Stinger (The Mandarin Connection Book 7)
Stinger
A Stepbrother Romance
By Stephanie Brother
© 2018 Stephanie Brother
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author's imagination.
Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over. None of the characters are related by blood.
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EXCERPT
David-Keith comes down to the breakfast nook, and his hair is still wet, and his eyes glitter with mirth.
“Hey! Did you eat all the pancakes, Honeybee?” he says.
He opens the refrigerator, and scans the contents, looking for something to shove into his gorgeous mouth.
I think for a moment about something of mine I would love to shove into his mouth, which makes me think about something of his I wouldn’t mind if he shoved into my mouth, and then my brain short-circuits again, and I drop my pencil.
I bend over to retrieve it, but it rolls from under the table, next to his left shoe.
I get up, and try to retrieve it, but I can’t reach it, so I get down on my knees, using my left hand to brace myself against the fridge.
Unfortunately, this places my mouth right at the level of the enormous bulge in David-Keith’s workout shorts.
I try to pick up the pencil, but I’m distracted by the outline of David-Keith’s member.
He still has his head stuck in the door, and isn’t paying much attention, when I fumble as he goes to grab the milk from the shelf.
“Oh!” I shout, and fall right onto his lap.
My open mouth lands directly on his erection, and I involuntarily kiss his cock, right there, in the middle of the shaft.
David-Keith stands up, straight, and tries to back away, but my face is glued to his groin, as he steps backwards from the refrigerator.
I cause him to stumble and he lands flat on his ass, with a loud thump.
My face bounces up and down on his groin, in a parody of a blowjob.
David-Keith watches with interest, and when I finally stop my show, he’s almost ready to laugh out loud.
“Geez, Honeybee,” he says, covering his smile with his hand.
“I know we’re all out of sausage, but…” he continues, shaking his head.
He chortles, and rubs the top of my head, like I’m some kind of pet.
Then, he slides back, and my chin drops to the floor with a thud.
I lay there, almost an entire minute, as my stepbrother rises and brushes the dust from his ass.
It’s an identical clone of Keith-David’s, and my brain does its stupid short-circuit again, and suddenly I am very aware of my situation.
Mortified, I pull away, a strand of saliva still clinging to his now-erect penis outline, the silvery string stretching from my lower lip to the ballistic nylon of his shorts.
I stand up, shaking, running from the room, trying not to cry, leaving the pencil to sit there on the floor.
My drawings are forgotten in my need to escape the situation.
I’m not sad, just angry, as I squeeze the bitter tears from my eyes.
I swipe at them, chiding myself for being so foolish.
Because, I didn’t want to stop.
—————
Contents
EXCERPT
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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
THE MANDARIN CONNECTION SERIES
By Stephanie Brother
SPECIAL BONUS EXCERPT ONE:
Billionaire Stepbrother - Addiction - The Complete Series
SPECIAL BONUS EXCERPT TWO:
Haunted: A Stepbrother Romance
SPECIAL BONUS EXCERPT THREE:
Fraud: A Stepbrother Romance
SPECIAL BONUS EXCERPT FOUR:
Boned: A Stepbrother Romance
About Stephanie Brother
Also by Stephanie Brother
PROLOGUE
The men sat around a table, deciding once again the movement of billions of dollars in gambling proceeds.
“We’re projecting ROI of at least 53%, if the following colleges on this list are enabled and the correct draft picks are selected,” said the dark-haired man to the room.
There were at least a dozen men seated around the mahogany table. The wood of the table was rumored to have been harvested from one of the original support beams that were in the Sistine Chapel, before the renovation.
The furniture of the room was worth a small fortune, but the appearance was austere; severe, foreboding to avarice, greed and betrayals.
On the wall were priceless tapestries, stolen from Nazi hoarding houses, the treasure rooms of wealthy sheiks and princes, the occasional one from a contemporary dictator’s forbidden stock of items.
All were illicitly acquired, and all could be hoped to be hidden away, safe from prying eyes or those undeserving of basking in their combined glory.
“What is the primary target area, and who are we aiming to collect?” asked a man, seated in a wheelchair.
He was the most formidable man in the room, although his physical frailty belied much strength and will. He had overcome many obstacles to sit here, at the pinnacle of those gathered around the table.
“Our program will initiate in the next season, and we anticipate market advantage by the first of the televised bowl games, Sir,” said the dark-haired man.
“You are sure of the outcome? You know my price for failure!” the man in the wheelchair almost shouted.
The dark-haired man went pale, since he well knew of others before him who had failed to deliver on promises hastily made and poorly executed.
He tried not to show any signs of weakness, and forcibly stifled a gulp.
“Sir, this is the best algorithms we have to date, and they are projecting…” he began.
“Spare me the arithmetic. Do you have the proper assets deployed? In case of any pocket of …resistance?” hissed the wheelchair man.
“Yes, sir. We have fourteen firms ready to roll out and the main co-ordination is being handled by our top men in the Eastern Zone,” he said.
Even though it were true, the dark-haired man couldn’t help being nervous about
the information’s veracity. No mistakes were allowed.
“Very well, then, James. You can move on to Phase One of this portfolio. See to it that the proper fund transfers are completed before you leave the premises. You are dismissed,” the man said, with finality.
James Norton left the room, and when he finally was driving in his car to the airport, breathed a great sigh of relief.
He had just managed to make ten billion dollars in commissions.
—————
Two days later, James Norton found himself seated in a rented car, in the parking lot of the stadium of the second placed football team in the Division II bracket.
He opened the door, feeling the warm sunshine on his upturned face.
He was wearing a double-breasted suit, and carried an expensive leather briefcase.
A man with purpose, he walked briskly through the gates, the Head of Security giving him a brief nod of acknowledgment, as he continued on into the stadium.
