Stepbrother Broken (The Hawthorne Brothers Book 2) Read online

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  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

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  Faster Deeper (Take Me... #2) by Colleen Masters

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  Faster Hotter (Take Me...#4) by Colleen Masters

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  STEPBROTHER BROKEN

  A Hawthorne Brothers Novel

  Book Two

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  by Colleen Masters

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Prologue

  The Bear Trap Bar

  Montana, USA

  Adrenaline spikes through my already boozy blood as I slam the bathroom door shut behind me. Flattening my back against the flimsy wooden barrier, I turn to face my unexpected companion for the evening. He towers above me in the dimly lit space, his sculpted features rendered all the more intense by the low light. His close cropped chestnut hair, dark stubble, and effortlessly cool bearing caught my eye from the very first second I saw him. But in such tight quarters as these, every enticing aspect of him is amplified tenfold. The sheer pitch of my fascination with him renders me all but speechless as I drink in the sight of him. At last, we’re all alone.

  He’s easily six feet tall, with a balanced, controlled body well-conditioned by a lifetime of athletics and hard physical work. His cut, perfectly shaped muscles are rippling with barely contained desire. And as visceral as this moment is, it’s still hard to believe that what he desires is me. God knows I’ve been fantasizing about finding myself alone with him for weeks on end. But now that we’re here together, I’m almost overwhelmed by the hugeness of his want. The staggering, powerful presence of him. My breath catches in my throat as he plants his hands hard on the door above my shoulders, caging me in with mere inches of space between us.

  “You sure you’re up for this?” he growls, his dark green eyes smoldering in the dim light of the bar bathroom.

  I draw myself up with a defiant stare, keeping my eyes trained on his face…no matter how overpoweringly gorgeous it is. Reaching around behind my back, I slide the door’s heavy bolt into the locked position. The satisfying, metallic click rings out loud and clear in the small room, despite the cacophony of music and voices roaring in the bar proper. It’s the last night of classes at the university nearby, where I’m just finishing off my junior year. Thank god I decided to ditch the frat-sponsored school-spirit shit show on campus in favor something a little more exciting. Or rather, someone a little more exciting.

  “Does that answer your question?” I breathe, all but vibrating with anticipation.

  He cocks a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me, keeping me pinned between his powerful arms.

  “Not quite,” he laughs, his voice ragged around the edges, “Try again.”

  “Wh-what?” I stammer, trying to keep up. At 21, I’m hardly inexperienced with the opposite sex. But even though this guy only has a few years on me, he’s making the other men I’ve been with look like little boys. It’s been a long time since I haven’t been the more dominant partner in the bedroom…or, uh…bathroom, as it were. But where this particular man is concerned, I hardly mind. In fact, I actually find myself wanting to let him take the lead. And that is absolutely a first.

  “I need a yes or no,” he goes on, easing his perfectly balanced body toward me. “It’s a simple question, Sophie.”

  My very cells are screaming to feel him against me. If he would just come a little closer…

  “Would I have come back tonight if I didn’t want this?” I point out, resisting the urge to throw myself into his thickly muscled arms.

  “To be honest,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to my almost-quivering lips, “I’m having trouble getting a read on you. And let me tell you, that’s not something I’m used to. You’re gonna have to tell me outright what it is you want, here.”

  “Why don’t you let me show you instead?” I shoot back, letting my hands trail down his rock-hard chest.

  “Come on,” he says, his full lips spreading into a rakish grin. “You already put it into writing, didn’t you? What did that note of yours say again?”

  “You’re such an asshole,” I mutter breathlessly, trying to fight the blush that rises in my cheeks.

  “Oh, that’s right…” he goes on, letting his torso brush deliciously against mine. He leans in close, his breath warm against my neck. Those firm lips brush against the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “You want me to ‘Nail you to the wall and fuck you dirty’. Wasn’t that it?”

  “That…Uh…That was the gist of it,” I gasp, my thighs clenching together as a thundering rush of need courses through me.

  “Say it then,” he demands, brushing a lock of caramel blonde hair away from my face, “Tell me what it is you want.”

  “I…I just…” I sputter, lowering my gold-flecked blue eyes.

  “You’ll tell me, won’t you,” he says firmly. It’s not a question.

  I force a deep breath into my lungs, gathering up every bit of courage at my disposal (liquid or otherwise). I’m not usually one for nerves, having conquered my stage fright at the ripe old age of four. Usually, that steadiness carries over into my romantic life…but not now. Not with him. For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m performing desire, I’m experiencing it. Turns out, there’s a pretty big difference—a difference so big that it almost frightens me. But if I’ve learned one thing from my life as a performer, it’s that sometimes you’ve got to follow the fear if you want to find the truth.

