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Chapter One

Cleopatra

Completely unaware I was committing the world’s greatest social faux pas, I wore white to a wedding. My stepbrother pointed out my mistake. Now, I’m tucked away in the back of the church, hoping to go unnoticed. Do I have enough money in my bank account for an Uber ride to Target and the cost of another dress in a more suitable color?

Would I be back in time for the cake cutting?

I stand at the back of the church, alone except for the scent of incense and old wood. The somber atmosphere is interrupted by the sound of confident footsteps approaching me. Please don’t let it be another beautifully dressed guest to side-eye my inappropriate clothing choice.

My stomach knots as I turn to see Blaze wandering along the stone wall toward me, his gaze as intense as always. He's loosened his black silk Armani tie, which he spent the last part of the ceremony complaining about to me. He said it was choking him. Now it hangs down around his neck, and the top three buttons of his shirt are undone as well. Of course, he looks even sexier now than when he first walked in, neat and tidy.

He approaches me, tall and broad, with thick, dark hair that is more wavy than curly. Now, closer in the dim light, the beautiful green of his eyes becomes apparent. He looks like a god.

I have a completely different look than him—I'm shorter and have curves that feel a bit too wide for this city. My straight, mushroom-colored hair, which isn't quite blonde or brown, just won’t stay curled, no matter how much spray I used this morning. The dress I’m wearing, which I used to love but now can't stand, is just a nice Sunday School teacher outfit at best.

Living up to his name, Blaze gives me that sexy, cocksure grin of his that makes my insides feel funny, sending a trail of heat leading below my navel.

“Hey sis.” He leans in and presses his mouth against mine. His body heat warms me as he draws closer. The scent of his cologne mingles with the lingering smoky incense.

“Don’t call me that.” My hand moves to the center of his chest to stop him.

“Why not? It’s hot.” Grabbing my hand, he twines his fingers with mine. “Lil’ sister.”

“Stop calling me that,” I hiss. I glance around, making sure no one saw us. “And do not kiss me.”

“But I like kissing you.” He moves in and kisses me again; this time, the hot tip of his tongue slips past my lips .

My heart races as I melt into the kiss. I want him. His touch is both familiar and forbidden, sending shivers all over. I want to give in, to lose myself in this moment of stolen passion.

But it's wrong.

I’m wrong. And he’s off-limits to a girl like me for many good reasons.

As his free hand begins to wander, I gently push him away, breaking the connection between us. My voice is barely audible over the distant melody of the piano.

“Blaze, stop.” Why is my voice so weak? “We can’t do this.”

“Yes, we can.” The cocksure grin returns, his intense gaze locking with mine. “I know you want a piece of your big brother.”

His taboo words create a knot of guilt in my stomach. I shake my head in denial and lie, lie, lie. “No, I don’t.”

The warmth of his breath on my skin ignites a fire within me that I know should not be burning. It heats with the words of his whisper. “I’d bet everything if I slipped my fingers under your skirt, and explored under your panties, I’d find you already wet for me.”

To my deep-seated shame, he’s right. His husky words create even more arousal pooling between my thighs. The music ends, a few final notes floating through the air, my breath and common sense leaving with them as they go.

Everyone has left the church at this point, making their way to a nearby building for the reception. There is no one here to stop us. Or save me. Alone in the back of the echoing church, one of his hands cups my ass while the other tangles in my hair.

His lips find mine once more in the dimly lit church, this time even more demanding. A rush of conflicting emotions floods through me. His hands gently cup my face, drawing me closer as I lean into his touch, savoring the forbidden moment.

Our kiss deepens, and a voice in my mind screams at me to stop. This is wrong. We are siblings bound by family ties that should never be crossed. We can’t do this, I think to myself— a robot on repeat, trying to steady my trembling body.

He won’t take no for an answer.

Still, I try. “We need to stop.”

His grip tightens, a possessive and dominating one, sending the alarm bells ringing in my head. "Who's going to know?" he murmurs, his voice a low growl that resonates within my chest. "It's just you and me, little sister."

His words are a temptation, a dance with danger that makes my heart race even faster. Yet, the weight of our shared previous bond hangs around me like a lock and chain.

"Blaze," I whisper, my voice pleading. "This is a church. It's wrong. We're...we're siblings."

He chuckles, a sound that is both alluring and wicked. "Only by marriage, you cute thing. ”

“I know.” I shake my head, trying to break free from his spell. My voice is barely a whisper. "Still, this is wrong on so many levels."

He leans in closer. “Let your big, strong older brother take care of you.”

