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Oh my God, what if it really is his? Pulling the lid off the box again, I touch my fingertips to the surface of the shaft, then jump back, like it's going to explode.
Don't be ridiculous, I tell myself. Gaige did not have the time to make a mold of his cock.
There's only one way to find out. The thought jumps into my head. Now, that is an inappropriate thought. I slam the lid back on the box, and sit there, my palms flat on the top of it.
Five minutes later, I'm taking the lid off again and picking up the dildo. Just to see it. My hand can barely fit around the shaft. I tell myself I'm not doing anything wrong, that it's just a stupid joke, but there's definitely something dirty about picking up a dildo made from a mold of your stepbrother's penis.
What if it is his dick? Only Gaige would keep a fucking cock-making-kit somewhere for handy access.
The over-the-top ridiculousness of the gesture hits me and I can't stop giggling. When I finally compose myself, I close the lid and tuck the box into the bottom drawer of my desk. Out of sight, out of mind.
Except for the fact that all day long, my thoughts keep drifting to that bottom desk drawer and what's inside. I'm sure that's exactly what Gaige wanted -- to get me thinking about his tool.
"How was your day, darlin'?" I pause in her doorway, leaning against the door frame. My day consisted of the usual -- spending a few hours in the gym and then physical therapy -- but preceded by a visit to Delaney's office. Screwing around with Delaney isn't on my usual list of activities, so I had something extra to look forward to this morning. I woke with a spring in my step. As much as I could have a spring in my step with this boot on my damn foot, anyway.
My mood was great until Chelsea interrupted us. Chelsea and I went out once a few months ago -- a business dinner and that's it. She's aggressive as hell and I got the vibe that she wanted it to be more than a business dinner. I also got the vibe that she's wound tight as a spring, the kind of chick who might go all psycho, boil a bunny or some shit. And that's exactly the kind of girl I stay the hell away from. But she's good at what she does, so I haven't had a reason to ask Beau to reassign her. Yet.
The point is, I wanted to see Delaney's face when she opened the box. And Chelsea walked in and ruined the whole fucking thing.
Delaney is bent over, one hand on the white bedspread that covers her bed, the other on the zipper on the inside of her heeled boots. She positively oozes temptation, wearing a black pencil skirt, the fabric pulled tight over the contours of her ass, and matching "fuck me" boots. Her hair spills forward, partially obscuring her face, and she finishes zipping her boot before she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and stands up, glaring at me. "What are you doing here?" she asks. "Don't you have to be in Vegas or something? And don't call me darling. "
"It's darlin', not darling, first of all. And second of all, it's a term of endearment," I say, shrugging. "You've been in New York too long. This is me being polite, showing my Texan roots. "
Delaney puts her hands on her hips and looks at me with her eyes narrowed. "It's condescending," she says. "And you're not even from Texas. "
I step inside her room, looking around. "I'm hurt that you'd say that, Delaney," I say. "What would you like me to call you? You hate Delamey, and now you don't like darlin', either? And living in Texas the past few years makes me practically a Texan. In fact, I should have your father take me shopping for cowboy boots. "
"You can call me by my name like a normal person," she says. "And you never answered my question. Don't you have a flight to catch?"
"Shit, what crawled up your ass tonight?" I walk past the photos she's already hung on her wall, her and her friends in various touristy places -- in front of the National Monument in Washington DC, the Lincoln Center, standing outside of a bar in New York City. "Can't I check in on my stepsister before I jet out for this business bullshit?"
Delaney crosses to the other side of the room, standing in front of one of the photos protectively, her arms over her chest. I really should tell her that the gesture does absolutely nothing to hide those tits. In fact, it only pushes them up higher, giving me an even better view. "Nothing crawled up my ass. "