Wanton

Wanton. Utterly and truly wanton. That's the word I'd used to describe Miguel Angel Sanchez the first time I met him. 

It had been the night of my mother's engagement to his father, Emilio Sanchez; millionaire real estate developer who lived in a mansion on the outskirts of Evergreen, beautiful little town in Colorado. 

My town. 

Emilio had moved back into town three years ago after leaving with his mother when he was a kid, when his parents divorced (I know this because people gossip a lot in Evergreen), and in no time had established himself as one of the affluential and influential voices in the town, unlike his father who'd left the town not long after the divorce and was never heard of again.

I'd never met him personally, only seen glimpses of him as he drove past town (make that as his driver drove past town), so it came as a shock, albeit an unwelcome kind of shock when my mother, an elementary school teacher, who I'd have never thought crossed paths with that kind of man, came home one night, sat me down and said she'd been seeing Emilio for a couple of months and had agreed to marry him. 

I'd expected her to move on at some point–dad died when I was ten– and she'd never spoken about another man, at least not to me, for the past six years, so I couldn't bring myself to be unhappy that she'd found love again. So like the good daughter I'd been since I was old enough to know what was right or wrong, I braved a smile and supported her. 

I'd swallowed all my words the next day when she warily announced that we'd be selling the house and moving to the mansion. I mean, what exactly was I expecting? 

That the engagement would flop, that's what. 

I didn't even put up an argument, plastering a sickly sweet smile on my face that my mother saw right through but didn't dare question, thank God, and we'd moved into the property two weeks later. 

The road to the property was long and almost never ending, trees on either side. The house, no not a house, the mansion where we'd be staying for the rest of our lives, no, where I'd be staying till I went to college—which was give or take, still more than a year away, because I was close to finishing junior year—, had a security gate that didn't need to be explained– it told outsiders to keep out. There was a water fountain with benches surrounding it in front of the house. The garden behind the house stretched from one edge of the property to the other, more trees painting a picturesque backdrop so beautiful, it made me almost feel happy about who my mother was marrying. Almost. I'd never be completely glad about whoever my mum chose the second time. It sounded selfish and cruel but at least I was that honest with myself. The sitting room was large enough to hold a party, so thankfully there was a smaller room for attending to guests, which had it's own restroom. Like the sitting room, there were two dining rooms, the extremely large and the small table that could accommodate six people. There was one kitchen and guess the size? 

There were also three bedrooms on the ground floor, each having it's own bathroom and adjoining toilets, a pantry, a laundry room, a library, a music room which housed a large piano and a store. There were two doors, the front door which led to the small living room first and the back door beside the store which led to the back of the house. 

The stairs, which was located in the large living room area, led upstairs to two sides, left and right. 

On the left were about four bedrooms, all on one side, the other side just wall which held very few paintings. On the right was five rooms, one was the library, two were bedrooms, one was the study that Emilio used as a home office and the last was the master bedroom. Where my mum would definitely be rooming with her fiance. 

Choosing the most anterior room in the left wing, I plopped on the bed and allowed the reality of what was happening to hit me. 

And then I'd learnt about him. 

The son Emilio Sanchez had had with his first wife before they'd divorced, who happened to be a big time model in Los Angeles, Faye Smith. 

Miguel Angel Sanchez. 

Emilio, his father was handsome for his age, dark brown hair and honey eyes with tan skin that hailed his Latino roots. His mother, Faye Smith—model and actress— was another story. Blonde hair, blue eyes and the palest of skins, she still looked ageless and not like a mother of an eighteen year old, probably why she was still famous in the industry. She was based in Los Angeles, with her son. 

Bianca, my best friend had joined me to "stalk" Miguel on social media, it wouldn't be bad to at least see the face of my stepbrother to be— her words, not mine. 

It wasn't even hard to find him. With almost three hundred thousand followers on I*******m, he was akin to an I*******m celebrity. Even had a fan base, who called themselves Angels. And that was before I clicked and saw his face.