“My older brother. I like that,” I say. I’ve always wanted that kind of protection from him. “In a platonic way,” I add. “That’s how I should be thinking of you?—”

His eyes darken with desire, his voice going raspy with lust as he comes even nearer. “You didn’t let me finish. Let me take care of you. Pleasure you. Make you feel so good in only the way a man who truly knows you can.”

His dirty words manage to turn my body’s response to ‘high heat panty melt’ while cranking my red flag alert to ‘stop now,’ ‘beware,’ and ‘run.’ I only manage to stutter out a weak response of, “Uh…uh.”

His eyes never leave mine, glittering with laughter as if the word family is a mere technicality. Reading my ‘good girl’ anxiety meter as rising, he attempts to persuade me, changing his tactics. "We're not blood-related, Cleo. We didn't grow up together. We met when we were practically adults. And our parents ended up getting divorced anyway. This isn't wrong. It's fate."

“Fine.” He wins. “So, we’re not blood related.” And in his mind, it’s not that taboo, even though in mine, it’s still off limits. There are many other arguments I could provide for why we should not be doing this. “But what about the fact that we do not mesh in the real world? You’re a total player! You can—and do—have any woman in this city that you want. I have to know someone’s Social Security number to let them get to second base. And I follow the rules. I like the rules. I love rules! You act like they don’t exist?—”

Before I can convince him, his mouth is back on mine, shutting me up, his tongue exploring my mouth, his hands on me like I’m his property. His hands sneak up the short hem of my fluttering skirt, smoothing their warm way over the bare flesh of my outer thigh. His fingertips hook into the elastic waistband of my panties.

“I can’t.”

My body argues back, screaming, yes! as I grip his shoulders. He traces a path down my bare leg as he crouches, his breath hot on my skin. He lifts one foot, then the other, freeing me from the lace that was the last barrier between us. He pockets the panties, a trophy of this illicit moment, his eyes never leaving mine as he stands, pressing his body against me once more.

"Blaze," I gasp, making one last desperate attempt to cling to reason. "We shouldn't..."

"Shh," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. "Just feel. Don't think."

But that’s the problem. I’m feeling far too much. I shake my head, denying his words even as my body moves further into his touch. His fingers find their way between my thighs, stroking gently and coaxing a soft moan from deep within me. I can feel the rough calluses on his skin. My body betrays me, arching into his.

"No, Blaze," I gasp, making one last attempt at reason, but his name on my lips sounds more like a plea than a protest. His hands grip my waist, lifting me onto the polished wooden table behind us; the cool surface is a stark contrast to the heat of his body.

"I've wanted you for so long. That time living with you as your brother was torture.”

“Step. Brother,” I correct, gasping as he kisses my neck.

“Pure torture. I wanted you every moment of every day," he murmurs, his lips trailing kisses down my neck, his hands exploring every curve of my body. "And now, here you are. Hiding in the back of a church. And all mine."

Not fair. His words fill a void inside me. It feels so good to be wanted.

I'm shocked by how hard my heart thumps in my chest and by the excitement I feel at the thought of being desired by a man who is not only off-limits but can have any woman he wants.

And he wants me.

I’m currently single, and the man who made me that way didn’t make me feel this desired at the best of times. Still. I should push him away and run from this twisted seduction, but my body is paralyzed, trapped between his touch and the cold table beneath me.

His hands glide up my thighs, pushing the skirt of my dress higher and exposing more of my bare skin to the cool air of the church. I shiver, but it's not from the cold; it's from the way his touch brings me to life. Every nerve ending is wide awake .

The guilt cuts in deep and hot with shame. "Blaze, please," I beg, but even I don't know what I'm asking for. For him to stop? Or for him to continue? My mind is a whirlwind of confusion, torn between the morality hammered into me since childhood and my need for him. And the wanting cuts deeper.

His lips find mine again, swallowing my pleas as he presses against me, his body hard and insistent. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, echoing my own racing pulse.

He finds his way to the very core of me, and I gasp as he gently strokes the most sensitive part. My hips ease into his touch, betraying my inner turmoil. He stops kissing to watch my face, his breath hot on my cheek as he whispers, "Tell me you don't want this, Cleo. Tell me to stop, and I will."

But the words won't come. Instead, a soft moan escapes my lips; the sound is like a white flag, a surrender to the forbidden desire that is him. His eyes, intense, search mine for a moment before leaning in to kiss me again, his expert fingers never stopping their torturous dance.