  “Luke,” I start softly, my voice low in my chest and husky with lust.

  “Yes?” he replies, his smoldering green eyes hard on my face.

  I take his face in my hands, my fingers resting against his scruffy, razor sharp jaw, and lock my gaze onto his.

  “I want you to nail me to the wall,” I whisper, “And fuck me dirty.”

  A blaze of fiery need erupts in his emerald gaze as he takes me in. For just a second, he looks genuinely amazed that I’ve risen t
o the moment. I may have never had a man like him before, but maybe he’s never had a woman like me either.

  I let my lips part, a snarky jab at the ready to defuse the achingly intense moment. But before I can utter another syllable, he’s pinned me to the wooden door with his powerful, tapered hips. A gasp escapes my throat as he snatches my hands from his face and holds my wrists firmly above my head. My entire body lights up like a flare as he brings his mouth to mine, kissing me hard and fast as he presses his incredible form against me.

  My back arches as I open my mouth eagerly to his, letting his tongue sweep against mine. Our mouths move together, hungry and searching. I’m stretched out tautly before him, and he explores my dancer’s figure with his firm free hand. My nipples go hard as he runs a hand slowly down my side, memorizing the lithe shape of me. He grins as he brushes a thumb over one of those erect peaks, pleased at how quickly he’s turned me on.

  “How long have you been waiting for this?” he growls, freeing my wrists as he kisses down along my throat. His lips leave sparks of sensation in their wake as they trail along my skin, and it’s all I can do to keep putting one word in front of another.

  “How long? Oh…Only since your very first class,” I laugh breathlessly, writhing under his intoxicating touch.

  “Hmm,” he replies, grabbing me firmly by waist, “I’ve never met someone who was so turned on by economic theory. Kinda kinky…”

  “It wasn’t so much the subject matter as it was the person delivering it,” I smile, trying to catch my breath.

  “That’s good to know,” he grins back, his voice straining with need, “It’d be a real shame if you just wanted me for my brain. The rest of me wants in on the action, too.”

  He shifts his hips ever-so-slightly, and I feel the hard, unbelievable length of him press firmly against my thigh. My eyes go wide as I stare up at him, amazed by the enormity of his need for me.

  “Yeah…I think I get it,” I breathe, letting my hands slide down his cut torso, “Though I have to say, I wouldn’t mind getter a slightly better handle on it…”

  “Well Ms. Porter,” he grins, as I whip open the buckle of his belt, “I’d be more than happy to give you one last lesson.”

  The din of the bar is entirely drowned out by the frantic pounding of my heart as Luke slips his hands up under my crop top.

  “Go ahead, Prof,” I whisper, “I’m a fast learner.”

  “My favorite kind,” he growls back, as I slide my hand down the front of his blue jeans.

  So consumed are we by our impromptu study session that we don’t even notice as someone starts pounding on the bathroom door. We’ve got a lot of material to get through, after all. And I have the feeling that I’ve just discovered my new favorite subject: Lukas Hawthorne.

  Chapter One

  Sheridan University

  Montana, USA

  The Day Before…

  I roll up onto the balls of my bare feet, perched on the edge of the playing space. Across the stage stands my dance partner, Danny—a quintessential all-American boy. He’s got wheat blonde hair, a toothpaste ad smile, and an ego so big he’ll have to check it when he flies off to New York City and becomes an instant Broadway sensation someday. I’m allowed to say as much, as one of his closest friends—and because he’d be the first to tell you the exact same thing. We’ve been rehearsing like crazy people these past few weeks, working to perfect our final dance performance piece of the year. This is our last rehearsal before we show it to our classmates and teachers tomorrow, and our movement teacher Gary has agreed to watch and offer feedback.

  Gary, a somewhat fluffy fifty-something man with wispy gray hair, watches from the audience as Danny and I face off across the proscenium stage. He’s a tough cookie, our teacher, and isn’t one to mince words. I’ve learned so much from him in the three years that he’s been my movement teacher; but above all, I’ve learned to cultivate an alligator-thick skin. And as someone who plans to pursue a career in the performing arts, that’s about the most valuable thing I could ever attain.

  The song “Lebanese Blonde” by Thievery Corporation starts playing over the auditorium’s sound system, and our dance piece begins. I let my rational mind go quiet as my body moves into the space. Danny and I advance toward each other as the song’s trippy, abstract introduction goes on. Our choreography was carefully crafted to strike a balance between the styles of modern and jazz, but I’m not thinking about all that now. I’m not thinking about anything.

  I’m simply moving.

