A Very Dirty Christmas Read online

  "Thanks," she says, opening the door to leave. Her hair is still mussed and the dark eyeliner smudged around her eyes makes her look sexier than she did last night.

  Thanks? Who the hell says that after a hook-up, especially after a fuck like that? I don't know what to say, so I just grunt and turn over in bed, listening to the door close behind her.

  It's just a screw, right? No big deal.

  Except I can't get her out of my head.

  It should be one for the record books. I should Brighton Bingo that shit and rub it in the face of each one of those dumb jocks: I bagged Katherine Harrison and, even better, punched her v-card. But I don't say anything.

  With all the pre-graduation stuff going on, it's easy to be busy, but even so, I swear she's laying low, avoiding me. And I avoid her right back. Hit it and quit it, that's my philosophy. What I'm thinking about the whole time is how I really just need to bang some other girl to erase the memory of Kate. Wipe the slate clean.

  But I don't. It just festers, eating at me like some kind of disease.

  The only reason I show up here with my mother at all is because I just can't help myself. I have this perverse need to see the look on Katherine's face when she sees me.

  It's worth the effort. Katherine just looks so....pissed off when she sees me. She looks at me like I'm pond scum. But I can't stop thinking about fucking her.

  I'm through a second cigarette by the time I'm finished stewing over Katherine, and I'm about to light up a third when a voice from the sidewalk makes me look up.

  "Hey Caulter!" The man in wrinkled cargo pants, messenger bag lying on the sidewalk at his feet, brings the camera to his face and clicks.

  I light my cigarette and take a drag on it as he continues to click away, before I give him the finger. I make a point of standing there unmoving, flipping him off, while I take one more drag, put it out, and grind the butt of it into Senator fucking Harrison's perfectly manicured lawn.

  The paparazzi are parasites.

  I guess the cat is out of the bag -- well, not the real secret, the one Katherine's so terrified I'm going to spill. As if I want everyone knowing anyway.

  I go back in the house, momentarily considering the fact that I don't have to do this whole summer thing. I could say fuck it, and blow the whole thing off.

  Of course, my trust fund is in jeopardy. So I make the deal with my mother. It's like that guy, Faust, the one who sells his soul to the devil. Ella made me an offer I couldn't refuse. So I'm going to play along, join my new family for the summer.

  Besides, how can I resist the thought of getting under Katherine's skin all summer long?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Katherine

  I run my fingers down his chest, tracing the ridge between his pectoral muscles and down over his nipple. He makes this sound like something you'd hear from an animal, deep and low in his throat, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. It's primal, like he's a predator and I'm the prey. Except that he's the one lying on his back, and I'm the one straddling him, my knees on either side of his body. His cock is bare, warm between my legs, and when I push down on his shaft, he groans my name.

  "Kate."

  He repeats the word again, and I don't wait for him to say it a third time. I just guide him inside, aided by my wetness. I savor the feeling of his thickness filling me up. Riding him, skin to skin, his cock bare inside me, I fuck him. It feels familiar, like I've done this a million times before. But it's a thousand times better now than it was the first time.

  His hands slide up the sides of my waist to my chest, and he palms my breasts, his thumbs grazing my hard nipples. I begin to let go, abandoning myself to the sensation of being with him, riding him as he brings me higher and higher.

  I'm so close, and he grabs my waist tighter, his hands pushing me down hard on his cock, his thrusts shorter and more frequent.

  "Kate," he says. "I want you to fucking come on me." I'm on the edge, so close, about to crash over.

  ***

  I jolt upright in bed, the pounding in my chest mimicking the throbbing between my legs. A sex dream about Caulter? It's like my brain is practicing mutiny. My nipples press against the fabric of my bra. Shit, I'm wearing a bra. And my jeans and t-shirt from yesterday. My mouth tastes like crap.

  Silver morning sunlight streams through the bedroom window, and I can't believe I've slept through the night. The last thing I remember is putting my head down on the pillow so I could just close my eyes for a moment, figuring it was only a matter of time until my father came upstairs to have some kind of chat about the engagement. I can't believe they let me sleep.

