Masked Stranger's Forbidden Claim in the Bookshop

Jake shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans and ducked under the faded awning of Bindings & Secrets, the creaky used bookshop that had always smelled like vanilla pipe tobacco and old paper. Twenty-two years old, fresh off the bus from campus, and already he was hiding from the woman who insisted on calling herself Mom now. His father’s new wife—bless her overbearing heart—had been waiting at the house with a casserole the size of a spare tire and a lecture about “family bonding time.” Jake had muttered something about needing air and bolted the second her back was turned. The shop’s midnight literary-masquerade event was the perfect cover; half the town would be wandering around in cheap masks quoting bad poetry, and no one would look twice at another guy in a five-dollar domino mask from the gas station.

He pushed through the door. A little brass bell tinkled overhead. The place was dim, lit by strings of fairy lights and a few antique lamps that made everything look like it had been dipped in honey. Rows of teetering shelves groaned under hardcovers and paperbacks. Somewhere near the back, jazz crackled from a portable speaker. And there, behind the scarred oak counter, stood pure fucking trouble in a lacy Venetian mask.

Chloe.

His stepsister. His father’s brand-new wife’s twenty-year-old daughter. The girl who had moved into the spare bedroom six months ago with a suitcase full of tiny tops and a smile that made his brain short-circuit. Tonight she wore a slinky black dress that clung to every curve like it had been painted on wet. The neckline plunged just far enough to promise heaven and deliver absolute sin. The Venetian mask—black lace swirling around her eyes, cat-like and mysterious—hid the freckles across her nose but did nothing to hide the wicked curve of her mouth. She was ringing up a customer, leaning forward just enough that the dress whispered secrets against her tits.

Jake’s cock twitched like it had spotted fresh meat. Their parents were upstairs right now in the apartment above the shop, hosting the very family dinner he and Chloe had both ditched. Dad and the stepmom were probably pouring wine and discussing how “the kids just need time to adjust to being siblings.” Yeah. Adjust. That was one word for the filthy slideshow looping through Jake’s head every time Chloe sauntered past him in a towel.

He tugged the cheap domino mask lower over his eyes and drifted toward the poetry section, pretending to browse. His heart hammered. Forbidden. Off-limits. The two words their parents repeated like a broken record every Sunday brunch. “You’re family now. No funny business.” As if saying it enough times would magically shrink Jake’s dick whenever Chloe bent over to load the dishwasher.

“Looking for something specific, stranger?”

Her voice. Low, husky, amused. Jake froze with a battered copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover halfway off the shelf. He cleared his throat, tried to pitch his voice deeper, all mysterious midnight shopper.

“Uh. Yeah. Something… filthy. Got any recommendations?”

Chloe’s head tilted. Even behind the lace he saw her eyes narrow, then sparkle with pure evil delight. She recognized him. Of course she did. They’d lived under the same roof long enough for her to know the exact cadence of his “I’m totally not staring at your ass” mumble.

She dismissed the last customer with a smile, waited until the bell tinkled shut, then sauntered out from behind the counter. The dress whispered against her thighs with every step. Jake’s mouth went dry.

“Well, well,” she purred, stopping close enough that he caught the scent of her perfume—something spicy and expensive that made him think of tangled sheets. “If it isn’t my dear stepbrother, hiding from Mommy Dearest in a five-buck mask. Bold strategy, Jake. Really. Dad’s upstairs carving the roast as we speak, telling everyone how proud he is that we’re becoming ‘real siblings.’” She air-quoted with manicured fingers, then dropped her voice to a filthy whisper. “Tell me, does real siblings include the way you stared at my tits over breakfast last week? Because I’m pretty sure that violates the sacred off-limits step-sibling rule they’ve been beating us over the head with.”

Jake’s laugh came out rough. “You’re one to talk. Wearing that dress to work knowing I’d probably show up. What happened to ‘we have to be good, Jake’?”