Page 16 of Beautiful Desire
What.
The.
Fuck.
7
Fletcher
Rising out of my seat, I sling my backpack over my shoulder as I walk through the library toward the exit. Spring quarter started this week, and as I figured, I’m already overwhelmed by the sheer volume of coursework, which doesn’t even include my capstone project that I haven’t even started thinking about yet. Given that it’s the last quarter of my final year in the program, I expected to be up to my ears in homework, but that doesn’t make it any easier to digest.
School has always been a challenge for me, even back in middle and high school. I’ve always gotten good grades—my father would have a fucking fit if I came home with anything lower than a B—but I’ve also always had to work a hell of a lot harder than my peers to achieve those grades. It’s why I fought with my dad about going for my MBA. If it were up to me, I would be fine with just my undergraduate degree. It’s not like Ineedmy master’s to do my job, but he insisted and wouldn’t budge. The plan hasalwaysbeen for me to join my dad at the top of the company. Even from a young age, Idistinctly remember him telling me all about how we’re going to be partners and the empire he and his dad built will soon be mine too. But I also distinctly remember him saying the only stipulation was I had to wait until I turned twenty-five. Yet the closer I get to that age, the more caveats he adds.
I’m nothing but a puppet to him. He knows he can tug my strings in any direction he pleases, and I have no choice but to oblige. I hate how much I want what he’s dangling in front of my face. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps, if I had my own career path. But I don’t. Not only does my father know being a co-owner at St. James Properties is all I’ve ever wanted, but he also knows how much Ineedthis. He knows, just like I do, I would be hard pressed to find another career path that could offer me as much money as my dad’s company, especially when I make partner and make double what I do now.
Or should I say, what Iwasmaking, since the bastard cut me off. Now I’m making a whopping seventeen dollars an hour, working part time for my stepsister.
Whoop-de-fucking-do.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I make my way across the parking lot toward my car. Pulling it out, I’m more than a little surprised to see it’s from Georgia. It’s been damn near radio silence since I made that idiotic comment to her the other day.
“Fuck, Peach, hearing you get all growly like that really fucking gets me hard.”
What the fuck was that? Georgia hasn’t said a word about it, pretending like it never even happened. In fact, she’s gone out of her way to avoid me. Lately, we’ve gotten into somewhat of a routine when we’re both home for dinner, to eat at the table together. Neither of us ever has much to say, but it’s kind of…nice, I guess, having somebody to eat with.
That stopped the night I made that ridiculous comment.
Audibly groaning, I swipe my thumb across the screen and unlock it, reading the message she sent.
Georgia: Can you pick up a twelve pack of diet Dr. Pepper and some more paper towels on your way home from library, please?
Me: Wow, you’re texting me? And I actually got a please from you this time? Are you feeling alright?
Unlocking my car, I climb in and toss my backpack on the seat beside me before starting the ignition. Before I even have a chance to pick a song to play, her response comes through, and when I click on it and read the words on the screen, my stomach bottoms out and my whole body warms.
Georgia: *middle finger emoji* We’ve been through this. Be a good boy and do as you're told, Fletcher.
Jesus Christ.
I read the message back another three times before my mind starts to work again.
“Be a good boy and do as you’re told.”
How demeaning. No, how fucking belittling. Who the hell does Georgia think she is? I mean, honestly, who talks to somebody like that and thinks it’s okay?Well, I did just tell her that her voice made me hard, so I don’t really have room to talk.Instead of responding, I lock my phone and drop it in the cupholder before putting the car in reverse, all the while trying my best to ignore the pounding in my chest and the ringing in my ears.
“Be a good boy...”
Good. Boy.Fuck!
A chill races down my spine as I recall the first time she called me that a couple of weeks ago and how it made me feel to hear it then. Why is my body on fire? My palms are slick as I grip the steering wheel, pulling out of the parking lot, my throat thick and skin tingling.
Why would Georgia say that? And after days of ignoring me?
Again, how is it possible that I’m equally pissed off and aroused by it? I amnotinto being called a good boy. Clearly, my body is confused. I thought getting laid last week would take the edge off things, but it didn’t. If anything, it only made things worse. Especially because while I was fucking that blonde, all I could think about was Georgia.My fucking stepsister.Her face—how hot she looks when she’s scowling at me, and how fucking sexy she probably sounds when she moans. Her body—how soft and voluptuous it is, and how delectable she’d look as I spread open her fat ass with my hands while sliding my cock into her tight, warm cunt.
Having that fantasy fill my mind, it’s no wonder the reality of my hookup was so lackluster. Don’t get me wrong, blondie was fine. There was nothing wrong with her—aside from her lack of effort—but annoyingly enough, she couldn’t compare to the woman, and the body, in my head. To say I went home unsatisfied would be a huge understatement. The only part that made it worth it was when Georgia chewed me out for it a few days later.
How fucked up is that?