  I slide out of bed, wincing at the cottonmouth I've developed, and pad lightly down the hallway to the bathroom. I feel like I'm doing the walk of shame or something, still dressed in my clothes from the night before, and I'm immediately reminded of that night with Caulter.

  As if my brain needs another reminder. The sex dream has me on edge; I can't quite tell if I'm irritated or horny.

  Peeling off my t-shirt, I wince at the damp spot on the back where I've sweat through it. Surely I must be feverish; at least that would explain the sex dream. I drop it on the floor and step out of my jeans. Toothbrush. I need a toothbrush. I dig through the medicine cabinet over the sink, looking for a toothbrush, and then bend over, yanking the handle on the cabinet below.

  The cool rush of air hits me before my ears even register the sound of the bathroom door opening, and I jump up immediately.

  "Nice panties."

  I whirl around to see Caulter in the doorway, his hair -- shaved on the sides, the longer part mussed -- standing up in every direction. Shirtless. He's wearing these pajama pants, grey cotton, the fabric so thin it clings to every part of him. Every part of him. The way they drape makes it worse than if he were standing here in front of me buck naked. The way he looks just screams sex, especially given the fact that his dick is hard. Like, rock hard.

  And I can't stop looking at it.

  Caulter notices and smirks. "Do you like what you see?" he asks. "You can give it another try if you want. I'm up for it."

  "You're vulgar," I hiss. "You're in my bathroom. And the door is wide open." And I'm standing here in my underwear, I realize immediately; it's like my brain is slow this morning. I cover my chest with my arm and reach for the pile of clothes on the floor, shielding my crotch. Oh my God, I'm wearing granny panties.

  He steps inside and closes the door behind him. "Better?"

  "That wasn't an invitation," I say. "What's wrong with you? Get out of my bathroom. Don't you have any boundaries?"

  "You're the one who was griping that the door was open," he says. "I wouldn't want anyone to walk in on you staring at my cock like it's a piece of steak and you're a starving animal."

  "You're delusional," I say, gritting my teeth. "Thinking I'm staring at your cock. And turn around, so I can put some clothes on."

  I'm almost surprised when he actually does, and I scramble to slide my legs back in my jeans.

  "Sure you want to bother putting those jeans on?" he asks. "It's not like I haven't seen it already. Besides, those panties aren't exactly… revealing."

  Cringing at the fact that he's just seen me in panties that are practically the size of a bed sheet, I slip my shirt over my head. "I thought we agreed to never speak about the incident again. Why are you still in here, anyway? I told you to leave."

  "The incident?" He asks. "Is that what we're calling it now? You're the one who told me to close the bathroom door behind me."

  He's still turned around, so I take the opportunity to let my eyes linger on the expanse of his bare back. His muscles are defined, from his shoulders down the length of his trim body, the gentle V-shape of his back coming to a taper where his waist is partially hidden by the band on his pants. I pause, stopping to check out his perfectly shaped ass, remembering how it felt in my hands that night.

  Caulter turns around and catches me, and I feel my face flush with heat. H
e gives me that look, the smugly self-satisfied look that says he knows I was checking him out. His cock is still rock hard, and I wonder if that's normal. That can't be normal, right? He must have some kind of medical condition. It can't be typical for him to be carrying on a conversation like this, with a giant erection. And I mean that literally. He's not exactly small.

  The fact that he's standing here, rock hard, annoys me. I don't need a reminder of that night staring me right in the damn face. "You knew I meant that you needed to get out of here, not close the door behind you and invite yourself inside. Obviously. Normal people don't do that." I gesture toward the giant tent pitched in his pants. "Are you going to do something about that?"

  "Do you want to help me do something about this, Princess?" he asks, his tone sing-songy. He practically leers at me.

  "Ugh," I say. "Don't be disgusting. Just – ugh. Why is it still… hard? And why do you have to be such a pervert?"

  "Oh, how cute," he says, turning away from me and heading towards the toilet. "You think it's because I think you're hot. You really are virginal, aren't you? It's morning wood, Princess. Nothing personal."

