Chapter 19
chapter nineteen
Summer
Ithought I was just having a sex dream.
The aftershocks of my orgasm flowing through my body are mixing with the adrenaline and oxytocin, creating a heady feeling that I never wanted to associate with Dayton Copeland—my stepbrother, who bullied me in high school and has despised me ever since.
His iron grip on my hair makes it impossible for me to pull away. I lie there, panting and spent, my fingers sticky with my arousal, still pressed against my clit. His amber eyes are boring into mine like a man possessed, a man who so clearly wants to fuck me.
No, no, no, that can’t be. There’s no way. He hates me. This is a game to him.
I don’t know how far Dayton would be willing to go to screw with my head. He’s always been a determined asshole. He gets what he wants, and he’s rarely told no.
The mortification of what I just did washes over me like a tidal wave on the shore.
I try pulling away, and he lets me go. A flush crawls up my chest and neck as I realize what just happened. I forgot he had infiltrated my studio and started sleeping in my bed.
I was having a sex dream. I know I was. The point at which the dream ended and reality began is still blurry. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Up until he pulled my hair back and stared into my eyes, I thought I was asleep.
Turns out, I was masturbating in bed right next to him, fantasizing that it was his fingers playing with my sex under the table at the bar. We were sitting there, drinking and laughing with my friends, across from my ex-boyfriend, when Dayton’s hand started moving up the inside of my thigh.
I thought he was just messing with me. I thought it was a dangerous game we were playing, seeing who would fold first, like we used to do in high school.
It wasn’t just us who would play it, but one time, a guy on the baseball team dared Dayton to play the Are You Nervous?
game with me. I was still a virgin, panicking internally, but I managed to keep a straight face as his fingers trailed all the way up the inside of my thigh until he got to the bottom of my skirt.
I swatted his hand away and told him I didn’t want to play anymore.
Victory flashed in his amber eyes, and his friend called me a chicken.
This time, I didn’t fold, and neither did he. His fingers slid all the way up under my bikini bottoms. I gasped when his touch brushed over my clit for the first time. I saw fucking stars when he started to move. It felt so real.
Because you started doing it to yourself while in bed with him …
I swallow over the mass in my throat, slowly sitting up and turning to face him.
His hand is still under the covers, but I can’t make out anything except the lump of my comforter.
His eyes are studying me, calm and … satisfied.
He’s shirtless, the now-tanned muscles of his chest and shoulders making me want to pick things up where they were left off in the lucid dream.
Stop it. Get a grip.
“What the hell were you doing?” My voice sounds hoarse. The hormones of the first orgasm I’ve had in weeks are still coursing through my body.
His tongue darts out to lick his lips while his heavy gaze dips over my body. I manage not to shudder under the sensual perusal, knowing my nipples are hard and visible. He finally makes eye contact with me.
“I just woke up to the sound of my name and thought you might need a little help.”
If I thought I was embarrassed before, I’m now so deeply mortified that my mouth dries up and words won’t come to me. I exhale, turning away from him and closing my eyes.
I count to ten in my head before speaking. “What did you just do? Is this a part of your game?”
“What am I doing? You were the one touching yourself in bed with me, Cupcake.”
I flip back around to face him, embarrassment being replaced with annoyance.
“I thought I was sleeping alone, okay? This is my bed, my studio, that you invaded without an invitation! I wasn’t even fully awake until you pulled my hair back and—” I cut myself off when his eyes darken and he shifts his weight, looking away shamefully.
Holy shit…
“Pulled your hair back and what?”
I swallow, unable to answer him.
A devilish grin cuts across his face. “All I did was pull your hair and look at your face, Cupcake, and you shattered beside me.”
My limbs are shaking. I can’t look away from him now. Arousal is pooling in my already-sticky shorts—again. He can clearly see that my nipples are begging to be touched by him, and he knows it.
He’s winning his stupid little game because he makes up the rules as he goes, and I have no choice but to blindly follow along.
I grit my teeth, rolling onto my side and rising up on all fours. I stalk toward him. His expression morphs from evil-overlord victory to frozen shock. I crawl to him, my long hair cascading in waves over his thighs when I reach them.
