Tool Page 6

  His cock…

  I glance over at the closed closet door, knowing what's behind it.   Only Gaige would gift-wrap his fucking dick.   I'm sure his idea of a present is to gift-wrap the real thing.   The image of Gaige O'Neal, naked, a big red bow tied around his cock, flashes in my head, and it makes me laugh for a second.   Except that it's hotter than it is funny.

  Heat rushes through my body at the thought of Gaige's touch, and I try to put him out of my head.   Thoughts of Gaige don't need to occupy my head.   I might have known Gaige years ago but a long time has passed since I saw him last, and he's changed.   Hell, I've changed.   Neither of us are the same people anymore.

  I've matured.

  When an idea pops into my head a minute later, I can't help but giggle.   What I'm about to do is definitely not mature.

  Fuck, it's good to be back.   Closing the door to the guesthouse behind me, I head straight to the bedroom.   Maybe it's just my damn leg, but it's been a long time since I've been as exhausted as I am now.   Parties and girls and booze used to be fun – what could be better?

  Delaney never texted me back; I guess she was too busy with whoever she's dating.   Well, screw that.   And screw her.

  Stripping off my clothes, I drop them in a pile on the floor, turning on the shower before I wander back into the bedroom.   I open the bureau drawer to grab new clothes before I head up to the house for dinner and – the drawer is filled with condoms, not clothes.   What the fuck?  One by one, I yank open the rest of the drawers, and it's all the same.   Condoms, condoms, and more condoms, a rainbow of every color imaginable.

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  When I pull open the closet, a wave of condoms pours out on me.   A piece of paper flutters to the floor, and I pick it up.

  Wrap Your Tool

  Maybe Delaney Marlowe does still have a sense of humor after all.

  I find myself whistling as I remove my boot and take a shower.   I'm even whistling as I dig through my suitcase for clothes because I don't know where the fuck my clothes are now.   Delaney could have burned the lot of everything¸ for all I know.   I don't know what kind of nutjob you'd have to be to do something like that, but I wouldn't put it past her.

  I pull out my phone and send Delaney a text.

  Got your present.   I assume you'd like to use all of them?  It's a tall order, but I think I can rise to the occasion.

  I'm flipping through the channels on the television when she texts me back.

  With the way you go through girls, I think you'll do just fine without any help from me.

  With the way I go through girls.   Shit, a couple months ago and I'd have gotten some use out of Delaney's little prank.   Now, though…

  I thumb absently through the contact list on my phone.   There are a few chicks in my list, booty calls who've proven they can show up at 3 a. m. and leave the next day without being total psychos.   I should be banging my way through this list.   It's the only way to get Delaney out of my head.

  I just don't know why that idea seems so fucking boring.   Or why the prospect of screwing with my stepsister is so much more appealing.

  When Delaney comes home from work to see me sitting in the leather armchair in her room, my feet propped up on the ottoman, reading a novel, a smile crosses her lips, but she quickly hides it.   "What are you doing in my room?" Delaney asks.   "Haven't you ever heard of privacy?"

  "Well, that's not hypocritical of you at all, Delaney Marlowe. "

  "I didn't linger after leaving the condoms," she says.   "How long have you been here?"

  "Long enough," I say, my gaze trailing down the length of her body.   Delaney has a way of making even the most conservative outfit look sexual.   She's not wearing those fuck-me boots this time, but the heels she has on make her legs look positively indecent.   They're an inch too high to be appropriate office attire, putting them squarely in the category of being hot-as-fuck.   Now all I can think about is her wearing nothing but those shoes.

  "Long enough to what?" Delaney asks, exasperated.   "What are you staring at?"

  "Your shoes," I say.

  She looks down at her feet, her hair falling forward, the way it did in my dream when she was on her knees.   I have to shift uncomfortably in my seat at the thought of Delaney on her knees between my legs.   "What's wrong with them?"

  "Nothing," I say.   "Everything's right with them.   The heels would make perfect handles. "

  She scrunches up her forehead, wrinkling her nose at the same time, like she's smelling something funny.   I don't think she knows she does it, but it's the same thing she used to do when we were teenagers.   It's cute.   She kicks her foot up and looks at her heel, then back at me.   "What are you talking about, handles?"