  "Oh my God, are you about to take a leak in here, right in front of me?" I ask.

  "Well, I came in here to take a leak and since you're insisting on running your mouth instead of getting out of the bathroom and letting me do my business, then yeah, I'm about to take a leak in here." He hooked his thumb under the waistband of his pants, and looks at me. "Do you want to stay and watch? You're probably into some kinky shit like water sports, aren't you?"

  I don't even know what water sports are, and I don't think I want to know. "You're the most disgusting person I've ever met."

  "Oh, give it time, Princess," he says, dropping his pants. I can see his cock from the side, and his right ass cheek. I can't believe he just stripped down in front of me like I'm not even here. "You ain't seen nothing yet. And I'm going to be around all summer long."

  I don't know if that's supposed to be a threat or an innuendo, and I don't want to know. Not even bothering to try to hide my irritation, I huff out of the bathroom and shut the door behind me, probably too loudly. Back in my room, I resolve to stay the hell away from Caulter. He's a crude pig who is clearly just trying to get a rise out of me. And it's totally working.

  Did he just say that I'm really going to be stuck with him all summer?

  I knew I'd be sent to our vacation home in New Hampshire for the summer while my father finished up his term in DC before the Senate broke for summer session. That's usually how my summers go. But having Caulter join us? Bad boy Caulter is the last person I'd really expect to fall in line and play along with some "we're one big happy family" routine.

  I wonder what Caulter has up his sleeve. That's what I should be focusing on. Instead of what he has in his pants.

  ***

  "Good morning, Katherine," Ella says. It's only seven, but I've already been out to my car to grab my bag, and in and out of the shower. There was no sign of Caulter in the bathroom this time, thank God. At least that's something. "Did you sleep well?"

  I blush, remembering the dream. Nightmare is a better word for it. Did I sleep well? With vivid dreams of Caulter's dick running through my head, followed by the greeting I got in the bathroom this morning? I wonder if I'm ever going to sleep again. It's like my life is turning into some kind of porno. But without the sex, I remind myself. There's going to be no more sex.

  Even if he has the sweetest looking body I've ever seen, tall and lanky with washboard abs. He's off limits. And not just because he's my new stepbrother -- I mean, we're not even related, sure, but I can't even fathom the scandal that would involve -- but because it's Caulter. He's the crudest, filthiest, sluttiest guy I've ever met in my life. I have absolutely no business wanting him.

  I'm afraid the summer is going to involve a lot of cold showers.

  I clear my throat. "I slept great," I said.

  Ella sips from a glass of what appears to be green sludge. It's seven in the morning, and she's perfect, even without a lick of makeup, her skin alabaster and unblemished. She's wearing yoga pants and a tank top that cuts off at her midriff, revealing her trim abdomen. Standing here in front of her makes me suddenly aware of the five pounds I gained writing my graduation speech a few weeks ago, when I was subsisting on energy drinks and candy. I just know she's the kind of person who doesn't eat sugar. Or caffeine. And who wakes up at some ungodly hour in the morning to do yoga and meditate before she heads to the gym.

  "I told your father it was probably best to not disturb you last night," she says. "The way you found out about the engagement was...abrupt. And I'm sure you're exhausted after finals and graduation."

  I nod. I don't know what to say. I know she's being nice, trying to console me or whatever, since it was probably my father's idea to spring that shit on me with no warning, but it's just too damn early in the morning for some kind of bonding experience with the breathtakingly gorgeous and much too perfect celebrity standing in my kitchen. "Is my father around here?"

  "He's out for a run," she says. "It's one of his longer runs. He's training for a marathon."

  Of course he is, I think. I don't remember my father being into running. "Is there coffee around here somewhere?"

  "We've cleaned out the pantry," Ella says. We, I note. "Your father doesn't drink caffeine anymore. But there's an herbal coffee alternative on the counter. It's so much better for you than coffee, and it has a cleansing effect."

  I turn toward her, my un-caffeinated brain refusing to process what she's saying. Have I actually descended into the seventh circle of Hell? "So there's no coffee in the house," I say, my voice flat.

