Chapter 26
“Isn’t this nice?” my mother said as I took my seat at the table. “A full family dinner.”
She’d been hellbent on forcing us to eat together as a group since we’d arrived here, but it rarely happened. Either Sin was working late, or Presley was at football practice. Someone was always missing.
But tonight, we had a full table, and my mother was brimming with forced enthusiasm.
I was sandwiched at the table between Sinclair and Dacre, Presley lounging at the end on Dacre’s other side like the prince of the Aston manor.
I frowned at the double serve of whiskey in his hand, his eyes already a little glassy. He just grinned back at me like none of it mattered. “Won’t be long until we’ll be having these dinners with an entire camera crew in the room to adequately show off what an excellent family man the future Governor is.” Presley raised his glass in his father’s direction, and I tensed, glancing at Byron for a reaction.
His hard gaze locked on Presley. “And you’ll be drinking water when it does.”
He turned his attention to my mother, who sat across from me. The two of them eyed each other like they wanted to rip their clothes off and throw down on the dining table right in front of us. The sight of their lovesick stares made me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit.
It was great my mom was happy, but being married to Byron had become her entire personality, just like she’d been with my father. She became so obsessed with the men she was with that little else mattered. I barely existed to her anymore outside of being her prop at parties. It hurt. Being shoved to the side to make way for her new husband so she could worship at his feet was humiliating.
“So, how was everyone’s day?” Byron asked, as the first course was placed in front of each of us. It was some kind of fish dish in a spicy Thai sauce and it had fast become one of my favorites from the house chef.
“Fine,” Sinclair declared. “Fired a few people.”
The smile that stretched across Byron’s face was laced with pride.
“Atta boy, Sin,” Presley offered from the other end of the table, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Way to make Daddy proud.”
Sinclair shot him a flat look as his phone buzzed on the table and he stared down at it, reading it. Then he tapped a message and returned it to the table once more. My own phone buzzed, and I reached for it, staring at the notification from the group chat the four of us had going on.
SINCLAIR: No leads on the surveillance footage of Dacre’s attack. All assailants managed to stay off the cameras.
I swallowed. My father’s men were smart enough to stay out of range of CCTV cameras. They would have had the whole place sussed out long before they’d gone for Dacre.
“And what did you do today, Presley?” Byron eyed his current state with disdain, carrying on the table conversation. “Besides drink yourself into a stupor? Did you even make it to football practice?”
Presley’s eyes landed lazily on his father. “As a matter of fact I did, but I got bored fifteen minutes in so I set my sights on exploring the inside of the head cheerleader’s skirt under the bleachers instead.”
Byron’s expression hardened, and my gaze snapped to Pres.
He did what…?Surely after everything that had happened between us, he wouldn’t.
His gaze connected with mine, the subtle shake of his head giving me all the reassurance I needed.
Presley liked to push the limits, test other people’s boundaries as well as his own. I’d witnessed him and Byron face off more than once since I’d moved in. It was as though Presley pushed his father away just to see if he’d keep coming back.
“A very impressive endeavour, son,” Byron’s tone was clipped, making it clear he thought the opposite.
“Dacre, honey,” my mother chimed in. “What did you get up to today?”
I didn’t miss Byron’s frown at Dacre’s injuries, but he thankfully didn’t ask. Maybe he was used to Dacre coming home battered and bruised from too many rounds in the ring at the gym.
My mother was clearly trying to keep the peace and stop Byron and his sons from tearing into each other across the table. Would it kill her to take an interest in her own daughter the same way? Maybe if she were an engaged parent my father wouldn’t feel entitled to come for me the way he was. Instead, she was focused on doting on her new stepsons in front of her husband.
“Nothing to write home about. Took some classes, came home and worked on a few canvases,” Dacre said, eyes trained on my mother to avoid even a glance at Byron.
Byron set his cutlery down on his plate harder than was necessary.
“Again with the art, Dacre? When are you going to understand there’s no future in it? I won’t have it.”
Dacre’s jaw ticked from beside me and I wanted to reach for him, to take his face in my hands and smooth the tension away.
He was an incredible artist. And under that hard exterior, he had a soft, open heart. Every time Byron trashed his dream, it shattered him a little more. I’d seen it that day in the studio when he’d opened up to me. And I hated seeing it play out now.
“I don’t know, Dad, maybe you could drill it into me a few more times and I might get it,” Dacre cut back.
Unable to stop myself, I reached for him under the table, taking his hand in mine and giving his fingers a squeeze. His fingers closed around mine in a vice grip. He was working hard to keep himself in check. He rested our entwined hands against my bare thigh under the table, just below the hem of my dress, his fingers brushing my skin.
Byron shook his head in obvious frustration, staring down at his plate. My mother reached for him, brushing his arm as though he was the one needing comfort right now.
“It’ll be okay, Byron, the boys will figure things out,” she cooed like he was a small child who needed coaxing at bed time.
She lifted her head, smiling encouragingly at Dacre and Presley, and I’ve never wanted to throttle my own mother so badly.
Couldn’t she see what they were going through? Didn’t she understand what Byron’s criticism was doing to them?
It made me wonder what their mother, Sinclair’s biological mother, had been like. Had she been the mediator who tried to make Byron see things from their points of view? Or had she been like my mother, siding solely with her husband with weak attempts to keep the peace?
“Well, I had a great day,” I declared to the table.
My mother’s gaze snapped to mine, eyeing me with wary disinterest. “That’s great, honey.” She turned back to Byron. “Let’s focus on our honeymoon, darling. We leave next week, and I know we’re going to have the most amazing time once you have the space to unwind.”
