Page 14 of Beautiful Desire (Blossom Beach #3)

Georgia

S tepping out of the shower, steam billows all around me as I grab a towel and wrap it around my body before doing the same with my hair.

It’s been a long day, and all I want to do is climb into bed and pass out.

After I slip into a pair of panties and an oversized t-shirt, I brush my teeth and then blow dry my hair, because if I don’t, I’ll wake up in the morning with an absolute mess on top of my head.

Having such thick hair is truly a blessing and a curse sometimes.

As I’m just about done, my phone lights up on the counter with a notification. Quickly glancing at the screen, I roll my eyes when I notice it’s from Fletcher. Whatever that asshole wants, it can wait until I’m done.

My mind jumps back to the…whatever the hell that was in the dining room with him a few hours ago, and as I replay everything that happened, I’m no less confused—and irritated—about the entire interaction.

By his arrogance, sure, but also with myself, for everything I said.

And now, an hour later, I still can’t figure out why I said them in the first place.

My stomach twists into a knot as I think about all the other weird interactions Fletcher and I have had since he’s moved in here, each one more inappropriate than the last. Like the way I can’t seem to stop calling him a good boy .

The first time it happened, it was meant to piss him off, and while I do think it did, I also know it turned him on too.

I could see it in the way his pupils dilated—something that didn’t even register with me until the other night, after the argument I had with him about sleeping with Tara.

“Fuck, Peach, hearing you get all growly like that really fucking gets me hard.”

Fletcher’s words from that night echo in my mind, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake them, or how they made me feel.

How they still make me feel, because that same confusing heat that pooled low in my belly as I laid in bed that night—the heat I forced myself to ignore because I couldn’t bring myself to relieve the throbbing ache between my thighs, knowing it would be my stepbrother’s voice in my ear when I came—is the same heat I’m feeling now, and I hate it.

It’s so fucked up.

Why am I getting turned on by him, of all people?

Not only does it feel wrong, with how I’ve known him since he was a fucking teenager and I’m so much older than him, but also, I can’t stand him.

Like genuinely, cannot stand being near him—even more so since his prick of a father bulldozed his way into the one thing that means the most to me, and yet, I’m turned on ?

Absolutely not.

Which is exactly why I downloaded a dating app that night and began swiping.

Clearly, I need to get all this pent-up aggression out of my system, and since I don’t trust myself to masturbate without picturing my stepbrother, the only logical solution is to find someone to get hot and sweaty between the sheets with.

I’m not a stranger to a hookup or a one-night stand.

In fact, I prefer it that way. No commitment and no ties mean no chance of developing feelings and opening myself up to getting hurt or blindsided.

But even though I have a fairly high sex drive, there have been a handful of dry spells over the last almost two decades since I’ve been single—the most recent being the last three months.

The nameless faces, the flirting and small talk with strangers I couldn’t give a shit less about, the meaningless sex…

it gets old sometimes, and I just need a break from it all, but that break clearly needs to end now before I say or do something I can’t take back—with Fletcher, of all people.

Hence me getting all dolled up and taking hot-as-hell pictures of myself tonight.

I matched with this corporate hottie who lives in the town over yesterday, and we exchanged phone numbers.

Things were getting flirty, and he suggested meeting up, so I wanted to send him some sexy full-body shots before we made any concrete plans.

As a woman who’s always been bigger, I prefer exchanging nudes—or sensual photos, at the very least—before meeting anybody for a hookup off an app.

Thankfully, I worked through my body image issues back in high school, and for the most part, I’m very confident and secure with who I am, the body I’m in, and what I bring to the table—and the bedroom—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t get a little awkward when I get naked with someone for the first time, and they weren’t expecting stretch marks and a dimply ass.

Managing expectations, especially when it’s only a physical connection you’re after, is the way to go.

But because the universe seems to have it out for me lately, Mr. Corporate Hottie’s name is Felix—another freaking ‘F’ name—and since I had texted Fletcher about going to the store, their names were right next to each other in my inbox, which is how Fletcher ended up with the nearly naked picture.