  Ella looks at me, her expression so earnest it makes me almost want to forgive her. "I - I should have gotten some."

  "It's okay." I turn and lean against the kitchen counter. Am I expected to stand here and politely converse, without even having a coffee? Is that how they do it in Hollywood? It seems cruel and unusual. "I'm just going to go find a coffee shop."

  "Oh." Ella looks positively heartbroken, as if she's failed at some new fiancé test. I just don't have the energy to reassure her right now.

  "Do you want anything from the coffee shop?" I ask. "Like...a bagel or something?"

  She wrinkles her nose. Ah, of course not. Carbs. I'm sure she doesn't eat them. "Uh...No thank you," she says.

  I grab my wallet upstairs and slip out the door, relieved to get out of the house.

  "Following me?" Caulter stands at the corner of the house, and casually blows smoke rings in my direction.

  "Of course not," I say, annoyed. "There's no coffee in this place. I'm getting caffeine. I can't think."

  "Oh yeah." He laughs. "Did she try to offer you that herbal shit?"

  "You mean the green crap she's drinking? What is that stuff? It smells like fish."

  Caulter snorts. "It's like algae and seaweed or something, I don't know. It's rancid, right? Like a milkshake made of fish tank. But no, I mean the coffee substitute."

  "Yeah, some herbal thing?" I ask.

  He laughs. "It'll make you shit something fierce. Don't do it." Then he looks up at me. "Of course, it might help with that stick up your ass."

  "Seriously, I knew you couldn't go two minutes without being a dick." I step down, and Caulter calls my name. "What?" I ask, my voice clipped.

  "That's what I'm talking about, Princess," he says. "You need to get a fucking sense of humor."

  "Sure, Caulter." I turn to walk away, but he calls my name again. "What?"

  "Here," he says. "You want one?" He holds up one of those canned espresso drinks, and then tosses it to me.

  I pop the top and gulp down the life-saving liquid as I walk toward where he's standing. He turns his head and blows a trail of smoke to the side. "That's a disgusting habit," I say. "You're going to get cancer."

  "I give you coffee, and you come over here to lecture me about my hobbies," he says. "Those are some bad fucking
manners."

  "Thanks for the coffee." I take another sip, and look at the empty can by his feet. "So you're out here mainlining caffeine and nicotine, or what?"

  "Gotta have my fix," he says, looking at me, his gaze steady. "I mean, I prefer a good morning fuck to wake me up."

  "Well, it's a good thing you've got the coffee and the cigarettes, then."

  Caulter shrugs. "Let me know if you change your mind, Princess. I can be ready in five seconds."

  "Don't hold your breath."

  Caulter finishes his cigarette, and holds up his middle finger. I follow his gaze out the small front yard to the sidewalk, toward the guy standing on the other side of the wall, his head visible above the brick.

  "How long has that photographer been there?" I ask, turning my back and facing Caulter.

  "A while," Caulter says, shrugging. "He was there yesterday. It's just one."

  "Just one?" I reach for Caulter's arm and pull it down. "Are you crazy? What the hell do you think you're doing, flipping him off?"

  "Relax," he says. "They're assholes. We've developed a routine, this guy and I. It's like symbiotic and shit. He takes pictures of me; I smoke and give him the finger. He's taken enough of me flipping him off, so he's bored with it now."

  "Yeah, well, he hasn't taken pictures of me," I say. "And my father is about to start his re-election campaign. That's just what he needs, photos of you flipping off photographers."

  "Chill the fuck out, Princess," he says. "He'll snap a few photos of us out here and be done with it. We're not the real story. He wants our parents."

  I'm used to my father being in the spotlight. He's a Senator, after all. But Senators aren't really in the spotlight like this, not with paparazzi in front of the house. I mean, unless there's some kind of scandal, no one give that much of a crap about anyone except the President. Being my father's child means carefully staged interviews and photo sessions, not candid shots outside the house. The fact that Caulter and I are standing out here being photographed at all makes me feel anxious. And pissed off at Caulter for being so blasé about the media.