area is the first place it shows. So you get two problems at once: fluid retention from the drainage slowdown, structural collapse from the collagen loss. Most eye creams cannot fix either. "What you have," she said, "needs a product that supports the drainage and rebuilds the structural side. Both. Together. There are a few formulations doing it now. Most are not on the high street yet." She told me what to look for in an ingredient list. Adenosine for fine lines. Hydrolysed elastin and collagen for the structural rebuild. Bisabolol or similar anti-inflammatory. Pracaxi or similar pigment-correcting botanical. Skin-tolerant botanical oils rather than heavy synthetic emollients. A balm format that stays on the skin rather than a watery serum that evaporates. I went home and spent the weekend reading product pages with Anjali's list next to me. Here is what I had tried over the previous four years, because I had tried a great deal. Olay Total Effects. The Body Shop's vitamin C eye serum. A retinol eye cream from The Ordinary that irritated my under-eyes so badly I gave up after three weeks. Two pots of Liz Earle. A Caudalie product Iain bought me for Christmas. A SkinCeuticals serum at £95 for fifteen millilitres. A Drunk Elephant eye gel. £840 in total. The bags were exactly the same. Most of the products I now read failed Anjali's list within thirty seconds. "Peptide complex" without specifying which peptides. Caffeine for "depuffing." Hyaluronic acid as the main active, which is too heavy for the orbital area on its own. No drainage support whatsoever. No structural rebuild. The one that matched was a British brand called Melapure, dermatologist-formulated by Dr. Melaxin. Built around something called Lymphatic Reactivation Technology™. Drainage support paired with structural rebuilding, exactly as Anjali had described. The ingredient list was published in full. Adenosine — Anjali's first recommendation, the actual clinical active for fine lines. Tremella Fuciformis mushroom extract, which holds five hundred times its weight in water and is light enough for the orbital area. Hydrolysed Elastin and Collagen Extract — both of them, the structural ingredients Anjali had named specifically. Bisabolol from chamomile for inflammation. Pracaxi Seed Oil from Brazil for pigment. Six botanical oils — sweet almond, avocado, jojoba, macadamia, olive, sea buckthorn. Balm stick format. The applicator does the work. No finger-dragging on already-thinning skin. Dermatologist approved. Featured in Grazia, Elle, Vogue, Women's Health and Harper's Bazaar. Over 173,000 customers. Their consumer survey reported 96 percent visible depuffing in two weeks, 94 percent brighter eyes, 92 percent reduced crow's feet at four weeks. A 90-day money-back guarantee even if you use the whole stick. I ordered the buy-one-get-one-free offer on a Sunday afternoon. I told Iain. He said, "Good. Now stop hiding from my camera." The first thing I noticed at about day ten was that I had stopped flinching when I caught my reflection. The bags were not gone. But the heaviness had reduced enough that I could look at myself without that small inward wince. By week three the bags were visibly smaller and the shadow underneath had lightened. The morning swelling that had been taking three hours to ease was easing in forty minutes. At week six Iain took a photograph of me in the garden with Hamish. I did not move out of frame. I looked at it on my phone afterwards and I did not delete it. By week ten Cameron came home for the weekend and Iain ambushed us with a family selfie in the kitchen. I let it happen. Cameron sent it to his girlfriend and I let that happen too. The big moment came at fourteen weeks. We were going to a family wedding — Iain's cousin's daughter — and the formal family photographs were being taken on the lawn. I stood in the middle of the line, between Iain and Cameron, and I smiled at the camera instead of trying to step backward out of frame. The photographer said, "Beautiful, love. Don't move." And I did not. When the photographs came back the following week I did not screenshot the bit with Cameron and delete the rest. I printed three. One went on the mantelpiece. One went to my mother. One I put in a small frame on my desk at the practice. Here is what I would say to any woman who has been hiding from cameras for years. It is not vanity. It is grief. You are grieving a version of your face you used to recognise. And the longer you hide, the smaller the world gets, because life is mostly other people's cameras and you are missing yourself out of all of them. The reason the eye creams have not worked is that they were not built for what is actually wrong. After 45 you have two problems happening at once — slowed lymphatic drainage and structural collagen collapse — and almost no product on the market addresses both. Melapure does. Dermatologist-formulated by Dr. Melaxin. Adenosine, Tremella mushroom, hydrolysed elastin and collagen, bisabolol, pracaxi seed oil, six botanical oils. Balm stick format. 90-day guarantee even if you finish it. If you want to look at it yourself, this is the one I use: 👉 https://mela-pure.com/products/melapure-eye-bag-removing-balm (They are running a Buy One Get One Free offer at the moment. I would take it. The second one is genuinely worth having.) — Diane
