Read First Time With My Stepbrother Boxed Set: A Stepbrother Romance Bundle (First Time With My Stepbrother Boxed Sets Book 1) for Free Online Page A
Authors: Selena Kitt
resources. And… the confines of the convent haven't exactly been… shall we say, conducive to dissent and questioning?”
“I can imagine.” He gave a little nod, taking another sip of his own beer.
“You’ve always been…” I took a deep breath, trying to keep the quiver from my voice. “You’ve got such a level head, Miles. And you’ve always been the best sounding board for me. I thought… if anyone could help…”
“Well…” He blinked in surprise. “I'll do what I can. I'm not sure I can quell those doubts.”
“Faith unable to withstand doubt would be weak indeed,” I quipped.
“Sounds like a famous person said that,” Miles laughed. “You probably know who, Sister Wikipedia.”
I shook my head. “Not this time, no.”
“So, little sister, tell me about your doubts.” Miles settled in, giving me an encouraging smile “I'll try not to act like the asshole.”
“How about Dostoevsky's Grand Inquisitor?”
“Sounds badass.” He grinned. “You're ducking the issue. Doubts. Lay it on me, sister.”
“Do you remember the summer after I graduated high school?” I asked, putting my empty beer bottle on the coffee table. I saw him shift out of the corner of my eye.
“Sure.” He reached over and picked up my bottle, shaking it. “Want some more?”
“Just wine.” I held my glass and let him fill it.
Then the room filled with an awkward silence. The clock ticked in the vast emptiness of the loft. Outside, traffic buffeted the large windows. An elevated train passed by. I wasn't sure if I should speak or not. Once I started with my confession, I knew it would gush forth from me like a volcano, an apocalypse of words. My crisis of faith hinged on what I’d done that fateful summer—and my lack of regret over those venal acts.
“Miles…” I cleared my throat, seeking sweetness in the wine. “Do you remember… do you remember what we did?”
“You mean…” He blinked. “Fooling around?”
I nodded, feeling heat flood my cheeks.
“This is about… that?” He got up from the leather sofa and I watched him take his empty beer bottle and mine toward the kitchen. I waited for him to return, this time with another wine glass. He poured himself wine, three-quarters full, and then drank half of that.
“Okay.” He took a deep breath, turning toward me again. “Let’s do this.”
“You sure?” I swallowed, looking into his eyes. They showed a blissful glaze, probably from how quickly he downed the glass of wine.
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak…” he muttered, blowing out a breath. “Yes, Clarice.”
His hand moved over the back of the couch to touch mine, and my whole body jolted like a livewire. I nodded, clearing my throat, knowing there was no way out but through.
I didn’t want to go to college.
Our parents pushed me, but I remained unsure. Intelligence and standardized test scores weren't an issue. Cliché as it might have been, I felt like I still had to find myself. So that summer, I stayed home. I didn’t work, I hadn’t applied to colleges. I just stayed home.
Miles also lived at home, commuting to the city for his internship at a big corporate firm. He oozed ambition and a mercenary attitude. He talked about it leading to getting into a prestigious MBA program, preferably somewhere like Harvard or Wharton. But he also delighted in blowing off work and coming home to swim. For all his drive and ambition, he also displayed the morals of a shameless sensualist.
“Man was not designed to work in cubicles,” he told her from his lounge chair.
The internship made him a repository of Office Space and Fight Club quotes.
“Both of those movies are the same, Clarice,” he insisted.
“Didn't see either of them,” I said, flipping the page in her book. “Don't care.”
We were home alone that summer.
His
“I can imagine.” He gave a little nod, taking another sip of his own beer.
“You’ve always been…” I took a deep breath, trying to keep the quiver from my voice. “You’ve got such a level head, Miles. And you’ve always been the best sounding board for me. I thought… if anyone could help…”
“Well…” He blinked in surprise. “I'll do what I can. I'm not sure I can quell those doubts.”
“Faith unable to withstand doubt would be weak indeed,” I quipped.
“Sounds like a famous person said that,” Miles laughed. “You probably know who, Sister Wikipedia.”
I shook my head. “Not this time, no.”
“So, little sister, tell me about your doubts.” Miles settled in, giving me an encouraging smile “I'll try not to act like the asshole.”
“How about Dostoevsky's Grand Inquisitor?”
“Sounds badass.” He grinned. “You're ducking the issue. Doubts. Lay it on me, sister.”
“Do you remember the summer after I graduated high school?” I asked, putting my empty beer bottle on the coffee table. I saw him shift out of the corner of my eye.
“Sure.” He reached over and picked up my bottle, shaking it. “Want some more?”
“Just wine.” I held my glass and let him fill it.
Then the room filled with an awkward silence. The clock ticked in the vast emptiness of the loft. Outside, traffic buffeted the large windows. An elevated train passed by. I wasn't sure if I should speak or not. Once I started with my confession, I knew it would gush forth from me like a volcano, an apocalypse of words. My crisis of faith hinged on what I’d done that fateful summer—and my lack of regret over those venal acts.
“Miles…” I cleared my throat, seeking sweetness in the wine. “Do you remember… do you remember what we did?”
“You mean…” He blinked. “Fooling around?”
I nodded, feeling heat flood my cheeks.
“This is about… that?” He got up from the leather sofa and I watched him take his empty beer bottle and mine toward the kitchen. I waited for him to return, this time with another wine glass. He poured himself wine, three-quarters full, and then drank half of that.
“Okay.” He took a deep breath, turning toward me again. “Let’s do this.”
“You sure?” I swallowed, looking into his eyes. They showed a blissful glaze, probably from how quickly he downed the glass of wine.
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak…” he muttered, blowing out a breath. “Yes, Clarice.”
His hand moved over the back of the couch to touch mine, and my whole body jolted like a livewire. I nodded, clearing my throat, knowing there was no way out but through.
I didn’t want to go to college.
Our parents pushed me, but I remained unsure. Intelligence and standardized test scores weren't an issue. Cliché as it might have been, I felt like I still had to find myself. So that summer, I stayed home. I didn’t work, I hadn’t applied to colleges. I just stayed home.
Miles also lived at home, commuting to the city for his internship at a big corporate firm. He oozed ambition and a mercenary attitude. He talked about it leading to getting into a prestigious MBA program, preferably somewhere like Harvard or Wharton. But he also delighted in blowing off work and coming home to swim. For all his drive and ambition, he also displayed the morals of a shameless sensualist.
“Man was not designed to work in cubicles,” he told her from his lounge chair.
The internship made him a repository of Office Space and Fight Club quotes.
“Both of those movies are the same, Clarice,” he insisted.
“Didn't see either of them,” I said, flipping the page in her book. “Don't care.”
We were home alone that summer.
His
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