Mac
I couldn't be more proud than I am now at Amelia's graduation. But seeing her up there on stage, beaming and full of life, also makes me sad. I've had feelings for her ever since she so unexpectedly came into my life when Dad met her mother. Our friendship was instant, and soon enough we were best friends, despite our age difference. She was sixteen at the time and I was twenty-eight. But the more my feelings for her grew, the harder it became to act casual and pretend I was only interested in her friendship.
At first, I hoped that in time those feelings would lose their strength, but that never happened. So I buried myself in work. Putting in eighty-plus hour weeks, and another ten hours in the gym to take my frustration out on my trainings partners and the weights. That made Dad only too proud, confident that the family business would be in good hands once he retired with my work ethic. But after a few years of killing myself this way, he came to my office to remind me with a laugh that it isn't as if I need the money.
"You are already rich," he said.
I was. Thanks to the shares my grandparents had left me, a whopping fifteen percent of a company that was worth billions, I'd never have to work a day in my life if I didn't want to. And once Dad passed away, I'd have a majority vote. An inheritance that would put me straight in the Forbes Top 100.
I should go out and enjoy life while I was still young, Dad told me. Find a woman to share my life with and start a family of my own. "There is more to life than work, son," he said, concerned. I just nodded and tried to smile. What could I tell him? That I was trying to forget about the one woman who was off limits to me?
That is when I tried to distract myself by trying to fall in love with another woman. I know. Stupid. Of course that didn’t work out either. Staring into the face of my date, it would always be Amelia who'd come to mind. It would be Amelia I'd compare my date to, and Amelia would always come out the winner.
Amelia, the one who always makes me laugh and who makes talking easy. The kind of easy where there are no uncomfortable silences. Disarming me with just the warmth in her eyes, she makes me forget myself, leaving me relaxed and grinning from ear to ear. Happy. Until I remind myself that all we can ever be is friends. That is when the heartache kicks in and I want to walk away from the woman who is my stepsister.
A year later disaster struck. Our parents' private jet crashed on its way to the Seychelles, just the two of them jetting off to celebrate their fifth anniversary. It has been just Amelia and me ever since, in a mansion large enough to house God knows how many. With Amelia having just turned eighteen, I felt a responsibility to be there for her, and I moved back in right after the funeral, not wanting her to be alone in that big house with only the staff.
The strange part is that we only use a fraction of it, the part that was originally set up as an apartment for guests; the main house brought too many painful memories of our parents back. The staff was reduced too, to just what is needed to keep the place clean. In essence we've reduced things to just the two of us, as if that can get us closer together.
Not that we see much of each other. I'm usually out the door before she is awake and I return home at insane hours. She could move out if she wanted to. Dad accepted her as his own and didn't forget her in his will. Rich and beautiful, she could fill her days being a typical nouveau rich girl. But that isn't her.
One look at the beautiful and self-assured woman, who is ready to take on the world, reminds me of the kind of woman she is. The kind who wants to make a difference, not breeze through life living off money she never had to work for. But that isn't the only thing that is on my mind as I watch her receive her nursing degree, her sparkling eyes searching the crowd and lighting up when they find me. The warm smile she sends me makes my heart swell; I just wished that was the only part swelling.
Inwardly cursing, crossing one leg over the other, I fight the feelings that my conscience tells me shouldn't be there, but they are. Undeniably. Refocusing from her tantalizing form to the not-so tantalizing one of a sour looking elderly lady, I hope that will put a stop to the embarrassing hard-on that is growing fast, creating an embarrassing bulge that I try to hide behind the hands in my lap. Experience, however, taught me things aren't as easy as that.
She was already pretty when we first met. But then she transformed from 'pretty' to the sensational beauty that she is today, and I can't help but respond to it the way a man does. With her thick mane of light blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, framing a face with delicate and regular Nordic features, and a pair of big blue eyes that look into the world with curiosity and a joy that is contagious, not to mention the full red lips that are criminally sensuous, she is the spitting image of her mother. And, just like her mother, she has a warm and perfect smile that makes me feel like the sun just broke through the clouds whenever she sends it my way.