  Is she playing coy, or does she literally not know what I'm getting at?  "They'd make great handles, if your feet were above your head," I repeat.   "Would you like a demonstration?"

  I stand up and cross the room, even though she waves me down.

  "Thanks for that lovely image," she says.   Her face is flushed red.

  "You're blushing. "

  "Because you're vulgar," she says.

  "Keep wearing shoes like that, and don't expect me to be civilized. "  I'm standing so close to her that when I breathe in, I can smell the scent of her shampoo again, cookie-flavored something or other that makes me hungry.

  "I don't think you can be civilized," she says.   "I'm not sure you have the capacity. "

  "I'll take that as a compliment. "

  "I didn't mean it as one. "

  "I don't know," I say.   "I think you like the fact that I'm vulgar. "

  "I think you're deluded. "

  "You're the one who filled my drawers with condoms," I point out.   "It doesn't take Freud to figure out the meaning behind that. "

  Her eyes open wider.   "You gave me a model of your…"

  "Cock?" I shrug.   "I thought it might help you visualize me better when you're touching yourself, darlin'. "

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  "I don't visualize you at all, thank you very much," she says.

  "No?" I ask, reaching up to move a strand of hair off her shoulder.   My hand grazes her collarbone, and I lean in close to her, my mouth near her ear.   "Well, I think about you. "

  When I pull away, she looks at me, her mouth open slightly.   "Gaige, I –"

  "I know," I say.   "We have to keep it professional. "

  Her expression shifts and she runs her hands down the sides of her skirt.   "Professional.   Yes.   Exactly. We're friends.   I'd like to stay friends. "

  "So you don't want to hear what I've thought about you, then. "

  "No.   Definitely not. "

  I lean close to her, my lips near her ear.   "Then I definitely won't tell you that I've thought about running my fingers along the inside of your thigh, until I reach that little crease at the top, near your pussy. "

  "Gaige –" She says my name, protesting, but it's weak, and she doesn't move away.   I slide my hand around her waist, to the small of her back.

  "I definitely won't tell you that I've thought about the expression you'd make when I touch my fingers to your pussy lips for the first time. "

  "No," she says.   "Don't. "

  But she doesn't move.   I pull her tight against my growing hardness, and she puts her palms on my chest.   I'm not sure if she's about to push me away or not.   She doesn't look at me, and I speak softly again close to her ear.   "I definitely won't tell you that I've thought about how warm and wet you'd feel, how slick you'd be as I slide my fingers inside you. "

  Delaney makes a sound in the bottom of her throat, something like a mix between clearing her throat and a moan.   "You can't say –"

  "I'm not saying anything, Delaney," I say.   "Certainly not that I've thought about how you'd look riding my face. "

  Now she looks at me, her eyes wide.   "Y
ou can't say things like that. "

  "Things like how I want to hold your hips down against me while you sit on my face and come on my tongue?" I whisper.

  Delaney breathes in, her chest rising sharply.   I can see the faintest hint of cleavage from the top of that button-down shirt she wears.   There's something about the way she keeps herself entirely covered up that makes it almost as revealing as if she were standing here naked in front of me.   "Yes," she says softly, her voice breathy.   "Like that. "

  "Then I won't say any of those things. "  I let go of her, and step back, despite the fact that my cock is throbbing, my erection pushed so tight against the front of my jeans that it's painful.   I'm so hard I'm going to explode.   "But I'll think about them next door. "

  She does that thing with her forehead again, and scrunches up her nose.   "What?"  Her breath is still short, and she's standing there, with her fingertips on her lips.   I need to get the hell out of here before I change my mind and rip off her fucking clothes right now.

  "Oh, I forgot to mention that," I say.   "While you were at work today, I moved in to the room next door. "

  Her eyes go wide.   "You did not. "

  I smile broadly, and lean in close to her again.   "I did.   So I'll be close by.   In case you ever decide you need some…relief.   In fact, if it helps, know that I'll be next door thinking about you when I come. "

  I don't wait for her response before I leave her room, shutting the door behind me.

