Chapter 5 – ryan
RYAN
There should be a girl sucking my cock right now.
After a whirlwind trip to San Diego for the tournament, I’m wiped. My plan was to grab take-out from Terrace and pig out on the couch while I scroll through my contacts, texting girls until I found someone who was free to come by and have a little fun. No better way to celebrate a win.
Instead, I wasted the night creeping on my stepsister’s date and my dick remains unsucked, all because I’m a good guy.
I knew Pippa’s date was a douchebag the second I saw him.
Protective older stepbrother that I am, it was only right that I kept an eye on things, making sure he didn’t try anything untoward.
After Dickface McCrypto made an early exit, I generously volunteered my time to fix the world’s worst dating profile and give the poor girl a fighting chance at finding someone so she doesn’t die alone.
I know. I’m a saint.
“Unpack my food,” I tell Pippa, passing her the bag of take-out. “I’ll need sustenance if I’m going to overhaul your bio. Seriously. All of this has to go.”
She groans, dropping my food unceremoniously on the counter. “Stop being overdramatic. My profile’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? The first thing you say is ‘You might be my soulmate if you think Mr. Knightley’s superior to Mr. Darcy.’ Come the fuck on. Do you think any guy gives a shit about your favorite Austen hero?”
“It tells guys that I love reading,” she says defensively. “It gives us something to talk about.”
“It tells guys that you’re a prude and a nerd, and not in a hot librarian way.” I type quickly. “There. Fixed it. See? You can be literary and still be hot.”
I pass her back the phone so she can read my new bio. “‘If you talk books with me, I’ll let you under my covers.’ Seriously, Ryan? That bio basically promises guys sex!”
“Exactly. Simple psychology, Pips. Offer people want they want.” I point to my forehead for emphasis. “Men want sex. Women do too, even if society tells them they’re not allowed to.”
“Of course you’re all about feminism when it’s helping you score.
” She looks back to the profile, and she makes the face she always does when she’s thinking.
Lips slightly pursed to the right, eyes narrowed.
“But I don’t totally hate it. At least you used a pun.
I didn’t realize your sense of humor had advanced to that level. ”
“Stop thanking me. The gratitude is too much. You’re going to make me blush.” I take a big bite of my burger. “Now, we’ve got to delete all your photos and start over.”
“No way! Those are the best photos of me.”
I snort. “This artsy crap? You really thought some black and white photos where your body is covered from head to toe was the way you were going to catch some dick? You’re giving off nun vibes.”
Pippa’s cheeks flush, turning her olive skin a muted pink. “I don’t dress like a nun.”
“No, but you wouldn’t know that from these photos. Like, what you’re wearing right now is good.”
I admit, her outfit looks better than good.
Like usual, she’s in all black, but not in a boring way.
A pencil skirt that hugs her ass but isn’t too tight.
A long-sleeved tight sweater that looks soft as hell, cutting to show the top of her breasts in a way that stops short of being slutty.
I don’t normally like it when girls wear tights, but hers have those sexy seams up the back.
Combined with her red lipstick, it all adds up to a sexy, old-school femme fatale thing.
Not that I’m about to inflate Pippa’s ego telling her that.
I hold out my hand. “Give me the phone. Let me pick.”
“No! I’m not just going to give you unlimited access to my picture roll!” She clutches the phone to her chest, like she’s afraid I’m going to jump over the counter and snatch it from her. I mean, sure, it’s something I would do, but right now she’s just being a drama queen.
I groan, exasperated. “What’s the big deal? I’m not going to judge you for taking a bunch of selfies or something.”
“There’s stuff I don’t want you to see.” She blushes harder, the muted pink veering more toward red.
“Wait, you don’t—” My eyes bug out when I realize what she’s not saying. “You don’t have nudes on there, do you?”
She doesn’t answer. She just stares at my half-full carton of French fries like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
Holy shit.
My stick-in-the-mud stepsister actually has naked photos on her phone.
Did she take them in bed? In a mirror? In her bra and panties, or completely bare?
Without me consciously trying to, my brain fills in the blanks. I picture her holding her phone above her in bed, one arm draped across her breasts. Maybe her fingers are parted a little, giving you a peek at the pretty pink nipple underneath.
