Her siblings stand as we approach. Her three brothers are all tall and dark-haired like Ellie and their father, and they greet me politely with handshakes. Although some of my irritation with the high ball glasses in their hands lessens when they appear legitimately happy to see their sister, I don’t get why they’re drinking in front of her.
Almost straightaway they begin teasing Ellie about how it’s taken her eight years to finish her undergrad, so I’m able to sit back and observe. Chris and Evan, her two older half-brothers, are obviously close; they’re both lawyers and they work with their father. The middle child, Matt, who’s almost a physical carbon copy of the father, gets ribbed for being the only one of them who doesn’t have a college degree now. He takes it in stride with a casualness that I recognize as the same unyielding self-esteem that surrounds Ellie. In fact, the four eldest Summers children ooze charm and confidence. Which leaves the youngest, Sophie, as the odd man out. Truthfully, she sticks out like a sore thumb. Not only is she the only blonde, but she’s also a lot shorter. And her people-pleasing tendencies become much more apparent as the conversation continues. She expertly referees it all, nudging it away from potential sore spots, while encouraging neutral topics wherever possible.
“Where’s Amelia?” Ellie asks after a while.
“She went to check on the caterers before you got here,” Sophie says, then, noticing the hostility on Ellie’s face, quickly adds, “But don’t worry, she’s not working. I’m sure she’ll be back any minute.”
Ellie gets to her feet. “Well, we’re going to make sure,” she announces, pulling me up. “She’s supposed to be a guest tonight.”
In the foyer, she blows out a loud breath.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I just always feel so awkward around them.”
“That was awkward? You seemed fine to me.”
“Good,” she says absently. “Yeah, good. Usually if the conversation stays light, it’s fine. I was worried if we stayed much longer, my brothers would start in on the politics, and I’d lose my head. Again.”
“Your family talks politics?”
She finds my skepticism quaint. “Oh, yeah. Big time. And suffice it to say, we have differing viewpoints. I’m not only the black sheep of the family, I’m the bleeding-heart liberal. Basically, they all think I’m an idiot.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
The tight grin she throws my way tells me she appreciates the support even if I’m as far off the mark as I can get. “Come on, I’ll show you my old room.”
We go up the left side of the double staircase and I can’t help but be intimidated. This place is insane with its shining marble floors, giant chandelier, actual artwork on the walls, and not a speck of dust anywhere. “I thought we were going to the kitchen.”
“I changed my mind.” With an expression that strikes me as almost scheming, she leads me down a wide hallway with closed doors on either side. Opening the third door on the left, she steps into the most generic bedroom I’ve ever seen. “This was your room?” I ask doubtfully.
“Yeah. It doesn’t look anything like it did when I lived here though. As soon as I went to live in the dorms, it was decontaminated.” She walks in and turns a slow circle as if picturing it how it once was. “At one point, I painted the walls black.”
Shoving my hands into the pockets of my dress pants, I lean against the door frame to watch her. “Your parents went along with that?”
She scoffs, wandering farther into the room, which is at least the size of my grandmother’s living room. “It’s not like I asked for permission.”
Grimacing, I follow her, trying and failing to imagine a scenario in which my girls would do something like that. “You really were a nightmare teenager, weren’t you?”
She nods. “I really was. I went through every rebellious phase imaginable.” At the window, she trails her hand along the heavy beige drapes. “During my emo/goth phase, these were black too.”
“To go with the walls?”
“Exactly. That phase got cut short when my mom threatened to send me back to private school. Then for a while I hung out with the stoners, but they were so mellow that I got bored.”
My bark of laughter draws her smile.
“I was also an All-American girl slash cheerleader.”
Shit, is it wrong that my dick swells slightly? “That doesn’t sound very rebellious.”
She tilts her head in begrudging agreement. “I guess not. Neither was my nerd phase.” Amused by the memory, she tells me she wore fake horn-rimmed glasses, though she admits she kept her plaid skirts uber-short and paired them with combat boots. Yeah, this is doing nothing to discourage my growing arousal.
On the other side of the room, she pushes open another door. “You had your own bathroom?” I say, my disbelief bordering on accusation. “That’s . . . not right.” I come up behind her to find double sinks and a huge glass shower. “You don’t know torture until you’ve had to share one bathroom with three sisters.”
She hops up on the counter and lets her eyes slide down my body. They come to rest on my rapidly tightening groin. She licks her lips before she’s kind enough to mention the increasing state of affairs in my dress pants. “What’s going on there, Scott?”
Drifting forward, I lean back against the wall across from the sink, not bothering to deny anything. What would be the point? The material of these pants does little to mask the problem. “That’s your doing. Filling my head with thoughts of you in short skirts.”
Her lip curls slightly with disgust. “Don’t tell me, you have a cheerleader fetish?”
I shrug. “I’m not opposed to cheerleaders, but I think it was the combat boots and the glasses that did it for me.”
“Really?” She draws out the word, and then licks her lips again, the little minx. “Can I tell you a secret?” I blink as she very deliberately starts to spread her legs. “Scott?”
“Huh?”
The hem of the dress only allows her to open her knees so far. “The secret,” she prompts. “Do you want to hear it?”
“Yeah, uh, sure.” She lowers her hands and starts to inch the dress up. My mouth goes dry. This shit is definitely inappropriate in her parents’ house . . . especially with images of her as a teenager filing through my dirty mind.
“You’re not paying attention,” she pouts, and I wrench my gaze up to hers. “Would it help to know my secret has to do with you and getting myself off?”
Getting . . . say what now? The naked hunger in her expression lodges my unease deeper in my gut, but my dick responds to it with keen enthusiasm. What is she doing?
The tops of her thighs are now visible, but still she continues to raise the hem, slowly rocking her hips back and forth to free more of the material from beneath her. And then my mind blanks when she’s exposed enough that it becomes obvious she’s not wearing any panties. I get one hell of an eyeful of plump, pink pussy, spread open and glistening under the lights. Holy. Fuck.
I immediately push off the wall to close the distance between us.
“Uh, uh, uh,” she says firmly, holding up an index finger to stop me. “Back against the wall, Scott. This is my fantasy.”