“She’s a museum curator—an art-freaking-historian!” Fiona ranted, pausing only to slam her bedroom door. “And what does my dear old mother offer me as help for my art history paper? Books!”
She tossed three books onto her desk—the ones her mother had handed over when Fiona asked for help—plopping down in the chair at her desk.
“And now I’m talking to myself.” Fiona snorted a laugh, glaring at the books.
She was bored to tears in art history—if she had to see one more painting by one of the so-called greats, she was going to scream—but she’d hoped for a little bit of hand-holding help from her mother, the self-proclaimed expert on the subject. Why she’d suddenly become delusional, expecting help from her mother, she had no idea. She chided herself for being surprised and threw open the first book.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she hissed, looking at a book written in what she assumed was Italian, from her limited knowledge of the language. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Surely the woman owns the English translation. What the hell?”
She stood up and turned so fast, her short ponytail whipped around to slap her cheek. She’d rather be off working out at her stepfather’s gym, getting high on endorphins and the sights of sexy, sweaty guys, instead of reading and writing about this anyway. Typical, all she’d gotten after asking for help was more trouble.
For her own benefit, she slammed the book closed before picking it back up again. For her snotty mother’s benefit, she stomped as loudly as she possibly could in tennis shoes, down the path from her room to her mother’s study. Unfortunately, that only worked well upstairs on the wood floors. Downstairs, on the way to her mother’s office, it was all plush, white carpet that made the effort useless.
She stopped short when she reached the half-closed door, her mouth dropping open. Her parents were having sex. Her stepfather was fucking Fiona’s mom, right at her desk, with the door half open! Had they no shame? They knew she was in the house!
As long as she lived, Fiona knew she would never understand why Bryan Nash, former Marine turned low-tech fitness gym owner, had married Aileen Muir, museum curator and uppity snob. It was the worst mismatch she could imagine. She knew her mother had seen the man’s moneymaking potential—which came along with the fortune his family already had. That was a nice perk. But what did Bryan see in her mother? Fiona wondered.
Still fully clothed, her mother, a tall, curvy blond, bent over her desk. Her hands supported her, though they remained as stiff, as the irritated look on her face. Fiona saw her profile, lips pursed, eyes narrowed.
Her stepfather held her mother’s shirt up at her waist, revealing only her taut ass, thigh highs, and silk panties, now decorating hundred dollar heels. Her mother spared no expense on herself. The only reason Fiona got the best when it came to her beloved yoga pants, sports bras and tennis shoes was because otherwise she’d be a total embarrassment to her mother.
Her stepfather’s rock hard ass, tightening and releasing with each thrust, captured Fiona’s full attention. He’d come to this sexual event nude. Completely nude. What the hell? She was right down the hall, for chrissakes! She knew she should turn around and walk away and try to scrub the memory from her mind with a good dose of brain-bleach, but it was Bryan’s chiseled form that caught and kept her attention.
From the side, she got a decent, delicious view of his six pack abs and every other muscle making up his six foot two, one hundred and ninety pound athletic frame. Not that she hadn’t seen him in workout shorts, all sweaty, a million times before, but this naked man plunging his hard cock in and out of her mother took things to a whole new level. A very wrong, very dangerous, unbelievably exciting level.
Curious, she squinted to see what she could of his
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