He'd inherited his father's hair, skin and eyes but that smile from his mother. The brown of his eyes reminded me of a brand of chocolate my best friend was obsessed with. Soft rosy lips and a smile that I was sure had gotten girls to drop their panties for him—Bianca's words, not mine— A lean body that didn't lack a bit of muscle; a model's body. Like his mother, he'd been modelling since he was ten. 

He was a prodigy, having one of his paintings displayed in one of the most famous art galleries in Los Angeles at fourteen, his focus shifting to photography a year later. Bianca had swooned. I'd kept my face stoic, refusing to become a fan girl to a boy I'd have never met if his father hadn't decided to remarry. That's when we saw the other parts that made Emilio cringe everytime he talked about his son. He'd dropped out of high school in senior year, flunking his final exams. And cue the eye popping parties he managed to find time to attend on a regular basis. 

Did I mention the parties?

The look on Emilio's face when he'd gritted out that his wayward son would be showing up for the engagement party had told me everything I needed to know. 

Even though Miguel Angel Sanchez looked like an angel, he was a wanton. 

It was a night in July that my mum chose to have the engagement party. He'd walked into the house like he owned the place, looking far older than eighteen years old, wearing a burgundy tux, an unlit cigarette on his lips. 

His pierced lip, because on the right side of his lower lip was a snake bite piercing, (Bianca had googled it the moment he walked in), and right where his left brow ended was another piercing. Both little glittery silver rings. On his ears were silver studded earrings. His hair was gelled back, not one of his normally curly strands out of place, his chocolate eyes enchanting for all who dared to look. And everyone looked. He looked older in real life. And even though I hated to admit it, devastatingly handsome. Even women old enough to be his mother sent him coy glances as he smirked and walked past. I told myself that watching him had nothing to do with how he looked but everything to do with the fact that his dad was wary of the reasons his estranged son had decided to attend his engagement. He was to be my stepbrother, after all, even though he'd clearly decided to ignore my mother and me, only grabbing his father in a pretentious hug and speaking to him in Spanish before throwing my mother and I a cursory glance and disappearing into the party. 

But that's not what I remembered most about Miguel Angel that night. 

I wished I'd never tried to look for him when he disappeared, trying to broker peace and introduce myself, even though I had no doubt he knew who I was. I wish I'd just walked past the music room where a gigantic piano and some other instruments that Emilio sometimes liked to play were kept. 

I wished I'd never pushed the door open and stumbled on Miguel lounging on the seat beside the piano, a woman riding him with enough fervor to break the chair. Because he was facing the door when I came in, his gaze trapped me in place and my mouth dried as the woman —whose face I couldn't see because her back was to me— bounced, up and down, moans almost animal like as she chased her orgasm. And as she rode him, he watched me, whispering words in Spanish that seemed to turn her on even more as her movements became frantic. 

My throat bobbed, my mouth dry as I looked, unable to tear my gaze away, unable to close my ears to her moans and when she cried out, finally reaching orgasm, my thighs clenched involuntarily in my floor length black dress. 

I wasn't a stranger to sex. I was a virgin, but I'd read enough and heard enough about Bianca's sexcapades to know what the act was. I'd never watched porn, at least not until this moment. I squirmed under his gaze, as if he could read my inexperience from my eyes and I just wanted to enter the ground and die. 

You're Amelia Hart for goodness sake, you do not crawl away. 

So I cleared my throat, loud enough that the woman finally realized someone else was in the room and jumped off him like he was fire. She shouldn't have, because now I was staring at my stepbrother's dick in a condom. And it was the first penis I was seeing that wasn't randomly on the internet but attached to a living person not more than ten feet from me. I barely registered the woman—Mrs Hathaway, who had a son in my class and had come with her husband tonight—rushing out, leaving me still staring at my handsome stepbrother's genitals. It was soft now, yet it was big, how would it even look when hard? How did that thing fit into someone's body? 

That was when I heard his voice, mocking and amused, "Like what you see, Mia?" 

Like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head, the rarely used short form of my name, almost spoken as if in endearment, snapped me out of my trance. 

I hurried out of the room, hearing his laughter as I slammed the door shut. 

I came to a conclusion that night. 

Miguel Angel was trouble. And not the good kind.