  I'm standing here in my room, staring at the closed door like an idiot.   As if none of that just happened.   As if the throbbing between my legs is nothing.

  Gaige is next door, with his hand on his cock, thinking about you.

  Gaige's bedroom door closes, and I hear him moving around his room.   These walls are paper-thin.   I can't believe Gaige had the balls to move from the guesthouse to the main house – and not just the main house, but the room next door – just to mess with me.   There are twelve bedrooms in this house, and Gaige picked the one next to mine.

  He definitely wants to mess with you.

  I'm not sure whether I'm more turned on or irritated.   After his trip to Vegas with Chelsea and God knows how many other girls – I can only imagine the number – Gaige has the balls to stand here, pressed up against me, telling me what he wants to do to me.

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  The really filthy things he wants to do to me.

  He has absolutely zero shame.

  You're the one who put condoms in his room.   The thought flashes in my head, and I quickly try to push it aside.

  I wonder if he's actually jerking off in his bedroom.   He sure didn't fake the erection that was pressed up against me when he pulled me close to him.

  And there's definitely no faking the wetness between my legs.   If Gaige would have made good on his threat to slide his fingers between my thighs, he would have realized it immediately.   And I'm not sure I would have protested.

  I cross the bedroom to lock the door – who knows if Gaige will return – and shed my office clothes piece by piece, unable to get Gaige out of my thoughts.   I make a valiant effort at trying to distract myself by running through all kinds of other things in my head – work stuff, my to-do list, the fucking state capitols in alphabetical order.

  Anything other than thinking about Gaige next door.   Gaige with his hand on his cock.   Gaige fantasizing about me.   Gaige on the other side of the wall, running his hand along his length like he said he would.

  The throbbing between my legs becomes more insistent, and I grab a novel I've been reading, flopping onto the bed and flipping open the book, my eyes landing right on…a sex scene.   I slam the book closed.   Choosing a romance novel to distract myself is entirely unhelpful.

  I can't stop visualizing Gaige, naked, his hand on his cock.   And there are a million damn reasons why I shouldn't be thinking about Gaige naked.   I make a mental checklist in my head:  Manwhore – check.   Past history with him – check.   Professional relationship – check.   Stepbrother – double fucking check.

  Next door, Gaige is silent.   I wonder if he really jerked off.   I wonder if he thought about me.   I wonder if he finished already.   I wonder what he looks like when he comes.

  Damn it, Delaney.   You have to stop.

  Focus on something else.

  Like the fact that my nipples are basically as hard as rocks against the fabric of my bra.   And that my panties are damp.

  I slide my finger down the front of my panties, thinking about what Gaige said.

  How you'd feel as I touched my fingers to your pussy lips, the expression on your face…

  I slide my finger lower, between my lips, slick with wetness, the wetness Gaige is responsible for creating.

  How slick you'd be as I slid my fingers inside you…

  I picture Gaige naked above me, giving me that knowing grin as he reaches between my legs, spreading my lips with his fingers and plunging them inside me.   I stroke myself slowly, the way I imagine Gaige would touch me, bringing myself higher and higher.

  The thought creeps into my head – this is wrong.   But I push it away.   Your stepbrother is right next door.

  I picture Gaige next door, stroking himself, thinking about me as he comes.   It's when I'm picturing him that I glance up at the closet door.   Behind that door is Gaige's cock, the dildo he made.   I'd stuffed it back in that box and hid it in the closet.   Do I dare?

  It's not like anyone would ever know.   It's probably not even Gaige's anyway.   I'm a thousand percent positive it's something he bought at an adult store, so why shouldn't I use it?

  I slide my hand from between my legs and go to the closet before I can change my mind, rummaging through the assorted odds and ends until I find the box.   Gaige's cock.

  I strip off my panties and bra and slide into the bed naked, the sheets cool against my skin.   I take a long look at the dildo.   I'm about to lie in bed and fuck myself with a dildo made from a mold of my stepbrother's cock, while he's right next door, jerking off while he fantasizes about me.

