ANGELA 021

ANGELA 021
“Duncan.”

“Yeah, man.”

“We forgot Angela’s purse.”

I’m about to object. First of all, I don’t need my purse because there’s no way I’m paying for my meal. And second, my purse is in Parker’s pocket. He stuck it there when I nearly tripped over my new heels getting into the penthouse elevator. It’s a tiny thing, brand new, purchased today. I can still see its small shape in his coat from where I’m sitting.

Parker gives me another look. This one, I flat-out recognize. I remember it from my youth, when this wealthy tycoon across from me was my despised delinquent stepbrother. Keep your mouth shut.

“Oh, well, that’s too bad,” Duncan says.

“Our reservations aren’t until eight. We’ll run back.”

Duncan looks at his watch. “We won’t get much time to settle in.”

“What time is it?”

“Seven,” Duncan says.

“There and back. We should be able to be back by eight, and settle in during the first course. Open the wine, okay? Let it breathe.”

Duncan nods. I can’t see Samantha, but for some reason I imagine her hands are fixed to her hips. I feel guilty somehow because I get this unfounded impression that Samantha just got annoyed at me and my stupid, plebeian, purse-forgetting ways.

“All right. We’ll be here,” Duncan says.

The driver closes the door, locking us in well-lit silence. Parker orders his limo back to the penthouse then touches a button to raise the privacy shield.

The limo pulls from the curb. Parker fixes me with his serious brown eyes.

“You have my purse. “It’s in your pocket.”

“I know.”

“So why … ?”

He puts his hand on my bare knee.

“Samantha is important to our business, but she’s Duncan’s contact, not mine. He paired us up because he thought I needed someone respectable. Someone a guy like me is ‘supposed to’ be with.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“But I’m not that guy, Ang.”

His other hand finds my other leg. It feels warm. Something stirs inside me.

“I know you’re not.” He isn’t right now anyway — the fake-smiling, slogan-spouting thing he was while the others were in the car notwithstanding.

He slides to my side of the car, his body is flush against me.

“And I don’t want to be with someone I’m supposed to be with.’”

“Oh.”

“I want to be with someone I’m never supposed to be with.”

“I — ”

But Parker is already kissing me.

My eyes sigh closed. His hand on my thigh moves higher, and I find myself transported, traveling effortlessly back in time. I’m back in my old living room — my current living room, back in reality, away from the splendor. I’m an eighteen-year-old girl again, before my first time, my heart twittering like a little bird’s.

“I want you, Angela,” he whispers.

His hand is on my breast. My nipple hardens under his palm. I feel my lips blush, wanting his lips back where they belong.

“I want you too.”

“I’ve always wanted you.”

“I’ve missed you, Parker. It hurt so bad when you left.”

“I didn’t want to go. I had to go.”

“I didn’t want you to go. To leave me.”

“I left everything, Ang. There was no other way.”

My hand finds his chest, my fingers sliding between the buttons of his fine shirt.

“I don’t care about them. I only cared about me. You left me.”

“I was taking advantage. I couldn’t control myself.”

I’ve thought a lot about that — about how his abandonment, in a way, probably felt to Parker like a sense of grim duty. He’d always been self-effacing; he’d always hated himself; he’d always thought I was somehow better, that I was innocent and helpful, that I needed his protection. But I’m not a little girl anymore. I’ve grown stronger. I’m more than my mother’s daughter, and he’s more than his father’s son. We are our own people, and I don’t need protection from anything. Especially from Parker Altman.

“Then don’t control yourself,” I say.

He pulls back long enough to meet my eyes. I see lust, held too long at bay. I see desire. I see his haunted, hurting past. I see how much he wants me, and maybe even how much he loves me.

His hand is higher on my leg. I feel my dress riding too high on the limousine’s seat. There’s a draft from below, right up against the pretty little panties I made him turn away from when I purchased them on his tab. The panties that part of me secretly kind of hoped I was buying for him in the first place.

“You’re sure?” he says. But if I say no, it’ll kill him. I can feel his hardness as my hand brushes his crotch. I can feel the urgency, and see the need in his eyes.

I prove my certainty by unfastening his pants, freeing his cock, and bending at the waist to wrap my lips around it.

Parker moans. His head tips back. And at the same time, his hand crawls higher, now up under my dress, his fingers drawing intoxicating lines across the fabric of my moistening panties. I’m practically soaking them, I’m so wet. I yearn for him to pull the panties aside and properly touch me, but for now he’s just teasing, one finger under my dress and the other palming my left breast as it hangs behind my sucking mouth.

I stop for a second to look at his dick before swallowing it again, battling an intoxicating unreality as it hits me: I’m sucking my stepbrother’s hard cock. My legs want to spread wider at the thought, inviting him deeper, begging him for attention.

Soon, Parker will have my panties off and be sliding this big, thick shaft deep inside me.

All those nights spent with fingers on my clit, rubbing myself into one climax after another. All those nights spent wondering if Parker wanted me as badly as I wanted him. All those days I watched him, fighting emotions I knew we both felt, feeling his eyes on me. All those years with him running and me hating, with him hiding and me pretending I’d never cared. But now we’ve finally moved on.