My body jolts at the contact, a wave of pleasure crashing over me. He swallows my gasps, deepening his kiss as he strokes and circles, driving me to the brink of madness.

"You're so wet, baby,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice hoarse.

So wet. I’m so wet. Wait—it’s my cheek that’s wet. A cool dampness presses against my face, making my eyes flutter open.

No !

It was a dream. Well, a dream of a perfect memory. Hazy but real, the dream I just had was exactly how it happened: the two of us sinning, damning our souls to hell in the back of the church after his brother’s wedding.

It happened. I try to make myself forget. But it did.

It's too bad the dream stopped before my vivid memory got to the delicious part.

Sitting up, I stretch and yawn, returning to reality, needing to shake off the worst night of my life. I’ve never couch-surfed, and I don’t want to start now. Glancing down at my temporary bed sofa, I find the puddle that woke me up, ruining the best part of the memory and Seraphina’s emerald silk throw pillow.

The gorgeous hand-stitched creation was a token from her recent all-expenses-paid work trip to Nepal.

She’s going to kill me.

Pressing my sock-covered feet into the fluffy faux fur rug, I stand, neatly folding the blanket I borrowed and laying it over the back of the sofa. I’ll take the pillow cover to be dry-cleaned after work. Maybe I can flip it over to hide the drying drool spot.

“Sorry, Seraphina,” I mumble.

With the elegance of a queen, she breezes into the room, a red ribbon pinning her curls back, her multicolored silk robe billowing behind her. “Sorry for what?” She eyes my pajamas. “Wearing that goofy-ass outfit inside my beautiful apartment? I know you dumped a man last night, but you didn’t have to let yourself go that quickly. ”

I glance down at my pink elephant-printed long-sleeve onesie. Is it really that bad? “No, for showing up unannounced last night. Let me go down to the corner and get your hazelnut latte to thank you for letting me stay.”

“That’s okay,” she waves away my offer with a flick of her diamond-tipped hot-pink acrylic nails, coming to stand before me. “You’re the one going through the break-up. I should be buying you drinks. But they will be way stronger than espresso to celebrate when I do.”

My life is over. What is there to be happy about? Is she going to burn my onesie?

I eye her with suspicion. “Celebrate what?”

“I held back the first time you and Keith broke up. Now that it’s official, I can finally tell you.” She holds a hand up to her mouth like she’s whispering a secret. “I never did like him.”

“I figured.” People in my circle only really tolerated him.

“Sorry, but I don’t suffer fools. And he’s a fool.” She shakes her head, sinking onto the couch. “Cheating on a good girl like you? Mistake. You’re wifey material.”

“Thanks,” I stand there, hovering over her in my humiliation, shame, and pink elephants.

Seraphina holds her phone, and a notification erupts. I see her face transform; her eyes widen, and she gasps. Without looking away, she points a pink fingernail at the couch, commanding, “Sit down.” Her brow furrows as she focuses on her phone .

Instead of sitting, I pace. “Why do people tell me to sit down when they have bad news? You know I can’t relax unless I’m standing or cleaning something.”

“Sit your pink onesie-self down,” she says authoritatively, pointing even more emphatically at the sofa cushion. “Now.”

“Fine.” I sit beside her on the sofa.

Seraphina is my opposite, the Alpha to my shrinking, barely a Beta violet. The only similarities that first brought us together are our unusual names and love of word puns.

“Sweet girl.” She raises her phone toward me. “This is going to rock your world. And not in a good way, I’m afraid.”

After a bad breakup, I just woke up in a puddle of my own drool. What could be worse?

“Seraphina.” I stare at her tense face. “What’s on your phone?”

She stays silent, yet the intensity in her gaze compels me to reach out and grab the phone from her.

I hear a moan coming from the video before I glance at the screen.

And see me …

Naked.

On my best friend’s phone.

“What…how…why…” My mouth turns to paper, and I stare.

All the blood drains from my body, making my skin go icy, my stomach churn, and a cool perspiration bead at my hairline. I can’t speak, the words dissolving on my tongue. The remaining sliver of my self-worth sinks into my fuzzy pink socks.

I’m watching a sex video of me and my ex-boyfriend. I’m spread-eagled on the bed, totally naked.

I’m dying. I don’t even know what to say.

I stare at the screen. “That’s me. That’s my…” I can’t even say the body part out loud.

“Don’t act like you’re a prude now, Miss Cleopatra. Not when I’m looking at a clip of you as a fairly dedicated porn star.” The tip of her acrylic, hot pink nail taps the screen with each syllable. “That’s your va-gi-na.” Adding to my humiliation and discomfort, she adds, “Your pussy. Your minge. Queen Cleopatra’s lady folds.”