My hardening cock presses against my boxers, and shame washes over me. Pippa’s not really my sister, but I still shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. It’s messed up.
And I definitely shouldn’t be trying to figure out a way to get her phone so I can scroll up and see those pics anyway.
Get back to fixing her profile, moron.
“Hey, no shame in the game,” I say quickly. “I can just get your profile pics off Instagram.”
I shove the other half of my burger in my mouth and open IG. Even though I already know what photos I want to use, scrolling through my phone gives me a good reason to look away from Pippa while I wait for my cock to calm the fuck down.
Scrolling through, it doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for.
There’s a pic she posted from our family vacation to the Bahamas last year, one where she wore this stringy bikini (black, of course.) The only reason she even posted it was because she happened to meet some mystery author she liked on the beach and made me take a pic.
Otherwise, she’s not the type of person to put a swimsuit photo on the main grid.
She looks good in it though, if you crop out the old guy. Her tousled bob is extra curly from the ocean water, and the cut of the swimsuit bottom makes her legs look a zillion miles long.
The other pic is on Cat’s IG, not Pippa’s.
It shows Pippa in that café they always go to, smiling with a coffee.
She’s wearing a slouchy sweater that hangs off one shoulder and a necklace with a green stone.
The light from the window is catching her face just right, illuminating the freckles she gets on her nose that she’s always trying to hide.
She looks natural and happy, not as uptight as she normally does.
I screenshot both posts and text them to Pippa. “Those two.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Did you really have to put in the bikini pic? Yeah, that’s really going to attract the kind of guys I’m looking for.”
“This is how you have to think about it,” I explain patiently. “When you make a profile, you’re auditioning to be a part of a guy’s life. Your pictures are showing him how you’ll look when you do stuff together, like grab a coffee or go on vacation where, yes, you might end up wearing a bikini.”
She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, her eyes narrowed skeptically. “Are you just bullshitting me?”
I flash her a shit-eating grin. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
She sticks out her tongue at me. “You suck at this. You didn’t even pick enough photos.”
Well, she’s right about that. She should have at least three, but none of her other pictures were just right. She needs one more photo, something eye-catching, sexy but still mysterious. The outfit she’s wearing right now would be perfect for that, actually…
Well, if you want something done right, sometimes you have to do it yourself.
“Go get some high heels,” I demand. “We’re taking a picture.”
“I’m not playing America’s Next Top Model with you, Ryan.”
“Just do it, okay? I swear, I’m not going to make you look stupid. If I make fun of you or anything, I give you full permission to punch me in the stomach as hard as you can. I won’t even flex when you do it.”
She smiles brightly. “Deal. Now I almost hope you do act like an ass, because I’ve been doing a lot of pilates and my arm is pretty strong.”
I resist the urge to tell her that her bicep is about the size of a Nilla Wafer. Not that it matters—I’m not going to give her an excuse to punch me. I have no plans to tease her or mess up the pictures on purpose. Now that I have the idea for the photo in my head, I want to get it right.
While she grabs her shoes, I head back to my study to grab my ring light. I keep it handy for when I play video poker, because I’m not going to let myself look like crap for all the ladies watching.
Unfortunately, Pippa’s hellbeast has curled up on exactly the sofa spot I have in mind. I wish I could just pick it up and move it, but that’s not happening. For whatever stupid reason, it loathes me. If I get within a foot of it, it swipes at me with claws that Pippa probably sharpens.
“Get off,” I tell it. “Go. Shoo.”
It just stares at me and flicks its tail, unimpressed.
“Stop harassing Waffle,” Pippa says, setting down a pair of shoes with an impressively high heel and a red sole. “We can just take the photo somewhere else.”
“No way. The lighting here is just right.”
“What do you know about lighting?” she scoffs.
I rub the skin over my eyebrows. If Pippa keeps fighting every fucking thing I say, this is going to take all night.
She must have come to the same conclusion, because she sighs, picks up the furball, and sets it on the floor. It scowls at me before it trots off back toward its bedroom.
Pippa perches on the sofa, her knees pressed firmly together and her hands resting in her lap.
Her spine is ruler-straight, her lips set in a firm line.
She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.
If I’m going to take a picture of her that looks remotely welcoming or appealing, I have got to get her to relax.