Kayla's Forbidden Weekend With The Stepbrother

The warm evening breeze off the lake carried the scent of pine and roses as Kayla stepped out of the black town car, her strappy heels crunching on the gravel drive of the luxury resort. She smoothed the short emerald dress over her hips, the fabric clinging to every curve of her athletic, ink-covered body. At twenty-seven, she still looked like the wild college girl who had once talked Emily into getting their first tattoos together. But tonight the maid-of-honor role felt like a fucking joke.

Inside the lakeside pavilion, the rehearsal dinner was already in full swing. Emily—blonde, glowing, perfect—laughed at something her boring fiancé Michael said, her diamond engagement ring catching the candlelight like a accusation. And there, leaning against the bar with a glass of whiskey in his large hand, was Jake.

Emily’s stepbrother. Thirty years old, broad-shouldered, dark hair cropped short, jaw like it had been carved from stone. The sleeves of his white button-down were rolled up, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms and the edge of a tattoo Kayla knew ran all the way up to his shoulder. Their eyes met across the room exactly the way they always did—hungry, furious, secret.

Kayla’s stomach clenched. She had wanted him for years. Since the first time Emily brought her home for spring break and Jake had looked at her like he wanted to devour her whole. They had spent the last six years flirting in stolen glances, brushing hands under dinner tables, trading filthy texts that never went anywhere because he was family to her best friend. But the ache between her legs every time she saw him had only grown worse, a raw, throbbing need that no one else could touch.

She forced herself to smile, to hug Emily, to clink glasses and laugh at the lame toasts. All night she felt Jake’s stare burning into her back, her ass, the bare skin of her thighs. Every time she crossed her legs, she felt how wet she already was.

After dinner, the party spilled out onto the terrace. Kayla drank too much—three glasses of champagne, then two shots of tequila with the groomsmen. The alcohol only sharpened the ache. When she saw Jake slip away from the crowd and head down the path toward the private boathouse, something inside her snapped.

She followed.

The boathouse was old wood and shadow, lit only by a single hanging bulb that cast everything in warm gold and deep black. The door creaked when she pushed it open. Jake stood at the far end near a workbench, hands in his pockets, staring out at the dark water. He didn’t turn around.

“You shouldn’t be here, Kayla.”

His voice was low, rough. It went straight to her clit.

She closed the door behind her, heart hammering. “We need to talk.”

“Talk?” He laughed once, dark and dangerous. “That’s never been what we do.”