“Oh, my goodness. Stop.” I can’t take my eyes off the phone. My heart sinks into the pit of my queasy stomach. “And never say lady folds again.”

“Let’s not beat around the bush here—” She pauses, making sure I got the pun before she continues. We love puns. “What he did is not only bottom-of-the-barrel kind of behavior. It’s illegal.”

I can’t take my eyes off the screen. Now Keith enters the frame, crawling across the bed before burying his face between my legs.

At least the back of his head is now blocking the view of my—lady folds. I groan. “What if my friends see this?— ”

"You know everyone already has. He tagged your entire world in it!”

“No.” A horrible thought washes over me. “What about my family? Or, even worse, what if one of my students’ parents sees this?”

“You know how quickly this stuff spreads—especially revenge porn. Remember the early 2000s? That’s how B-list celebs landed their reality shows. “She holds up her hands, making air quotes with her hooked fingers. “’ Accidental’ sex tape releases.”

“This was no accident!” I fly off the couch, pacing hard enough to wear a path in her fur rug. “I can’t believe I even agreed to film in the first place!”

She grabs my hand, hers warm while mine is cold as ice. I glance down at her as she pleads with me using her pretty brown doe eyes. “Please sit down. You’re going to give one of us a heart attack with that manic pacing of yours.”

I collapse onto the sofa next to her, handing her phone back. “What was I thinking? I never do anything crazy like that.” I throw an arm over my eyes, blocking out the cold, cruel world.

“By the way you’re moaning in that video, I think it was your lady folds doing all the thinking.”

“Please. Shut it off.”

I listen as she clicks the phone off. “Done.”

“What do I do?” I let my arm fall from my face to stare at her. “This has to disappear. ASAP. I could lose my job! ”

She shakes her head, curls bouncing in anger for me. “Even for Keith, this is bad.”

“Truly awful,” I repeat, still struggling to accept that he not only cheated on me but also ended our relationship. Then, he shared intimate images online as revenge.

Revenge for what?

What did I do to him?

I dried his tears when every club in the city rejected his DJ demo album, took out the trash whenever the can was full, and tried to be exciting in bed while I was perfectly happy being a missionary vanilla bean.

I even allowed him to film me doing it with him on that foolish day when I didn’t want to…

I should have trusted my instincts.

Seraphina grabs the phone and stands up. “You need a lawyer, Cleopatra.”

“Anyone you know who works pro bono?” I mumble.

My best friend often forgets that I’m a kindergarten teacher in Queens at an underfunded school. I share a small one-bedroom apartment above a lively kebab shop.

Shared. Past tense. Over. O-V-A-H.

I stayed there until around eight last night, when a kind waitress named Candy sent me a message letting me know she had been involved with him for months.

I confronted him. He didn’t deny it. Then he told me we’d grown apart .

I should have left.

In my desperate (pathetic) attempt to avoid disrupting my life, I told him that we could work it out.

He laughed.

Again, I should have left.

Then, he broke up with me.

I packed a bag, left Keith a strongly worded hate note, and crashed on Serphina’s sofa.

With his name the only one on the lease, I’m technically homeless.

Seraphina snaps in the air to get my attention. “Yoo hoo, porn star. You there? I was asking if you know why Keith would do this to you?”

“No idea,” I say. “Why further ruin my life with the awful homemade bad porn when I’m the one who got screwed over?” I flash her a smile through my pain. “Pun! Not intended, but still counts.”

Seraphina pats my leg with a grin. “Good girl.”

“I did write him a hate note,” I offer.

I’d scratched it down, the tip of the pen nearly tearing through the paper in my hurt and anger.

I should have taken that secret to my grave.

Seraphina snaps her fingers in the air, drawing my attention. “Earth to Cleopatra!”

“Sorry.” I try to remember where the conversation left off. Ah. The part where I am powerless to get my lady parts off the internet. “I can’t afford a lawyer. What am I going to do?”

“Take the money from me—” she holds a hand up to stop me before I list all the reasons I won’t let her pay for my mistake, “But you won’t, so I’ll tell you what I would do if I were you. I’d call my mafioso stepbrother and tell him to smash some damn heads. Well, one head in particular. Keith’s.”

Heat washes all over me. Everywhere. Her mention of my stepbrother makes last night’s naughty dream come back to mind, guilt sinking in.

“I can’t call him, Seraphina. Absolutely not.”