Chapter 5
“Dempsey, stop fidgeting,” my mother snapped at me. Her brow would have furrowed if it could, but the monthly injections in her forehead put a permanent stop to that. “Put your shoulders back and lift your chin, these photos need to be perfect.”
“They’re not even taking the photos yet, Mother.” I forced the words out between gritted teeth. “When the photographer is ready, I will be too.”
“Unlikely,” my mother sniffed back at me, and a low rumble sounded in Sinclair’s chest beside me.
My mother glanced at him, confusion coating her expression, but she discarded the feeling just as fast. Turning back to Byron, she fixed his tie, straightening it for the eighth time.
Sinclair’s fingers brushed mine where they hung at my side and warmth spread through my chest, a smile crossing my face.
That’s all it took. One touch from him and my entire mood changed; that was the effect he had on me.
We were lined up in the dining room, a photographer and a horde of assistants finalizing their setup before they’d snap pictures of our perfect political family for some magazine spread Byron’s team was amped about. Kesia and Gia were watching from the sidelines, like always.
Kesia seemed to be permanently attached to Byron these days, which was no doubt an awful place to be. And anywhere Kesia went, Gia came too. She was beaming at Presley from her place at Kesia’s side.
“You all look fantastic,” Gia said enthusiastically. She grinned at each of the boys, her gaze landing back on Presley. He gave her a non-committal head nod and a flush crept up Gia’s neck.
Oh, hell no. She was not going to get away with lusting after him.
The urge to grip the back of his neck and tug his mouth to mine reared inside me so strong that I had to squeeze my eyes shut and take several deep breaths to rein it in.
“We’re almost ready to go here, folks. Just another minute or two,” the photographer called, giving us an encouraging thumbs up.
Byron took a seat at the head of the table, my mother at his side and his three adoring sons and stepdaughter surrounding him. At least, that’s what these photos were meant to look like.
I adjusted my light pink and beige boucle Chanel jacket, smoothing my hands down the matching miniskirt. Of course I hadn’t had a choice in my outfit today, my mother and her new style team had selected it, right down to the string of pearls around my neck.
“Dempsey, if I have to tell you to stop fidgeting one more time…” my mother snapped again.
She was in a serious mood today. Every time I so much as breathed, she was taking issue with it.
“Dempsey looks fine, Bea. Let the girl be,” Byron said, giving my mother’s hand a squeeze.
At least he could calm her down.
“I think she looks gorgeous,” Presley said in a tone that sounded brotherly. The glint in his eye was anything but.
“She looks like a fucking virgin bride,” Sinclair muttered, his tone clipped and irritated like he was with everything and everyone lately.
Everyone except me.
Byron’s expression pinched and he swiveled to stare at Sin. “Speak about your sister’s virginity again, especially today, and you and I are going to have a problem.”
Dacre tried his best to keep a lid on his amusement, as the photographer called us all to attention. The irony of those words were laughable at this point, but Byron didn’t know about the many debaucherous things his sons had done to me over the past months.
“If I can please get Bea seated to Byron’s left.
” The photographer motioned with his hand for my mother to move and she obeyed.
I hadn’t bothered to learn this man’s name because next week he’d be replaced by a new one from a different media publication.
“Then if we can have Sinclair to his right, then Dempsey directly behind Byron.”
We moved around each other, getting into position.
“What are we? Spare parts?” Dacre asked, his tone only slightly annoyed.
It didn’t matter how long they’d been a part of the Aston family, I knew that the wounds Dacre and Pres carried over being adopted still reared inside them sometimes, leaving them feeling insecure or off-kilter.
Often over the smallest thing, like where they’re told to stand in a ridiculous family portrait.
“Not at all,” the photographer said with what seemed like a genuine smile. “If we can get Dacre to the left behind Bea, then Presley filling the gap between Dacre and Dempsey.”
The boys shifted into place, all of us huddled together around King Byron.
Maybe soon-to-be Governor Byron, which was a truly terrifying thought.
Happy with the arrangement, the photographer took up his place behind his camera, the flashes blinding us as he took some shots to test the light.
“Okay, everybody ready for the real deal?” he called from behind the lens.
I plastered what I hoped was a wide, happy smile on my face.
“Sinclair, if you could just place your right hand on Byron’s right shoulder and rotate your body ever so slightly towards Dempsey.”