  Danny and I meet at center stage, mirroring each other’s movements precisely as we mark time with the music. As I roll my body around to face the audience, I catch a glimpse of Gary’s face. It’s pulled into an exasperated scowl. I stumble to a halt as my teacher waves his hand dismissively, signaling our resident sound technician to cut the music. He does, and Danny straightens up with a start.

  “Is something wrong with the track?” my friend murmurs in my ear.

  “No,” I tell him, “I think something’s wrong with us.”

  “Impossible,” Danny scoffs, “We were flawless. Obviously.”

  “I think Gary may have a slightly different opinion,” I reply, plastering a phony smile onto my face as our teacher appraises us.

  My friend and I stand side-by-side in front of our teacher. My long blonde hair is arranged in a loose braid that hangs down my back, and my body is clad in a tight black body suit. My full breasts and ass swell beneath the black fabric, held up by thin straps that crisscross my toned back. I’m no gym rat, but years of dance and yoga (plus the metabolism of a rabbit) have landed me in pretty great shape. Though it doesn’t seem to be my figure that has Gary looking so aggrieved.

  “Can one of you please tell me what the assignment was for this piece?” he asks in his slightly nasal voice.

  Danny and I exchange a quick glance, each daring the other to speak first.

  “We were supposed to choreograph a dance piece,” Danny starts, “In the tradition of—”

  “What kind of dance piece, specifically?” Gary presses.

  “A…good one?” Danny offers vaguely.

  “Good lord…” Gary mutters.

  “A partnered dance piece,” I venture.

  Gary gives me a good old slow clap, and I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. I was expecting this performance to go perfectly. More than anything, I wanted to end this year on a positive note. But it looks like my teacher has other ideas.

  “A partnered dance piece. Very good, Sophie,” Gary says, “So then tell me…If this was supposed to be a dance between partners, why were you following your own lead the entire time?”

  I clench my teeth to keep my jaw from falling open.

  “I wasn’t… I didn’t—” I stammer.

  “You were, and you did,” Gary cuts in. “I could see Danny trying to engage with you, but you were off in your own little world the whole time. It was completely distracting. If anything, Danny should have been taking the lead.”

  “Because I’m the better dancer, you mean?” Danny asks hopefully.

  “Because you’re the man,” Gary says.

  “That’s even worse,” I mutter, before I can stop myself.

  “Not this again Sophie,” Gary groans, resting his head in his hand.

  “What?” I reply, unable to keep my voice from getting heated, “I’m not allowed to take issue with the totally outdated practice of a male dance partner leading at all costs? It’s 2015, for Christ’s sake—”

  “I am trying to prepare you for a life in the arts, Sophie,” Gary cuts me off, “A life that will, if you’re lucky, include getting paid to perform. If you want to be out of a job because you can’t follow traditional dance protocol without getting a hive of bees in your bonnet, be my guest.”

  “Maybe I’m not interested in tradition,” I reply, folding my arms.

  “Fine,” Gary huffs, “Screw tradition, if you must. But I didn’t stop your performance just now because you
weren’t letting the man lead. I stopped your performance because you still haven’t figured out how to work with a partner at all.”

  I suddenly find myself without any snappy comebacks to dispense. He’s got me there. Since arriving at Sheridan University to study dance and drama, collaboration has been my Achilles heel. My work has improved by leaps and bounds when I’m working solo. I can deliver a monologue, belt out a tune, or dance a solo piece with the best of them. But when it comes to working with a partner, listening to someone else…I fall short every time.

  “Sophie, you know I love you,” Gary goes on, hoisting himself onto the stage and taking my hands gently in his, “I know why trusting people, letting yourself care about people, is so hard for you. But it is something you’re going to have to deal with if you want to be a truly great performer.”

  Sudden tears well up in my eyes as my teacher zeroes in on what’s really been holding me back. Just before I started college here at Sheridan, my family was dealt a huge blow. My father Archie was killed in a car crash with a drunk driver back in our home state of Vermont. The loss devastated my family, rendering my mother, Robin, nearly catatonic with grief. My older sister, Madeleine, was already off at college in Washington, and my younger sister, Annabel, was back at home with my mom. I was on my own for the first time in my life, just when I most needed support.

  Mere months after the accident, I found myself arriving here at school for freshman orientation. I was closed off, hostile, and so, so angry. I’ve spent the past three years tearing down those defenses, working through my grief in my acting, voice, and movement classes. My classmates and professors have helped me more than I could ever have imagined possible. That’s why it’s so goddamn frustrating to run up against my same old habits after all this time, to be called out on a difficulty that I want to put behind me. Really, what I want is for the wound of my father’s passing to heal. But of course, it’s not the sort of thing you can wish away. If I live to be one hundred, not a day will go by when I don’t feel his absence.