Page 12 of Beautiful Desire
If Georgia thinks her little attitude is going to stop me, she clearly has no clue who she’s dealing with. My dad is ten times the asshole she is, and I was raised by him, so I can deal with her with my eyes closed. I’ll be damned if I allow her to prove my dad right about me. Iwillmake it through this year, even if it fucking kills me, if only to look my father in the eye when it’s over and show him how wrong he was about me. Which is exactly why I showed up at this goddamn store today, even though everything inside of me was screaming to tell her and my dad to fuck off. I hate how much I need the carrot he’s dangling over my head.
As if what he’s doing isn’t fucked up enough, he justhadto pick the one infuriating person I’ve had the hots for since I was a teenager. She’s my stepsister and the last person I should be attracted to, but it’s always been that way. It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been with my fair share of women, and not a single one of them would be considered loud or domineering. That isn’t my type…like, at all. In fact, my preference tends to lean more toward quiet, meek women. Somebody whowantsto be told what to do. A woman whoenjoysmaking me happy.
Georgia is the polar opposite of what I’m into, so I don’t understand this attraction. And Idefinitelydon’t understand the way my body reacted to her the other day. It was crystal clear she wasn’t backing down, with her brow cocked, arms crossed, nearly distracting me with her huge tits pressed together, and the corner of her mouth twitching ever-so-slightly, daring me to argue with her.
I was done for by the time she uttered “good boy.” An onslaught of arousal flooded my system, and I still don’t know how I made it back to my room without any of them spotting the imprint of myveryhard erection against my leg. Those two words and the condescending way she spoke them filled me with such a raw, carnal need; it burned through me like molten lava. I barely had enough time to shut the door before my shorts were shoved down and I was wrapping a tight fist around my throbbing cock. My release barreled through me with such urgency and force, I had to bite down on my lip so hard I tasted copper, just to stifle the groan that clawed up my throat. And now, here we are again… Georgia, being a patronizing fucking bitch, and me, simultaneously pissed off and foaming at the mouth because of it.
Make it make sense.
After she grabs whatever she needs from the back, I can’t help but watch as she walks through the store toward the front door. Shoulders back and her head held high, she’s a force. Confidence oozes from her pores, and the sweet smile she gives customers as she catches their eye is radiant, lighting up the whole room. The high-waisted jeans and white crop top she’s wearing show off her soft, voluptuous figure, and the white Nike’s on her feet, with the slight platform, accentuate her long legs. Georgia isn’t small by any means, only an inch or two shorter than my six-foot stature, but she wears it exceptionally well. Her brown hair hangs down her back in loose curls, coming to a stop right above her round ass, which I can’t help but notice—and appreciate.
I just fucking know grabbing onto an ass like that while balls deep in her tight, hot cunt would be heavenly.
“Uh, hello?” Turning my head, I find a hot blonde standing at the counter in front of me, a stack of books in hand as she smiles over at me.Damn.I didn’t even hear her approach because I waszoning out and fantasizing about fucking mystepsister.What the hell is wrong with me? Pull it together, Fletcher.“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Just need to check out.” She giggles as she sets the books down in front of her.
Clearing my throat, I take everything from her and set them down beside the register. “Find everything okay?”
“I did. Thank you for asking.” Tilting her head to the side, her blue eyes sparkle as they hold my gaze. “Are you new? Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before.”
“First day, actually.” I flash her a toothy grin, my eyes raking down the front of her, before coming back up to her face. “How am I doing?”
Her lips curl into a flirty smirk as she, too, gives me a once-over. “Zero complaints from here.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“Absolutely.” She nods, breathing out another giggle as she counts on her fingers. “You’re friendly, attentive,veryeasy on the eyes. What more could a girl ask for from her cashier?”
Nowthisis my type. This is the type of woman I’d go for, and I know, based on the way she’s looking at me, she’d be down. Shit, she’s practicallybeggingme to ask for her number, with the sparkle in her eye and the way she’s not-so-subtly pushing out her chest. I’ll bet sinking her would be a lot of fun. In fact, it’s probably exactly what I need. A little no-strings, sweaty fun to get my mind off my fucking stepsister and the fact that I’ve been exiled to this shitty fucking town. The thought of Georgia has herlessonin manners coming to mind, and I huff out an amused breath as my mouth ticks up at the corner, deciding to give it a go right now.
“’Preciate it, ma’am,” I offer, cringing when my ears pick up on that faint southern drawl I’ve spent my whole life correcting. It’s something my father drilled into me from an early age.“The St. James men are businessmen, son,”he would announce ina stern voice.“If you want the world to take you seriously, you can’t conduct business sounding like you just came from a Honky-tonk.”
A chuckle bubbles out of her. “Oh, please, not thema’am.” Waving her hand in front of her casually, she says, “Ma’am is for the old biddies. You can call me Tara.” She winks.
“Well, all right, Tara.” I finish bagging up her books, a grin curling my lips. “If that’s all for you, the total is forty-seven fifty-two.” After she swipes her card, I hand her the receipt to sign. “And how about you be a doll and write down your number for me next to your signature.”
She giggles and rolls her eyes playfully before doing just that. Sliding the paper across the counter, she says, “Call me and I can give you a proper tour of the town.”
“Does the tour end at your place?” I ask, arching a brow as I hand her the bag.
“If you play your cards right.” Purposely letting her fingers brush against mine, she smirks and tosses me a wink before walking off.
Yeah, she’s exactly the type of distraction I need.
About thirty minutes pass before Georgia returns. She doesn’t spare me a single glance as she saunters into the back, with a sleeve of iced coffees in one hand, and a white paper bag, presumably with filled with pastries, in the other. I don’t see her for the rest of the afternoon until about three, when she leaves for the day.
The rest of my shift drags on nauseatingly slowly, but without issue, like I figured it would. It’s a little after five by the time I get home, and as I step into the house, my stomach grumbles as the aroma of something delicious reaches my nostrils. Stopping in the kitchen, I switch on the oven light and see Georgia’s got what looks to be chicken pot pie baking in there. Since moving in, I’venoticed Georgia doesn’t cook every night, but on the nights she does, it’s always fucking delicious.
She also seems to take pity on me because she always makes enough for me to have some too, which I appreciate, since I’m fucking broke and don’t know how to cook anything. My dad had a chef in the house while I was growing up, and when I moved out, I hired my own or ordered out, so I’ve never had to learn. This living on a budget sucks, especially when groceries are as expensive as they are, and I can’t afford take-out. If it weren’t for the food already in the house—that I now have to chip in for, apparently—and Georgia cooking, I’d probably starve. Another thing my dad would say builds character. My stepsister may be infuriating as all hell, but she certainly knows her way around a kitchen. I’ll give her that.
Speaking of… Where the hell is she?
After I check the living room and the backyard, where she usually hangs out, I decide to chill in my room while I wait for dinner to be ready. As I’m walking down the hall, I notice the door to the room beside Georgia’s that’s always shut is propped open, and as I approach, the faint sound of music reaches my ears. Glancing in through the couple of inches of space between the door and the jamb, I find her standing in front of a large folding table, pouring something into tin containers as she sings along to whatever girly pop song is playing.
I rap my knuckles against the wood before pushing the door open the rest of the way. Her focused gaze lifts to meet mine as I walk into the room. Coming to a stop in front of the table, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Making candles,” she replies, offering nothing more as her attention returns to the small tins in front of her.
My face screws up. “What for?”
