Page 28 of Beautiful Desire (Blossom Beach #3)

Fletcher

T he parking lot is pretty empty as I bound down the steps, and the sun that was high in the sky when I got here is now long gone.

After I retrieve my keys and phone from the front pocket of my backpack, I climb into the car, dropping the bag on the seat next to me before starting the engine.

It’s a little after six, and I’ve spent the last several hours occupying a table in the far back corner of the public library.

My back and ass are killing me from the uncomfortable plastic chair, and my ears are sore from wearing my AirPods for so long, but I managed to get all my assignments done for the week and get through a decent amount of studying for an exam I’ve got coming up, and even though I’m still procrastinating on my capstone project, I’m still calling today a win.

It’s been one hell of a day; I’ve been on the go nonstop since I left the house this morning.

Hit up the gym for an hour before my shift at the bookstore, then once I got off work, I drove straight here and powered through everything I wanted to get done.

I’m proud of myself for getting so much accomplished, but I’m happy to finally be heading home.

I have the next two days off, and I’m looking forward to relaxing and not worrying about a damn thing.

I’m pulling out of the parking lot as my phone rings, and when I grab it from the cup holder, my stomach sours as I see who it is.

I’ve had a decent day—decent couple of weeks, actually, since things with Georgia aren’t quite as tense and hostile—and I know whatever is waiting for me on the other end of that call is most likely going to ruin my mood.

For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail, but seeing as I’ve already done that twice this week, I know it won’t go over well if I try for a third.

If there’s one thing Alden St. James doesn’t tolerate, it’s being ignored.

Heaving a sigh, I grit my teeth and accept the call. Not bothering with a greeting or any simple pleasantries—because, let’s be real…I don’t need or want to hear how he’s doing, and I know he doesn’t give a shit how I am—I wait for dear old dad to lay into me.

And I don’t have to wait long… Shocker.

“About time you answered the damn phone, Son,” he spits out, his gruff, authoritative tone raking over me like nails on a chalkboard.

“Well, hello to you too, Daddy Dearest,” I drawl, grinning to myself as I imagine the scowl he’s wearing. Nobody does distaste quite like him.

“Cut the bullshit, Fletcher. I’ve called several times this week, and you haven’t returned a single one of them. What’s going on with you?”

“Did it ever cross your mind that I might be busy?” I ask.

He scoffs. “And just what the hell are you so busy doing that you can’t pick up the goddamn phone?”

Clenching my jaw, I force myself to take a deep breath before answering.

“Let’s think about it for a second, Dad,” I mutter sarcastically.

“School’s keeping me pretty busy, for starters.

You know, the program you’re insisting I finish before you give me a share of the company I’ve been promised since I was a kid, even though a master’s degree was never part of the plan?

Or I don’t know, maybe I’ve been a little busy with work.

The job I had to get after you completely cut me off and banished me from my own home, like some heartless heathen. ”

“Watch your tone when you speak to me, Fletcher,” he seethes. “I’m not in the fucking mood for your theatrics. Tell me, Son. If you’re so busy, then why the hell are you failing your classes?”

“Bullshit! I know for a fact I’m not failing any of my classes.

” My skin tingles as my body flushes, heart thundering.

The thing with my father is, his baseline reaction for absolutely anything in life that even minutely irritates him is full speed and aggressive, because, god forbid, he ever bring things up calmly or without accusation.

He’s been this way my entire life, and I know he’s never going to change, but fuck , I cannot fucking stand this shit.

“Damn near close,” he growls. “You’re currently receiving a seventy-four in your competitive analysis class, and a seventy-two in decision making and behavioral economics. That’s unacceptable, do you hear me?”

“Those are passing grades, first of all,” I point out, forcing myself to keep my voice down.

From a lifetime of experience, I know yelling at my father will do nothing but make the situation a whole lot worse.

