Page 96 of The Painter and His Poet

“I know you think you have a good relationship with him,” he says, cutting me off, “But, Harlow, please believe me when I say that he has no redeeming qualities. None. You have to trust me on this.”

“Okay,” I reply, understanding his reasoning but feeling more than a little uncertain, not about how I feel for Sterling–I’m past the point of fighting this–but because his father seemingly holds so much power.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, sensing my discomfort. “It won’t always be like this. Once I’ve figured out how to deal with my father, we can be open about our relationship.”

I nod, trying to brush off the uneasy feeling in my chest as he presses a tender kiss against my lips, a kiss that soon turns heated.

“Harlow,” he groans against my mouth, his hand dropping to cup my throat in the way I like. “Fuck, Harlow. All I want to do right now is strip you naked and bury myself inside of you.”

“I want that too. But we really should go,” I reply, every single part of me wanting to give myself over to him, to find comfort in his arms but I reluctantly place my hand against his chest and gently ease him back. “Ben is expecting me.”

“What time is he expecting you?”

“In about twenty minutes,” I reply.

“Then we have at least ten minutes to spare,” he says, his voice husky as he grips my throat a little tighter.

“Sterling, we’re in the middle of nowhere,” I protest weakly, my pulse spiking even more.

“Exactly. There’s no one here but us, Harlow.”

“Sterling–”

He slams his mouth against mine, cutting off my protest.

I don’t fight it.

Kissing Sterling is like drowning and floating all at once. I can’t breathe, and that isn’t because he’s giving me a hand necklace, it’s because he makes me feel lightheaded with his lust-filled groans and talented tongue. When we kiss I forget about our parents, about my arsehole stalker. I’m lost to his heat, his desire and my own spiralling need. Groaning, he pulls back slightly, then reaches around my side, pressing a button that has my seat slowly edging backwards.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, my clit throbbing just from the way he’s looking at me.

“I’m making the most of the next ten minutes,” he replies, releasing my throat, and reaching for the zipper of my jeans, undoing them. “Did I tell you how fucking incredible you look in these jeans?”

“You just did,” I reply softly, gasping as he slides his fingers beneath the waistband of my panties, knowing that he’ll find me soaking for him.

“Fuck, Harlow. Are you always this ready to be fucked?” he groans, his finger slipping between my folds and swiping against my sensitive clit.

“Not usually, not for anyone but you,” I admit. Around Sterling I’m in a perpetual state of arousal. I’m so attracted to him, it’s ridiculous. I’ve spent most nights bringing myself to orgasm just thinking about him touching me, tasting me,fuckingme.

“Damn straight,” he replies, focusing his gaze on me as he gently strokes my clit. “This pussy is mine. You’re mine, Harlow.”

I gasp at his possessive words, at how he so easily makes me melt beneath his touch. God knows I’ve tried to fight this. I’ve tried to be a good daughter. I’ve tried to do the right thing. He’smy step-brother, he’s off-limits, and yet knowing that turns me on even more. It shouldn’t. I know it shouldn’t, and logically my head tells me that we met before we became family, but I have to admit to myself, to the deepest, darkest parts of me, that it only makes me want him more.

“Tell me you’re mine. Tell me that you’ll never let another man touch you like this. Tell me that there is no one else for you, that from this point onwards we are each other’s, no matter what.”

But his fingers are so talented, his gaze so intense, that I can’t seem to bring myself to answer as he teases my clit. I’m too lost in the overwhelming need to give myself over to him, to receive the pleasure that he’s so determined to give me, and that I’m more than willing to accept.

“Harlow, tell me!” he demands, his whole hand cupping my pussy possessively.

There isn’t much give beneath the confines of my jeans, and the heel of his hand is firm against my clit, making me moan loader.

“Harlow,” he insists.

“Yes, Sterling,” I groan, rocking my hips as I search for relief. My eyelids flutter shut as I whimper, “I’m yours. We’re each other’s, no matter what.”

“You’ve left out an important part,” he adds with a growl, my eyes snapping open as he leans over me, his face inches from mine. It’s so dark, and he’s so close that I can barely make out his features as the moon slips behind a swathe of cloud. “If you want to come you need to promise me that there willneverbe anyone else.”

“There won’t!” I cry, so close to coming that I’m panting.

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