CHAPTER 6 - DINNER WITH MY NEW STEPBROTHER

I had asked the universe for one thing. One single, solitary thing: please let Maddox be a common last name.

The universe said no.

The universe said absolutely not, and also, here's a restaurant table where you'll be sitting three feet from the man who made you cum in a bar bathroom while your mother passes the bread basket.

The restaurant was Italian. White tablecloths. Candles. The kind of place my mom picked when she wanted to impress Richard, which was always, because my mother had been glowing like a woman reborn ever since she started dating him and I didn't have the heart to ruin it.

I was seated between Miles and my mother. Across from Richard – tall, silver-templed, the kind of handsome that came with money and good genetics. He was warm in a practiced way. Polished.

And next to Richard, directly across from me, was his son.

Rhys Maddox. Number seventeen. Scar through the eyebrow. Grey eyes that hadn't left my face since I walked in and realized that God had a sense of humor and it was cruel.

He looked different in civilian clothes. Black shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, tattoos on full display – the date on his wrist, the constellation on his forearm, the handwriting that curled toward his elbow. His knuckles were still bruised. His hair was pushed back. He looked like he'd walked out of a cologne ad that had been banned for being too suggestive.

His foot found mine under the table within the first thirty seconds.

I moved my foot. He followed. Pressed the side of his shoe against mine – not playing footsie, not being cute. Just there. A point of contact that said I know exactly what I did to you and I'm going to sit here and eat pasta with your mother while you think about it.

"It's so wonderful that you kids already know each other from school!" Mom beamed across the table, completely oblivious to the fact that her daughter was having a cardiovascular event over the antipasti. "Rhys, Naomi says the whole campus is buzzing about your first game."

"Is that right." His eyes flicked to mine. "Didn't realize she was paying attention."

"Four goals," Miles said, mouth full of bread. My thirteen-year-old brother had been vibrating since we arrived – a real hockey player at dinner, an actual Thornfield Wolf sitting across from him. "Dude. Four goals in your first game. That's insane."

"Miles, don't talk with your mouth full," Mom said.

"It was a good game," Rhys said. To Miles. But his foot pressed harder against mine.

"We've met," he added, glancing at My mom. Casual. Easy. The way you'd mention running into someone at the grocery store, not the way you'd reference a bar bathroom and a bite mark and the sound a girl makes when she cums so hard she forgets her own name.

"We've met" – and the way he said it made my face burn from my jaw to my hairline.

Dinner was forty-five minutes of exquisite torture. Richard talked about his business. Mom talked about the engagement timeline – casual mentions of when we're all one family that made my stomach flip for entirely new reasons. Miles asked Rhys about hockey with the unfiltered worship of a thirteen-year-old boy who'd finally found something more interesting than his phone. Rhys answered every question with patience I hadn't expected – real patience, not performed.

And the entire time, his foot stayed against mine. His eyes found me every few minutes. Not staring – glancing. Quick, deliberate looks that landed like fingertips on bare skin.

I excused myself after the main course.

"Just grabbing extra napkins," I said, standing too fast, nearly knocking my water glass over. Mom waved me toward the back. The restaurant had a service area near the kitchen – a narrow hallway with supply shelves and a staff bathroom. Quiet. Private.

I leaned against the counter and pressed my hands over my face.

His foot under the table. His eyes across the candles. "We've met." My mother wants to marry his father. He is going to be my stepbrother.

I heard him before I saw him. Thirty seconds. He'd waited exactly thirty seconds.

"You left the table in a hurry."

I dropped my hands. He was in the doorway. Filling it. The hallway was narrow enough that he didn't need to step forward to feel close – the space did the work for him.

"Go back to dinner, Rhys."

"So you do know my name." He stepped in. Let the door close behind him. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten everything about me."

"We need to pretend nothing happened."

"Nothing happened?" One more step. "Nothing? Because I can still feel you on my fingers three days later and you want to call that nothing?"

"Your dad is dating my mom."

"I'm aware."

"You're going to be my stepbrother."

"Sounds like a problem." Another step. I was against the counter now. His hands landed on either side of me – not touching, just trapping. Boxing me in. His face was inches from mine and I could smell him – soap and something darker underneath, something my body recognized on a cellular level. "But you and I both know you've been wet since you sat down across from me."

"I have not–"

"Your breathing changed when my foot touched yours. Your pupils are blown right now. And you keep biting that lip like you're trying to hold something in." His mouth dropped to my ear. "You don't have to hold it in with me."

His hand slid down. Under the hem of my skirt. Up my thigh. Slow – agonizingly slow – like he was giving me time to stop him, knowing I wouldn't.

His fingers found the edge of my underwear. Pushed the fabric aside. And when he touched me – when his fingertip dragged through the slick heat that proved every word he'd just said right – he exhaled against my neck like he was the one coming undone.

"There it is." Barely a whisper. "Soaked. At dinner. With both our parents ten feet away." His thumb found my clit and pressed. Slow circles. Deliberate. Devastating. "What would your mom think?"

I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. My hand grabbed his wrist – not to pull him away, to hold him there. He took that as permission. Two fingers slid inside me and I choked on a sound that wanted to be a scream.