“My ass is literally hanging out.”
He slaps it. “Yes, princess, it is.”
“Stop that.”
He just slaps it again until I start hitting his with my fists. It’s hard as steel, and so is he as his cock strains toward my stomach and thighs.
We finally make it to his room, and he throws me across his bed and then hovers over me. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful that I live in a perfect world until now.”
“No more bird watching,” I whisper, cupping his face.
“No.” His mouth meets mine, and then he’s inside me again, filling me, moving with me, clenching my hands in his, and whispering my name across my lips. “Now, I’ll just watch you.”
“I’m not free like the birds.”
“You make me free,” he says, tongue tangling with mine before he sends me soaring, just like his birds.
And I realize he’s totally right.
We’re two days in.
Things always change.
People die.
People live.
But right now—I choose to be free with my asshole bully turned lover and friend.
Or so I thought…
Chapter Seven
Mary-Belle
Good story, right?
I mean, that’s what you’re obviously thinking.
We drove off into the sunset, after you know, having amazing sex, living like perfect rich people, living our lives, and having it easy.
But you have no idea. You think that’s where our story starts?
That’s where our love ended.
Where the pain began.
This is our story.
This is The Perfects.
Strap in because we’re just getting started…
Chapter Eight
Ambrose
One week earlier…
I can’t stop.
I want her.
I stare at her door and know I shouldn’t go in. Both parents are home, my dad would flip, I’d be grounded for centuries, probably lose the car, but it’s like a siren’s call, one I can’t ignore and, let’s be honest—won’t.
I stare at my own door and, without even willing my body to do it, get up and walk over; my hand hovers over the handle. “Fuck it.”
I grab it, and then I’m staring at her door like a total freak.
It’s slightly cracked. Is that an invitation?
What does that mean?
Why the hell am I even analyzing shit right now at three in the morning when I have a game tomorrow night?
I have so many more things I need to worry about; instead, I’m staring at a damn door like it’s going to eat me alive.
Focus.
You’re the captain of the lacrosse team, and you can’t even open a door or attempt to have balls of steel in an effort to have sex with the girl you like?
The girl that’s in your house.
That the media has pegged her as my new stepsister rather than my foster sister yeah, that’s the clincher, isn’t it?
But we aren’t even related.
And yet I know my dad would have a fucking heart attack if he knew, or if he caught us, it would be bad, but it’s more than just sex, and talking about my feelings with my dad is about on the same level as getting seven root canals and both balls chopped off.
I hold my hand up to knock; I mean, what if she’s naked? Not that I haven’t seen her naked or held her naked—God, she’s beautiful naked.
I’m still stuck in my thoughts when the door opens, and she’s sleepily standing there in a pair of tiny black shorts and a pink crop top.
Her eyes widen. “Are you okay?”
“Huh? Yes. Why? Do I not look okay?”
She laughs, her smile always makes my day, my nights, my everything better. “You look distraught.”
“I was thinking deep thoughts,” I answer.
She leans against the door and crosses her arms. “Oh yeah? What kind of deep thoughts, silver spoon?”
I roll my eyes, then I look down. “About nakedness.”
“Me or you?”
“Both.”
“You’re a relative scholar now, aren’t you?” She teases, then grabs me by the hand and pulls me into her room.
My mouth is on hers before she can say another word, my hands tangle in her messy hair while she reaches for my shirt and, in a brief moment of us breaking apart, pulls it over my head.
I seriously can’t with this girl.
She’s perfect.
More perfect than this family.
We’ve been going at it more than we should, and I know that we could easily get caught, but I can’t stop, and while I know I’m a horny asshole, it’s more than the sex—it’s the connection.
It’s the fact that I can hug her.
I’ll take it to my grave, but sometimes I just want to hold her, and I want her so badly to hold me back and tell me everything’s going to be okay when it feels like my life’s going to be something that’s planned out and laminated for me, like an itinerary I want to burn but have to keep by my side and follow if I want to survive.
This completeness with her, this fullness… I’ve never felt it, not even with what people would perceive was the best of the best families.
Her thighs are hot as they wrap around me. We fall onto the bed in a clumsy, kiss-fueled fury of lust, want, desire, and need. Had I said that out loud, I would have slapped myself in the face.
But I’m living it, experiencing it.
“Needed you,” I say between kisses. Her mouth is hot, her tongue so smooth as it slides against mine like she’s testing how deep she can go and wants to devour me but is taking it easy on me when really, I just want it rough and hard, and now.
Belle flips off her shirt, tosses it onto the ground, then reaches for my head, pulling me down again for another heated kiss.
I pull away. “Knew it was a good idea to cross that hall.”
“Knew it was a good idea to open my door.” She laughs.
I’m completely wrapped up in her, in the moment, so I don’t hear the creak of the stairway; I forget that her door is still open, and we aren’t being quiet.
I forget everything but the taste of her mouth and the way she feels pressed up against me.
And then I hear a throat clear, followed by, “What the hell are you two doing?”
Belle jerks away from me, her eyes wide with fear.
I slowly turn and see my dad standing there, face pale, eyes barely containing his fury.
“Ambrose. Downstairs. Now.” He shakes his head at Mary-Belle like he’s disappointed, which I know is going to break her heart, and then gives me a light tug toward the door and down the stairs.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper.
“No,” Dad says. “He won’t.”
Tears fill her eyes as I look at her one last time before my dad shuts her door and points to the stairway as if I’m eight.
I thought they were sleeping. Don’t most adults go to bed at like eight? Even mine are in bed early. Plus, with my practice, I just assumed he wouldn’t still be up.
The walk feels slow, and embarrassing, and daunting. We make it to his lavish office that overlooks the backyard and pool. Torches are still lit around the pond, and my dad has whiskey in a short crystal glass—his favorite and the only glass he’ll drink whiskey out of.