Stiff:A Stepbrother Romance(6)

By: B. B. Hamel


“Uh, yeah. Hi. I’m Laney.”

“Hi, Laney. I’m Easton.” She shifted nervously as I stared at her, a smirk playing on my lips.

“You’re Susan’s kid. Easton Wright.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Alan’s daughter.”

“Well, Laney, I guess this makes you and me stepsiblings.”

As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I had a strange, sudden jolt of adrenaline. I’d never experienced something like that before, but I knew instantly what it was.

Lust, pure and simple. I’d wanted plenty of women before, and had plenty. But never before had I experienced that initial desire like a jolt of lightning to my core.

The girl was damn sexy, and she was my stepsister. It was fucked up and wrong, but I knew instantly that I wanted her.

“I guess so.”

“Good to meet you,” I said, looking back inside. “I was just leaving. Susan is just inside, in the kitchen.”

“Okay—” she began, but I was already moving past her. My heart was racing and my cock was slightly hard as I imagined what those lips could do. “Nice to meet you,” she called after me.

I gave her a short wave but kept moving.

Laney Mason, my new stepsister. My mother’s proposal came back to me as I moved closer and closer to my car.

I had some work to do, but maybe it was worth considering. I could use a little help around the office. And maybe Laney was as bright as Susan said she was, and maybe she would be an asset.

Or she’d be a total waste of my time. Part of me was looking forward to finding out.

My office smelled like sweat.

Probably because I’d been sleeping there ever since I’d come back to Mishawaka. At first it was because I couldn’t afford both home and office space, but it quickly became apparent that I just had no interest in finding a separate apartment.

I lived on the top floor of a three-story building. It was a mix of mostly offices and dentists, though I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only person living there. I was lucky enough to grab a spot with a small shower, and the tiny kitchen space did the trick. I sighed as I unbuttoned my shirt, grabbing a glass from the cabinet.

As I poured two fingers of the cheap whisky, I thought back on the last few years of my life. My time in the FBI had been ideal at first, and I had fit in perfectly. I had stellar scores on all my exams at the academy, and people were even calling me a rising star. It became obvious how good I was at my job when they assigned me to a special division operating out of Texas.

We called ourselves the Serial Hunters, because we specialized in tracking and capturing serial killers. Law enforcement from all over the country would call us for help on their most difficult cases, and we were expected to crack them every time.

I loved it. I loved the challenge and the prestige, of course, but most of all I loved getting into the mind of a killer. The men we tracked were the worst of the worst, the baddest, most sadistic fuckers that ever existed. They were men that killed for fun or pleasure or for some twisted reason we couldn’t even fathom, and it was my job to try to think like they did.

And I was good at it.

I slugged back my whisky, dropping down onto the couch that also pulled out into my bed. The back room served as my living room slash bedroom while the front room was where I met with clients. After all, I had to keep some semblance of cleanliness and professionalism, otherwise I’d never get any work.

And shit did I need the work. The FBI had been pretty generous when they’d let me go, but I found that money quickly was getting sucked up into my monthly rent check.

As I turned the TV on to whatever football game was on that day, I heard my doorbell ring. Sighing, I took another sip of whisky and then stood up and buttoned my shirt back up.

I walked out front and paused at the door.

Normally in movies, I’d reluctantly open the door and find a beautiful woman standing there. Her long blond hair, full lips, and killer tits would all make me want to let her in, even though she reeked of desperation. She’d give me some crazy job that I knew I shouldn’t take, but I’d take it anyway.

Eventually, I’d fuck her rough, bent over my desk. I’d make her come again and come, her tight pussy wrapped around my cock as she screamed my name.

I pulled the door open. Standing there was a woman in her mid-fifties, short and round and dark-skinned with brown hair and brown eyes.

I sighed. Real life was never like the movies.

“Mister Wright?” she asked. “Private detective?” She spoke with a Spanish accent, which didn’t surprise me. Mishawaka had a large Hispanic community, and I had done a lot of work for them in the past, mostly because I could speak passable Spanish.

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