Once inside, he gained an elevator to the tenth floor suites, and used his keycard to enter the most prestigious venue there.
Fresh fruits, small pastries, and a fine selection of alcoholic beverages, all top-shelf, greeted him.
A shapely server took his order, and he sat at a teakwood table, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon situated perfectly at the table’s center.
He reached out and sniffed it, savoring it’s odors.
He sipped a little mouthful, and then swallowed it.
It was exquisite.
The server returned with a rare beefsteak, a prime cut, and some asparagus and hollandaise.
Mr. Norton ate quietly, watching as the teams did their pre-game routines.
He finished his meal, and an aperitif and a cigar were brought for his enjoyment.
He smoked in silence, and ordered the remaining staff to leave him until summoned.
They quickly and efficiently cleared the remnants of the meal, and he found himself alone.
Retrieving his briefcase, he took several manila folders from it, and spread them out across the teakwood.
He regarded the papers, ruminating on the best approach for his needs, and the needs of his patrons.
The folders were dossiers of many of the key players of the two football teams now poised to begin their showdown towards the Bowl games.
One folder in particular drew his attention.
It was marked “Overlook Farms” and had several pages within.
He pulled three of them out, and read the names, and the information about each target.
Beatrice Sullivan
Keith David Sullivan
David Keith Sullivan
He had to laugh a bit at the two men’s names, as he at first had believed it was a typographical error, or maybe a joke.
But, the people with whom he dealt had little humor, and mistakes could be disastrous and to be avoided.
He looked more closely at the girl’s folio.
He frowned as he read its contents.
Bees. How interesting!
He laughed, out loud and heartily, as he finished his cigar, the smoke rising to the ceiling and sucked out by the whirring fan.
James Norton knew he had done the correct thing, and as he drank the last of his cordial, he laughed again.
He sat back, as the game began.
CHAPTER ONE
BEA
Like all great ideas, this one hit me upside my head while I was in the shower.
I am in the middle of wiping the ball of my left foot with a loofa, standing precariously on one leg, balanced carefully, with my other hand against the shower stall tiles, steadying my soapy body.
I stop, my eyes widen, and my mouth literally opens as I gasp at the simplicity and ease of implementation for my new bee-watering device!
“Of course!” I shout.
I look around, embarrassed, even though I am totally alone, as the warm water cascades down my hair, over my forehead, and into my eyes, blinding me.
It feels wonderful, but now I have a situation.
I blow some water from my nose, and then, ever-so-carefully put my foot down, as I steady myself against the tiles.
I take a moment, then rinse the soap from my body, letting the warm water run all along my back, and ample butt, and then across my thighs and down my legs.
I turn off the water, and then grab one of the lush, velour towels to dry my hair, as I step from the shower onto the marbled floor of the bath.
My all-black dachshund, Bark Vader, slides across the floor, in front of me.
The poor thing is almost blind, or at least he acts like it.
He zooms across the tile, sliding on his little legs, until he smacks his little body into the linen closet doors.
He lets out a small ‘Yelp!’, but is otherwise unharmed.
He trots off, his little legs pistoning as he fights for traction on the smooth tile.
I run to the bedroom, as the thick carpet cushions my damp feet, and I rummage around in a drawer for a pad and a pencil.
I think to myself, “This is the exact thing I need for my apiary!”
It is perfect for the task, and will save me all kinds of time and effort in assuring the bees have enough water for their needs.
I start sketching my idea out; some drops of water spill onto the paper, making the blue ink run.
“Damn!” I think, and stop drawing.
I run into the laundry room, naked, and towel my hair and body dry as I make my way down the upstairs hallway.
When I finally arrive, I toss the towels into the hamper, and then grab a pair of undies, shorts and one of Keith-David’s jerseys.
The number ‘69’ is prominent on the back.
From the smell, I can tell it wasn’t freshly cleaned, but I really can care less at the moment.
I need to get my thoughts down on paper, and so I turn and begin to head back to my room.
I am almost there when I bump into David-Keith coming up the stairs.
He has a towel wrapped around his waist, toga-style.
“Hey, Honeybee!” he says, smiling at me.
My thighs loosen a little, like they always do when I hear his deep voice.
He is a handsome six-seven, two-twenty pound slab of muscles and gristle, and his abs look like they are sculpted from steel.
He towers above me, his beautiful smile and aquiline nose pointing right at my eyes.
“Where you going in such a hurry, gorgeous?” he asks, mirthfully.
I sigh.
Why does he insist on calling me all these things?
I’m hardly anything to look at.
My teeth are too big for my mouth, my ass looks like it’s stuck on with contact cement, and my boobs are lopsided.
Seriously, my left one is smaller than my right one.
Well, the nipples are different, anyway.
They feel like they aren’t the same size.
They flop around a lot when I run, if I am only wearing my sports bra.
And, I’m getting a bit of a tummy.
My hair is always just one humid moment away from frizzing out into a total mess.
I guess my green eyes are fine.
At least I can see okay.
And, what I see now is David-Keith’s smile, and they way he’s looking like a hungry cat.
His arms are big and welcoming, and look as though they can rip a tree right in half.
His navel peeks over the top of the wrap, and the coarse black hairs covering his tan skin make intricate weaves on his torso.
He leans back against the wall, to let me slide by.
My eyes unconsciously drop to his waist, and a bit lower.
The towel is hiding something…big.
I gulp.
David-Keith’s blue eyes are surrounded by smile lines, and combined with his teasing grin, I’d wager every girl he meets is ready to drop her panties for him.
They crave his mouth to cover their own; they probably dream that he would
kiss some other place as well.
I smile, shyly, and then my brain suddenly has some other ideas, and I flush brightly at my thoughts.
It won’t do to even hint at what I am thinking, right then, to my stepbrother.