Byron smiled at her, and my mother’s face lit up.
Dacre’s hand released from mine, and I tried to ignore the way my stomach dropped at the loss. Then his fingers grazed the inside of my thigh, and surprise flooded me.
Was he really going to start something with me under the table when our parents were sitting across from us?
Not that they were paying a lick of attention. They were deep in conversation about their honeymoon, Sinclair throwing in the occasional comment.
Dacre’s fingers trailed up the inside of my thigh, taking the hem of my dress with him and my eyebrows shot up my forehead. When I glanced his way, he was focused on his food, moving it around his plate with his free hand. He had an incredible poker face, because there was absolutely no way to tell his fingers were now grazing the bare skin between my legs.
His head snapped in my direction when he realized I wasn’t wearing underwear beneath my dress. I hitched one shoulder in a subtle shrug and Dacre’s jaw tightened.
His finger brushed along my seam, teasing me, and I gripped my spoon tightly to keep from squirming in my seat. He pulled back, palm sweeping over my thigh.
I glanced at him, brow pinched in confusion, when a hand slid in from my right, brushing over the bare skin between my legs and separating me. My gaze shot to Sinclair, who was bringing his spoon to his mouth with one hand, his fingers grazing my clit beneath the table with the other.
I sucked in a sharp breath, looking to Byron and my mother, but they were still deeply immersed in each other. Clearly it paid to piss off Byron when it meant you were completely ignored for the rest of the meal and could tease your stepsister to the edge of insanity.
Casting a glance in Presley’s direction, his hooded and heated gaze was trained on my face, taking in every flinch and clench as Sinclair’s fingers circled my clit, teasing me.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Dacre’s hand tightened on my left thigh.
What was I going to say anyway? Stop? Don’t? Our parents are right there?
But I didn’t want to stop. And the fact they were torturing me like this, so illicitly, right under my mother’s nose only heightened the sensations flooding me.
Dacre slid his hand higher, taking my dress with him, exposing me. He stared down at my lap, watching Sinclair’s fingers work me over.
“Fuck,” he muttered so quietly only I could hear.
Hearing the effect this was having on him only turned me on, and I let my legs fall open to give him a better view.
When Sinclair slid his middle finger inside me, his thumb playing with my clit, my fist banged on the table against my will, making the cutlery rattle. But it was either that or cry out in ecstasy and that wasn’t an option.
“Dempsey, are you all right?” Byron asked with a concerned frown. “You’re not choking on a fish bone are you? I’ll have your meal returned to the chef immediately.”
I shook my head, swallowing hard in an attempt to find my voice. The last thing I needed was to respond with a breathy moan right in front of my stepfather.
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” I blurted quickly, just as Sinclair quickened his pace, working over my clit so fast I was practically panting. “It’s just a little spicy.”
Byron smiled back at me, and I thanked every God who’d ever existed for low hanging tablecloths, which meant Byron couldn’t tell his son’s fingers were deep inside me.
“Ah yes,” Byron said, beaming with pride. “Our chef is the best in the state. He knows how to give things a good kick.”
Presley’s gaze was burning into my skin from my left, and I glanced at him, drawing Byron’s attention over to his son.
“What’s gotten into you, Presley?” Byron asked with a frown. “You haven’t touched your food.”
Presley reluctantly pulled his eyes from me to turn to his father, just as I gripped the edge of the table to stop myself from rocking against Sinclair’s hand.
Sinclair leaned closer, reaching for the salt, pitching his voice low so only Dacre and I could hear him. “You going to come all over my fingers at dinner, Princess?”
Dacre huffed a laugh, his hand sliding in to take over rubbing my clit, Sinclair now solely focused on getting me to ride his fingers.
“Yes,” I hissed, a little too loud.
“What’s that, honey?” my mother asked, forcing me to tune back into the table conversation.
What the hell had they been talking about?
“Glad you agree with me, D,” Presley offered, glancing down at my lap as though he could see through the table, then back at my face. “The football team could use some extra supporters on game day. I’ll get you a jersey.”
I nodded, biting my lip as an orgasm started to crest inside me.
Oh, fuck.
The combination of Dacre and Sinclair’s fingers on and in me had it building so hard and fast I was going to scream my lungs out when I finally came.
I gripped my spoon, trying to bring it to my mouth, but my hand shook violently, and I dropped it back in the bowl.
“Dempsey, are you sure you’re okay?” my mother asked again, and panic flared through me. I needed her eyes off me, there was no way I was going to come undone with my mother staring straight at me.
But Dacre and Sinclair didn’t let up, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
“Oh fuck,” Presley swore suddenly, tipping the entirety of his whiskey glass across the white linen table cloth and over the edge of the table.
The amber liquid spread fast, and my mother snapped her focus to the potential stain. She sprung from her seat to direct the maid on how to clean it up. At the same time, Byron reached behind Presley to signal to his valet to get another glass for his son.
Sinclair thrust inside me hard, and Dacre pinched down on my clit. I covered my face with my cloth napkin, biting down on it and using it to stifle the small moan that tore from my lips as sensation flooded my body.
I tried to snap my legs shut, but Dacre’s other hand gripped my thigh, holding them open as he stroked me through my explosive orgasm.
When I sat back in my chair, trying to control my panting breaths, only then did they remove their fingers. Sinclair looked my way, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean in one long stroke.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, tipping my head back against my chair, trying to work out how to breathe again.
Dacre leaned in, his eyes blazing with lust. “You’re so fucking hot when you come apart for us, Bambi.”
It was so fucking hot letting them tear me apart.
And I wanted to do it again.