Puck Me, Stepbrother

VERA'S POV

"You're staring."

"I'm observing. There's a difference."

The man beside me at the bar doesn't laugh. He tilts his head slightly, like he's deciding whether I'm worth the effort, and then the corner of his mouth lifts just enough to make my stomach do something I immediately decide to ignore.

"And what exactly are you observing?"

"A room full of people pretending to care about a charity they Googled twenty minutes before arriving."

That gets a real reaction. Not a full smile — something more controlled than that. Like he's someone who learned a long time ago not to give too much away in public.

I don't blame him. I learned the same thing.

The gala is exactly what I expected, overpriced, overstaffed, and stuffed with people whose net worth could solve several international crises but who are here tonight because it looks good in a press release. I came because my editor told me Richard Harrington's annual charity event was the kind of room a journalist should be seen in. I put on the only formal dress I own, pinned on the required mask, and told myself I'd stay two hours maximum.

That was three hours ago.

I haven't left because of him.

I don't know his name. The masks are a genuine commitment at this event, full coverage, no name tags, no introductions unless you offer them voluntarily. He hasn't offered and neither have I and somewhere in the last hour that became its own kind of game.

He's tall. Broad in the way that suggests a physical career rather than a gym hobby. His suit fits like it was made for him specifically, which it probably was. He holds his drink like someone who doesn't actually need it and he's been watching the room the same way I have — not enjoying it, just reading it.

We started talking because he sat down next to me at the bar and said nothing for four full minutes and I respected it so much I broke the silence myself.

That was two hours ago.

I have told him nothing real about myself. My name, my job, where I live — all of it stayed locked behind the mask. He did the same. And somehow that made everything easier. No performance. No positioning. Just two people in a loud room who found the one quiet corner and stayed in it.

"You don't like these people," he says. It isn't a question.

"I don't know these people."

"That's not what I asked."

I look at him sideways. "No. I don't particularly like them. Do you?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Some of them I'm obligated to tolerate."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

We don't talk about anything important for the rest of the night and somehow that becomes the most important conversation I've had in years. He makes me laugh twice. Actually laugh — not the polished social version I use at work events but the real one I usually keep locked away. He listens when I talk in a way that makes me feel like the words are landing somewhere instead of just dissolving into the noise.

At midnight the event begins wrapping up. People start peeling away in expensive cars. The bar thins out. The music drops to something quieter.

He turns to look at me directly for the first time all night and something about the shift in his expression makes my breath catch.

"I don't do this," I tell him before he says anything.

"Neither do I."

"I mean it."

"So do I."

I believe him. I don't know why but I do. Maybe because he's spent the whole night being honest in every way except with his name and I've done the same and there's a strange kind of trust in that.

I make a decision I know is reckless. I make it anyway.

We slip away to a quiet suite upstairs, the door clicking shut behind us. His hands find my waist first, pulling me close, his mouth on mine slow and searching, like he's memorizing the taste. I press into him, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as his tongue slides against mine, deepening the kiss until my lips tingle.

He backs me toward the bed, his broad frame pinning me gently against the edge of the mattress. One hand slides up my thigh, bunching the fabric of my dress higher, exposing my skin to the cool air. I gasp into his mouth as his fingers trace the edge of my panties, teasing the damp lace before slipping beneath it.

He finds my clit with unerring precision, circling it firmly, and a low moan escapes me…."Ahh..."....my hips bucking toward his touch.

"You like that?" he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot as he nips at the skin there.

"Yes," I breathe, my voice already ragged. He pushes a finger inside me, then two, curling them to stroke that spot that makes my thighs tremble. I moan louder, "Oh god, right there," my pussy clenching around him as he pumps steadily, his thumb still working my clit. The pressure builds fast, heat coiling tight in my core.

He pulls back just enough to yank my dress over my head, tossing it aside, then sheds his own clothes with quick efficiency. His cock springs free, thick and hard, the tip already glistening.

I reach for it, wrapping my hand around the base and stroking, feeling it throb under my palm. He groans, low and rough, as I guide him between my legs.

He enters me in one smooth thrust, filling me completely, and I cry out…"Fuck, yes!"...my nails digging into his shoulders. He starts moving, slow at first, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, each thrust hitting deep.

My moans fill the room, building with every snap of his hips: "Mmm... harder... ahh!" I wrap my legs around him, urging him on as he picks up pace, his broad chest pressing against my breasts, nipples hardening against the friction.

The tension winds tighter, my body arching as he fucks me relentlessly, his cock stretching me, pounding into my pussy with wet, rhythmic slaps. "I'm close," I gasp, my voice breaking into whimpers. He reaches down, rubbing my clit in tight circles, and it shatters me. My climax crashes over me, waves of pleasure ripping through as I scream…"Oh fuck, I'm cumming!"....my walls pulsing around him, squeezing his length as I shake beneath him.

He follows soon after, thrusting deep one last time, his cock pulsing as he spills inside me with a guttural groan, hot cum flooding my pussy.

We collapse together, breaths mingling, bodies slick with sweat.

The next morning, I leave before sunrise. I don't look back.

*************************

I spend the next three weeks burying it. I'm good at burying things. I focus on the investigation my editor quietly handed me — financial irregularities inside the Harrington hockey organization, player contracts that don't add up, money moving through channels it shouldn't. It's the kind of story that could define my career if I pull it correctly and destroy it if I pull it wrong. I don't have room in my head for a masked stranger I'm never going to see again.

My mother calls on a Tuesday morning while I'm cross referencing financial records.

She sounds different and happier She tells me she has news and asks me to come home for the weekend.

I go.

She sits me down at the kitchen table with tea I don't drink and tells me she's getting married. His name is Richard Harrington. She met him four months ago at a fundraiser. She's never been happier.

The name hits me like cold water but I keep my face still because I am very good at keeping my face still.

I ask her one question. Just one.

"Does he have children?"

She smiles and nods. "One son. You'll meet him at the wedding."

I fly in the morning of the ceremony. I stand at the back of a sunlit venue in a dress my mother picked out and I watch the groom's side fill up and I tell myself it's a coincidence. It has to be a coincidence.

Then the doors open.

And he walks in.

Same jaw. Same posture. Same way of moving through a room like he owns the air in it.

He looks up and finds me immediately like he already knew exactly where I'd be standing.

And he smiles.

Not surprised. Not shocked.

Just smiles, slow and certain, like he's been waiting.

"Hello, Vera."