I extend a hand forward to peel back the comforter, hoping he can’t see my pulse jumping in my neck. His chest rises and falls steadily, but he doesn’t move otherwise. His eyes are trained on my lips.
“What’s under here? I want a little peek.” I’m possessed by a spirit of bravery devoid of embarrassment as I pull the covers back to reveal the erection tenting his shorts. It’s my turn to flash a victor’s smile when I see the spot of wetness clearly seeping through the pale gray fabric.
“Are you telling me that all it took for you to come in your pants was pulling my hair and watching me touch myself?” My voice drips with satire and satisfaction.
One second, I’m poised over him on all fours, hair brushing the tops of his thighs, just below his erection, and in the next moment, he lunges for me, grabbing my wrists in an iron grip to push me back and pin me to the bed.
The oxygen swooshes out of me in a gasp.
He’s in full control now, of my heart rate and my body. He has my attention.
His erection presses into my hip as he leans down to whisper in my ear.
His warm breath heats the side of my neck, making me squirm against him.
It’s no use; he could pin me down here for as long as he wanted to.
He’s all muscle, heat, and I’m so fucking turned on that it’s making me ache despite the orgasm I had five minutes ago.
“It could take a lot less, Cupcake. I could come right now just from the look of lust in your green eyes on me. I could come from just knowing your naked body was in the shower right before mine, wet and perfect. I could come from just looking at your tan lines in a picture of you that was meant for another man.”
My thighs would be shaking if they weren’t pinned underneath him. He’s fulfilling every fantasy I’ve ever had that I was too embarrassed to even allow myself to wish for.
He could come at the thought of my naked body …
He’s just saying these things to fuck with me.
But still … his shorts are stained with the evidence.
I don’t trust him. I never have. He’s screwed with my head before. He spent the last two years of high school trying to make my life miserable. He’s spent the last month doing the exact same thing, coming back here like a tyrant, just to cause a stressful home renovation to be even more difficult.
“Get off of me,” I beg.
I can’t take it. He’s way too much. I just had my first birthday without my mother. I’m going through a breakup, and I moved to this island on a whim. Battling my unwelcome romantic feelings for the stepbrother who bullied me isn’t something I feel like adding to the pile of trauma.
He inhales deeply, breathing me in, before he pulls back away from me and stands beside the bed. I roll over, escaping to the safety of the bathroom without looking at him again. Unexpected tears prick the corners of my eyes once I’m safely inside with the door locked.
How is it that the first time I’ve ever felt desired and more than that—truly seen by a man—it’s with this asshole?
When I finish showering and open the door, the room smells like cinnamon.
I’m wearing a short forest-green cotton dress with palm tree leaf patterns printed on it.
I look around the studio, rubbing my hands over my arms to ward off the chill from the mini-split AC system mounted to the wall, apparently running at sixty-seven degrees.
There are no hallways or other rooms in the studio, so Dayton’s absence is clear.
Maybe he left.
I hate that my stomach twists with disappointment at the thought.
The oven timer beeps. I move over to it, pulling back the door to see fluffy cinnamon rolls inside, perfectly golden. I grab a hot pad from a drawer to remove them. The door opens behind me as I pull the rolls out. He reaches down to close the oven.
I want to slap his hand away, but instead, I turn to him and look up.
He’s dressed in a festive shirt with palm trees and Snoopy with his doghouse. A smile twists up the corner of my mouth.
“Are you wearing Russell’s shirt?”
He shrugs, looking down over himself. “Yeah.”
I turn back to the mini kitchenette and grab the plastic tube of icing for the cinnamon rolls. He steps back as I cut it open and squeeze the contents over the golden rolls. The air is thick with tension. I need to do something with my hands.
He steps to the fridge and opens it, pulling out champagne and a bottle of fresh-squeezed orange juice I didn’t even know was there.
He proceeds to pop it open. Then he grabs two champagne glasses from my glassware collection on the floating shelf and pours us each some champagne with a splash of orange juice.
I finish the cinnamon roll drizzle and wipe my hands on the dish towel. He grabs both the glasses and walks over to the door.
“Will you have a mimosa with me on the beach?” he asks.
There’s a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, like he’s waving a tiny white flag. He’s making an effort to push past what happened this morning and still spend my first birthday without my mom here with me.