“But I’m curious how you know what my grades are in the first place, because I certainly didn’t tell you them. ”

“Don’t be so obtuse,” he grumbles. “Your professors email me weekly about your progress. Or I suppose it would be your lack thereof, as does Georgia. It seems to be semi-decent news on that front, surprisingly. Although, if you spent less time rollerblading, like some California kid, you’d probably have better grades in school. ”

“ Excuse me ? Weekly progress reports? What the fuck, I’m not a child!

” As I make a right onto Georgia’s street, my ears are ringing, and my knuckles are blanched from how tight I’m gripping the steering wheel.

“Pretty sure it’s illegal for the school to give out my personal information, especially when I don’t recall signing anything that gives them permission.

And what the hell do you mean you’re getting them from Georgia too? ”

“Fletcher, I’m the one paying the bill,” he mutters. “I don’t give a damn how old you are, I will ensure it’s money well spent. If you don’t like it, you’re free to pay the tuition yourself. Same goes with Georgia. How else am I supposed to know you’re not screwing around?”

He’s such a fucking asshole.

“Is this all you called about?” Pulling into the driveway, I turn off the engine but make no effort to get out yet. “Because if so, my grades are fine, they will remain fine, and I will graduate in the spring as planned. Believe it or not, Dad, I know what I’m doing.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” My father huffs a chuckle, the sound condescending. “You wouldn’t be in this situation if you did. Get those grades up, Fletcher. I mean it.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for a response before the line disconnects, because it was never up for discussion.

He doesn’t know how to have healthy, mature conversations, where both parties give input.

No, he tells people how things are going to go; it’s how he’s always been.

That’s how his father was, and his grandfather.

I swore I’d never be like them, but look where that’s gotten me.

Grabbing my backpack, I climb out of the car and head inside.

So much for feeling good about my day. If there’s one person who has the power to ruin my entire mood, it’s my dad.

Inside the house, I kick off my shoes, then drop my bag in my room before meandering into the kitchen in search of something to eat.

I don’t see Georgia, but her car is out front and her bedroom door is closed, so I know she’s here.

Scouring the pantry and the fridge, I finally settle on some chili and cornbread leftovers from dinner last night.

As I’m reheating everything, I hear Georgia’s door creak as it opens.

A moment later, I turn my head and meet her gaze as she walks into the kitchen on her way to the laundry room, with a basket of clothes in her hands.

Her wet hair lets me know she just got out of the shower, and she’s dressed in a pair of dark pink pajamas that make my mouth water as I give her a quick once-over.

The shorts are very short, and accentuate her thick, sexy thighs, and the tank top has the words “Do Not Disturb” scrawled across the chest. She’s not wearing a bra, so I can see her hardened nipples and her sexy piercings poking through.

The sight of her fresh from the shower and comfortably dressed has a bolt of heat shooting down my spine and settling deep in my balls, and it only intensifies when I catch a whiff of whatever sweet, tropical shampoo she uses as she walks by.

I find myself inhaling deeper to breathe in the intoxicating scent before I can stop myself.

“Want some of this chili?” I ask her when she pads back into the kitchen a few minutes later after starting a load of laundry. “Also, why the fuck am I just now finding out about these so-called weekly progress reports you’re giving my father?”

She flicks her gaze over to me as she rests her hip against the edge of the counter, her eyes bright and intense as they watch me.

I’m hit with the strongest urge to walk over and bury my face in her neck, breathe her in some more.

Shaking her head, she says, “Ask Alden,” she drawls.

“They were his idea, and if I don’t send them, he hounds me.

As for the chili, no, thanks. I’m gonna go lie down. ”

“You have cramps still?”

And just like that, I can’t even be mad at her for this. Damn her.

The last several days have made me realize how little experience I have with women on their period.

Sure, I’ve had girlfriends over the years, but they didn’t talk to me about it, and I never thought—or really, cared enough—to ask, but after seeing how miserable Georgia’s been, I find myself not only wanting to know how she’s feeling, but also wanting to find ways to help her feel better.

Hence the ridiculous basket I put together for her the other day.

“Sure do,” she quips, huffing a pitiful laugh as she grabs a can of diet Dr. Pepper out of the fridge. “Really love this for me.”