Sinclair didn’t respond, but did as he was asked, his left arm brushing against me as he turned towards me. I swallowed at the touch. How did he pull such monumental reactions from me with the smallest of touches?
The photographer continued to snap pictures, giving directions and tweaks as he deemed necessary.
Fingers brushed the back of my thigh at the hem of my skirt and I startled, just as the camera went off.
Shit.
The photographer stood tall behind the camera. “Everything okay, Dempsey? You looked a little surprised during that last shot.”
My mother’s critical gaze snapped in my direction, but I refused to look at her.
“Yes, I’m so sorry,” I offered. “My shoe pinched my foot for a moment, but it’s fine now.”
The photographer gave me a nod, bending down to peer through the viewfinder again.
Flashes went off in quick succession, and fingers brushed over my skin a second time.
I forced myself to remain still, relishing the feel of Sinclair’s hands on me.
I wanted to look at him, to try to read the expression on his face, but I couldn’t. If a shot of me staring adoringly up at my stepbrother were to exist, it would be over for all of us. Byron would tear us apart faster than we could deny it.
So I didn’t move when those fingers dipped under my skirt, trailing up to my ass cheeks.
He let out the smallest breath when he realized I was wearing a thong.
A bright red thong that was a ‘fuck you’ to my mother for trussing me up in this stupid outfit.
I may not be able to rebel against her rules the way that I wanted to, but that wouldn’t stop me from acting out in my own small ways.
Or three really giant ways if she ever found out about my stepbrothers.
It was an effort to hold my smile when Sin’s finger traced the line of my thong between my legs, dipping under the fabric to slide a finger inside me.
I sucked in a breath, coughing to cover the sound, my hand instantly flying to my mouth.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” I said to the photographer, my mother silently snarling in my direction.
I gave her an apologetic glance, then resumed my position behind Byron. Thank God neither Byron nor my mother could see Sinclair’s hand up the back of my skirt. What he was doing was dangerous. If we were caught…
But the idea that we could be, that he was touching me so brazenly in a room full of people, had heat flooding between my legs.
Presley shifted on my other side and I glanced at him. His gaze dropped to Sinclair’s hand up my skirt, his jaw clenching, and a smile spreading across his face.
My crazy voyeur. He was loving my quiet torture.
Sinclair had been lazily sliding his finger in and out of me, but he upped the rhythm, moving faster as the camera clicked away.
I resisted the urge to bite my lip, forcing my smile to hold in place as little bursts of pleasure skittered through my body. Grinding my teeth so hard they were at risk of splintering, I gripped the back of Byron’s chair and ducked my head when a wave of heat spread through me.
“Eyes up, Dempsey. We’re almost done,” the photographer called.
Jesus, so was I. I was about to come undone on my stepbrother’s fingers and this man was going to capture it all.
Sinclair didn’t take pity on me, didn’t let up at all. He continued to torture me until my breathing was labored and I was fighting to keep control of my body.
My pleasure peaked, Sinclair’s practiced fingers tipping me over the edge. An orgasm flooded me, my entire body locking in place.
I wanted to scream.
His name. Jesus’s name. Any name at all. But I fought against it, my eyes twitching as I worked to keep my reaction to the pleasure pulsing through my body locked down.
The photographer clapped his hands together, startling me. “I think we’re done!” He grinned broadly at each of us. “I think we got what we needed in here.”
“I know Dempsey did,” Pres muttered under his breath, Sinclair’s fingers disappearing from under my skirt.
I bit my lip, nodding with wide eyes and Pres wrapped an arm around my shoulders, jostling me with what I hoped looked like brotherly affection. In reality, my legs had turned to spaghetti after that orgasm and it was a struggle to walk.
“Come on, sis,” Pres called loudly. “Let’s get out of these clown suits.”
“Not so fast,” Byron called out, and we stilled, turning to face him. “We need to change into formal wear for some shots by the pool.”
“Yes, Father,” Presley said, nodding earnestly, his tone mocking.
Either it was lost on Byron or he chose to ignore it, because he glanced at Pres for the briefest moment before turning back to my mother.
The four of us went upstairs to change, my new wardrobe assistants for the day zipping me into a bright red silk gown with long chaste sleeves and skirt that went to my ankles. Don’t get me wrong, it was stylish, but the only skin I had on display were my hands.