Hair finally dried, I throw it in a quick, loose French braid and tie it with a silk scrunchie—because we like healthy hair over here—before I grab my phone off the counter, flick off the bathroom light, and pad into my room.

I threw my bedding in the washer this morning before I left for work and actually remembered to switch it over to the dryer when I got home.

I may be annoyed with some things Past Georgia has said lately, but I’m very much in love with her for giving me nice, clean sheets to climb into.

At least the bitch is doing one thing right.

Remembering the text from Fletcher, I begrudgingly reach for my phone and unlock it.

A sound somewhere between a gasp and a yelp gets caught in my throat, choking me, as I toss the phone on the bed in front of me and slap a hand over my mouth.

Heart palpitating, my lungs fight for oxygen as I can’t seem to look away from the screen.

I honestly don’t know what I was expecting to find, but it wasn’t this.

Fletcher: Such a goddamn shame…

It’s not some egotistical remark meant to rile me up and continue the argument from a few hours ago. It’s not him announcing that we’re out of something he could easily get himself, like toilet paper or shampoo or chips.

It’s four simple words typed underneath a picture that, given who it’s from, is anything but simple. Four taunting words, similar to the ones he growled in my ear the other day, and a picture of a dick and balls.

His dick and balls, more specifically.

Holy. Fuck.

After a moment, the phone dims, and even though I’m all alone in my room and nobody is witnessing this, my cheeks flame with mortification from the speed in which I tap a finger on the screen to stop it from darkening.

I. Can’t. Look. Away.

My mouth literally fucking salivates the longer I stare at the picture—at his full, smooth balls, and the thick shaft that leads to a fat, bulbous tip a few shades darker than the rest of him.

Clenching my jaw, I let my head fall back onto my shoulders as a groan vibrates in my throat.

A potent mixture of annoyance and something far more illicit washes over me as I stare up at the ceiling, wondering what I did to deserve such an unfairness, because there’s no denying how nice that dick— Fletcher’s dick —is, and I really didn’t need to know that.

Didn’t need to know that my stepbrother is veiny, or that he’s packing an impressive girth.

It’s always the arrogant assholes.

Chewing on my lower lip while I do my best to ignore the blazing heat swimming in my gut, I pick up the phone and zoom in on the glistening bead of pre-cum pooling from the slit.

Goddamn, it’s twisted how badly I want to lick it up and have the flavor erupt on my taste buds.

This is so fucking wrong. When I zoom out, that’s when I notice the little icon in the upper left-hand corner.

I’d love to say there was at least a little contemplation about not activating the live photo…

But that would be a lie.

Clearly, opening this message effectively eradicated all my shame and logic because, like a cat in heat, I press my finger down on the screen and watch the picture come to life for a brief couple of seconds.

Fletcher’s hand glides down the length of his impressive cock before gripping himself at the base.

As if this isn’t bad enough, I watch it again…

And again…

And again.

I watch my stepbrother stroke himself in two second increments, practically foaming at the mouth, four fucking times , my pussy throbbing and getting more wet by the second.

When I finally lock the damn phone and toss it on the other side of the bed, I’m so horny, the breeze from the fan could probably make me come.

This is now the second time I’ve gotten turned on because of Fletcher, and it’s ridiculous. None of it makes any sense. I don’t even like the guy, yet here I am…clit swollen and hard, cunt pulsing with this fervid type of ache. This fierce and unruly desire to be filled—except it isn’t just that.

It’s wanton.

A blazing wildfire, starting deep in my core and spreading throughout my limbs, dipping into every crevice. It fills me with such an intense need, sucking the air from my lungs and making my head swim.

It’s overwhelming.

Back pressed up against the headboard, I slide down until I’m lying flat and staring up at the ceiling, like it holds the answers and the self-control I desperately need to grasp onto. I cannot get myself off.

Not when it would be Fletcher’s dick flashing behind my eyelids.

Not when I know I’d be imagining my stepbrother’s fat cock sinking into my dripping wet pussy—stretching it so damn good and filling it to the brink—as my back is arched and chest flat on the bed while he pounds into me from the back, with his big, bouncy balls slapping against my clit rhythmically, deliciously, sending electric shock waves of pleasure all through my system.

I can’t do it.