Elliana, the unfavored "ugly duckling" of her family, was humiliated by her stepsister, Paige, who everyone admired. Paige, engaged to the CEO Cole, was the perfect woman-until Cole married Elliana on the day of the wedding. Tears streamed down Paige's face. "Mom, is my dream of becoming the wife of the wealthiest man truly gone?" "Absolutely not!" Kiara's voice dripped with venom as she said, "Cole won't tolerate being trapped like this. Elliana was shoved into his life. She might not even make it through tonight." "Once Elliana's no longer in the picture, Cole will definitely come back to you. Just hold on to your place as Ublento's top socialite. You'll be his wife eventually." Since even those two m**ons, Kiara and Paige, had imagined Cole might arrange a widower scenario, Elliana, with her sharp mind, had certainly considered that possibility. Even though Elliana had never seen Cole in person until today, she'd heard every tale. People described him as cold-bl**ded, even cruel. He was the kind of man who crushed anyone who dared stand in his way. Elliana kept her head down the entire ceremony. Once they stepped into the bedroom, Elliana sank onto the edge of the bed and stayed silent. Cole slipped off his jacket and dropped onto the couch. His eyes locked on her. Hours ago, she looked like a wreck--smudged eyeliner, tangled hair, makeup that aged her ten years. But now, beneath the soft veil concealing her face, she looked ethereal in the glittering gown. Elliana was still running through her next move in her head when Cole rose without warning and swept her into his arms. Her heart lurch. "Mr. Evans, what... What are you doing?" A sly smile playing at the corners of Colea's mouth. "Tell me--what do you suppose newlyweds ought to be doing on their wedding night?" Everything tilted as he tossed her onto the b*d, his scent surrounding her completely, and she went still. With her horrible wig and makeup, was Cole seriously able to go through with it? ...... &7&
Wrongfully accused of thesis plagiarism, medical grad Kelly can’t find work. She rescues an elder, Carl, who gets her a job at a military hospital—where the director is Carl’s grandson George, her contractual husband.Kelly hides their marriage to avoid attention, but is harassed by George’s admirer Victoria. George defends her, and their contractual bond grows into real affection as they spend time together.
I'm a rare dual Beast Tamer with a common egg and five-star Fire Phoenix. The Phoenix betrays me at birth, deeming me too poor for resources. She doesn't know I have a divine Beast Cultivation System. When my egg becomes a Five-Clawed Golden Dragon, her regret comes too late!
I'm a rare dual Beast Tamer with a common egg and five-star Fire Phoenix. The Phoenix betrays me at birth, deeming me too poor for resources. She doesn't know I have a divine Beast Cultivation System. When my egg becomes a Five-Clawed Golden Dragon, her regret comes too late!
Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. "You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “Keep quiet or Dad’s gonna hear us.”... “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fvcking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a*s cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a*s cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of As*h0le Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir gr0@ns and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Godd*mnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my thr0at and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d*mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My h!ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own h*ps beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my h*ps, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his l@p. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and m0an. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary m0@n slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my t0ngue, hoping that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. “S...Samir,” I m0@n breathily. P1easure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next m0@n in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pu11s his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was m0@ning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”...