  My life sounds like a fucking porno.

  Except it isn't.   I haven't gotten laid in six months.   And I can't even think straight.   I might be losing my mind.   But I don't care, not right now, anyway.

  I lay back again, pressing the head of the cock against my entrance, coating it in my wetness.   I'm going to go insane if I don't come.

  I stroke my clit in slow circles with my finger, sending pulses of pleasure through my body, and press my stepbrother's cock slowly inside my entrance, my muscles stretching to accommodate its girth.

  I imagine Gaige in the room next to me, thinking about me while he strokes his dick, his hand moving up and down his length, over and over.   Back when we were eighteen, I tried to touch him once, slid my hand down to reach between his legs, and he grabbed my wrist to stop me.   "No," he growled at me.   "Not now.   We'll do this right. "

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  I never found out what doing it right meant.

  But now, I picture it in my mind's eye.   I imagine Gaige thrusting his cock inside me, slowly at first as he stretches me, then picking up speed, his movements a regular rhythm that matches my hips as I arch up to meet him.   Each thrust brings him deeper and deeper inside me, aided by my wetness, until I'm completely filled with him.   I mimic our movements, thrusting the dildo further inside me.

  "Come for me, Delaney. " I picture his mouth close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin.   "I want to feel you come on me. "

  I'm so close to the edge, the pent up frustration making me even more ready, filled to the hilt with the replica of Gaige's cock inside me.   I imagine Gaige with his hand on his cock, his warm cum spilling from his dick and over his hand.

  The thought pushes me over the edge, and I come hard, my whole body jerking as my muscles tighten around the dildo.   I don't re
alize that I've made any noise until I hear knocking, and I startle, thinking it's someone at the door.

  But of course it isn't.   It's Gaige.

  When I cross to the other side of the room, I can hear him chuckling through the wall.

  Damn it.   He totally knows.

  "It's strange that the guesthouse needed fumigated," Anja says.   "And so suddenly, too. "

  I look up at Gaige, and he winks at me, but my father and stepmother fail to notice.   Anja seems to be cutting microscopic-sized slices off the edge of her chicken breast and my father is similarly focused on his meal.   There's obvious tension between them; I wonder how long they've been having problems.

  "Termites," Gaige says, and I glare at him through narrowed eyes.   The liar.   "It's a good thing I noticed. "

  "We should probably have the main house checked for them, too," my father says, and I give Gaige a look.   I can't believe he's faking termites just to get himself into the room next to me.   He's obviously a crazy person.

  "I already had the guy do it," Gaige says.   "There are no problems with the main house. "

  "Well, thank you, Gaige.   You're really on top of things. "

  Anja laughs, the sound bitter.   "On top of a termite issue," she says, her voice sharp.   "Useless in every other way. "

  I swallow hard.   I don't remember her being so. . . mean. . . to Gaige before.

  "Anja, that's uncalled for," my father says, his tone warning.

  "It's okay," Gaige says.   "Not all of us have the luxury of attending luncheons instead of working. "

  I clear my throat, trying to cut through the tension in the room.   But I don't have anything to say.   Luckily, my father saves me, quickly changing the subject.

  "Vegas," he says.   "Was it productive?"

  Great.   He saves me by asking the worst question ever.   I definitely don't want to hear about Gaige's Vegas exploits.

  Anja snorts.   "Speaking of not working," she says.   "I don't know when partying at a Vegas nightclub started to count as work. "

  "I feel the same way about being a human clothes hanger," Gaige says.

  Anja sniffs.   "Modeling involves skill," she says.   She sips clear liquid from a crystal tumbler that's obviously not water, and I'm pretty sure she's half in the bag already.

  "Fortunately, being a washed up model involves no skill at all," Gaige says.

  "Gaige," my father warns.   He doesn't look at Anja.   He's unhappy; I can see the dark circles under his eyes, and the lines that crease his face, deeper than a few years ago.   He's aged, and I wonder why I didn't notice it before.