But it isn't just facial beauty that she was blessed with. Her body is a one in a thousand, just like a model, envied by women and wanted by men. In that respect she is like her mother too. At five feet and ten inches, she is nothing but legs that seem to go on forever, and a round ass that stands in sharp contrast to her wasp waistline. As if that isn't enough, nature also blessed her with a chest that would make a pin up girl jealous. Altogether, she has the face of an angel and the body of a sex-goddess and it never fails to have an effect on me.
Together with her personality, I can't fault myself for never developing an interest in another woman.
Crossing my legs again, leaning over to hide the painfully restricted hard-on that makes me feel like a dirty old man, I return my eyes to the stage after the elderly lady gives me a curious look. Thank God this will be over soon. I'll just have to make a run for the restroom and take care of business there, as embarrassing as that is.
Amelia
"Mac!" I yell, rushing forward through the crowd. I can't believe I finished at the top of my class and nothing makes me happier than to share the moment with him.
"Proud of you," Mac says. The smile on his ruggedly handsome face only makes my own smile grow that much wider.
"I've been looking all over for you," I say, throwing myself into his arms without restraint. If there is one thing I never pass up on than it is a hug from my favorite guy. "Where were you? I saw you get up after the ceremony and rush off like your pants were on fire."
"Restroom break," Mac says self-consciously. "Emergency," he adds in a tone that makes it sound like it is something to be ashamed of.
Taking a half step back, my hands still on his hips, I can't help but giggle at the embarrassed look on his face. "Don't feel bad about that, Mac," I say, savoring the way he looks like a boy squirming in his pants. "It is all part of growing older."
The fire in his eyes is instant, as is the way he sets the granite jaw that never fails to make my heart skip a beat and my pussy throb. The intensity of his l
ook is perfect and breathtaking in a way that is all his. The look that is one of the hallmarks of my life ever since he came into it.
Those light green eyes; he can perfectly convey his approval or disapproval without the need for words. Right now, his eyes are telling me I'm chartering dangerous waters, but we both know that in this case it is just his pride that I'm challenging. I'll get away with it. In fact, I always get away with everything. Not that I am ever bad, but I do tease him a lot.
When he is around, that is. Which is almost never. Creating time with him has become an art where I feel like a huntress stalking her prey. At first, I thought he'd grown tired of me when I saw less and less of him. Then I thought he was probably living the life you'd expect from a guy who is beyond rich. The billionaire lifestyle with easy women, a thought that sent a stab of hurt through my chest.
Then I learned he really does dedicate his life to the company his great grandfather started. My respect for my stepbrother, one of the richest and most eligible bachelors in the world, instantly multiplied by a factor of ten. Instead of blowing his money on luxuries no one needs, he keeps it simple and puts in more hours than anyone else I know.
"Older?" Mac says slowly.
"Let's face it, Mac," I say with an excitement that comes from more than just that he is my most favorite guy ever. By now, the warmth that spreads in my chest and between my legs is familiar to me, but also a close guarded secret that I have never shared with anyone.
At thirty-five, Mac is a handsome and well-built guy. Despite sitting in his office and leading board meetings, his religious dedication to the only hobby I know he has—Systema, a Russian martial art—has given him the physique of a top athlete. And if he ever loses his fortune, he has the looks of a model that should get him plenty of gigs in that line of work. Keeping his dark hair short gives him that military look that I like, and he has the kind of deep voice that comes with a sense of natural authority. But what I love most about him is the warmth in his eyes.
"You are almost what now? Fifty-one?Fifty-two?" I say. Fighting to keep a straight face, I enjoy the sight of Mac struggling not to crack a smile himself over my silliness. It is a game that we've played often and we both love it.
"Twenty-seven," Mac says. Last week it was twenty-four.
"Oh really?" I say, loudly and full of all faux-surprise, one hand fluttering to my chest and the other to my mouth. "Well, you don't look a day older than fifty to me." He doesn't. He looks younger than he is, but not the twenty-seven that I bet he'd love to be again. "So it's alright that you need the potty more often these days," I say, nodding emphatically.
"Amelia," Mac says, a warning in that deep voice that just has to send a shiver down my spine and straight to a blonde pussy that is heating up fast.