My Billionaire Stepbrother (Lexi's Sexy Billionaire Romance #1) Read Online Free Page B

get upstairs, as your birthday present, I’m going to let you fuck me in the ass,” Samantha purrs. I catch Carl’s eye and see him smirk despite trying to hold it in. And despite my trying to hold it in, I’m already pipe hard again.  
    Breaking up with Samantha can wait a little longer.
    I open my mailbox. Just letters today, and not many. It’s not really legal to mess with the mail, but I’ve asked the staff to sort it to lessen my load. I paid them enough to stop caring about the possible federal infraction. Now all my junk mail gets tossed. Bills are forwarded to my bookkeeper. I only see personal mail, so though this mailbox is often stuffed with crap I don’t need, it’s also frequently empty.  
    I don’t get much personal email. But who does? It’s not that it’s lonely at the top — though there’s some truth to that, for sure — it’s that sending letters is a lost art.  
    There are three cards in the mailbox. Obvious for what they are in oversized colorful envelopes.  
    I pull them out. Samantha’s over my shoulder, her hair on my neck, perfume seductive, breath sweet from her just spit out gum. Her breasts are against the back of my arm. I can’t help picturing them, feeling the press of her nipples. They’re high, firm, young, ripe. Sam is only twenty-one, and it bothers me that lately that’s felt almost too young for me, despite the filth she spouts from her experienced mouth when not playing society girl.
    “Who’s wishing you happy birthday, birthday boy?”
    “This one is from Raymond,” I say, handing her the first.  
    “Who’s Raymond?”  
    “My lawyer.”  
    No comment.  
    “And this one is from that school. Where I did my last benefit, for literacy and entrepreneurism for kids.”  
    The card is sweet. The kids all signed their names, and the inside’s a jumble. The idea of running their own businesses someday had hit home with the kids, but maybe I’d aimed too young. A disproportionate number had said they wanted to own their own fireman businesses, or that they’d wanted to run basketball player companies.  
    Sam makes a sighing little “Aww” noise, proving she’s human.  
    I’ve stopped at the final card. Sam is over my shoulder, moving around. But I don’t want her to see this one. Not Sam. Not now. Maybe never.  
    “Who’s that one from?”  
    “My dad,” I say.  
    She tries to peek at the card’s interior, but I’ve closed it and turned away, breaking her halfway embrace.  
    “I thought you didn’t talk to your dad.”  
    “I don’t.” I flap the envelope. “But they sent a card anyway.”  
    “They?”  
    “My dad and my stepmom.”  
    Samantha’s small smile says nothing, other than that this part of our evening’s concluded. She moves around me instead, drawing a lazy finger across my chest, then down hers. The blue dress clings to her body as if painted on. I swear I can see everything, but despite my erection as she nods at Carl to call the elevator, I barely notice her.  
    My attention is still on the card, which I keep sneaking peaks into.  
    A birthday card from my dad.
    From my dad and my stepmom.  
    And from Angela.  
    Angela .

ANGELA

    I REMEMBER THE DAY I met Parker Altman.  
    Back then, Mom was just trailing off with her drinking. She was in this fragile place where she no longer leaned on the bottle’s crutch but needed another. It didn’t seem wrong to me that she hooked up with Bill, but I hadn’t yet come to understand codependence. I was in my own world, sixteen years old and totally selfish.  
    Looking back, it’s hard to fault myself even from the perspective of a woman who grew into her twenties with regret, seeing her dreams subjugated, lost, forgotten. It only seemed right that I should give up on myself to take care of others who — let’s face it — were perfectly capable of stepping up and taking care of themselves. All teenagers are selfish — not because they want to be, but because