Georgia walks over to the counter beside the stove where I’m standing, opens the cupboard, and tries to grab the ibuprofen, but she accidentally knocks it over with her hand, sending the bottle to the back of the shelf.

Sighing, she then raises up on the tips of her toes and attempts to reach it again, but she’s not quite able to.

Without thinking, I reach into the cupboard and grab the bottle, not wanting her to struggle.

Her breath hitches, and it’s not until I hand her the medicine that I realize how close our proximity is.

Our bodies are practically flush, and with each heavy inhale she takes, her breasts brush against my chest, sending my blood ablaze.

My gaze drops down, and it’s not lost on me how easy it would be to kiss her.

To feel her full, slightly parted lips on mine, slip my tongue inside, explore every corner of her mouth.

Fuck me, it’s unreal how badly I want that.

To kiss my stepsister again.

And feel her body melt against mine when I do it.

I lift my gaze, noticing how blown Georgia’s pupils are, and the sight makes me feral.

She reaches for the bottle, but before she can she grab it, I lift it out of reach.

My heart thunders as she clicks her tongue against her teeth and rolls her eyes.

“Give it to me.” Despite her attempt at sounding stern, her voice is rough and nothing more than a whisper, telling me everything I need to know…

I’m not the only one feeling the electricity between us.

“You know,” I murmur while I lean down and brush the tip of my nose against hers. “I meant what I said the other day.”

Georgia doesn’t pull back or shy away from holding my gaze, and while that’s not surprising to me in the least, it does turn me the fuck on. “And what, exactly, was it that you said again?” she rasps, with an arch to her brow, breath minty and hot as it fans across the lower half of my face.

Wrapping my arm around her hip and tugging her body into mine, I bring my lips to hers.

“Let me make you feel better, Peach.” I breathe the words into her mouth, feeding them to her while my hand slides down and palms her fat ass through her tiny fucking shorts, grinding ever-so-slightly against her, and as her eyelids flutter and her breath hitches, I know she feels what she’s doing to me.

How fucking hard I am for her.

“You wish,” she drawls, yet doesn’t make any attempt to move.

“Why not?” My brows wrinkle as a smirk curls my lips. “You certainly enjoyed yourself the first time.”

“I already told you that shouldn’t have happened.”

Brushing my bottom lip across her top one, my cock throbs as she slightly tilts her head back as if to give me better access, and I don’t know if she even realizes she’s doing it. “Yeah, but who gives a fuck about what we shouldn’t do. You know you want to.”

Huffing out a breath, she says, “It’s cute how confident you are while being so wrong.”

“You think so?”

“Uh, yeah, I know you are.” Georgia snorts, but her tits brush against my chest with each rapid, shallow breath she takes. I don’t care what she says; she wants to give in, wants to let me do this, but she’s too damn stubborn.

“Come on, Peach,” I murmur, voice lowering. “I wanna feel your fucking clit pulsate against my tongue again, hear your sexy little moans as I make you come hard for me.”

Give in, Georgia. Fuck, just give in already.

“We can’t do that, Fletcher,” she croaks, but she’s full of shit. I can see it in her glassy eyes how much she wants this.

“Nobody has to know what we do inside this house, Peach. It’s just you and me here.

” I nip at her bottom lip, feeling her body tremble against mine.

“I’ll do anything. Just let me make you feel better.

Let me make you come.” It feels like I might actually die if I don’t have her, and I’ve never felt anything like it.

“ Please ,” I beg, way too gone to care how pathetic I sound.

“I’ll be such a good boy, Peach. Let me be a good boy for you. ”

When Georgia responds, it’s not with words.

Surging forward, she presses her lips to mine, and it’s instant, the way my body kicks into gear.

Tossing the bottle of pills on the counter, I grab the backs of her thighs, hoisting her into my arms while my tongue slips past her lips.

I swallow her moans as she wraps her legs around my waist. Throwing every last ounce of pent-up tension and need into this kiss, I carry Georgia to my room and lay her down on the edge of the bed before dropping to my knees in front of her.

Here we fucking go.