Alpha's Shadow

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While Dad was driving up front, he had no idea my stepbrother's fingers were inside me in the backseat. Shielded by a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I'd ever felt. When a moan escaped me, Samir instantly slapped his hand over my mouth. "You're such a bad girl, Becca,"he growled. "Keep quiet or Dad's gonna hear us.” --- “Stop stacking more stuff, Dad. There’s really no room left!” He’s trying to force a huge box into the third row of the Tahoe—the space that was supposed to be for me and my stepbrother. But now it’s almost completely taken over by boxes of fragile and valuable stuff, leaving us with only a tiny bit of room to sit. “A full day in the car already svcks. And now I have to squeeze into this tiny space with this fvcking giant!” I point at Samir for emphasis. “Language!” Mom snaps, balancing the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each h1p. I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” “Not ideal?” I scoff. “This is completely unfair. How am I supposed to sit? On those freakishly long legs of his?” I glare at Samir’s punchable face. If Mom weren’t standing right there, I’d rip off my flip-flop and smack it straight across his head of dense brown waves. Samir is clearly enjoying watching me lose this one. He rocks back on his slides, hands shoved in the pockets of his gray sweatpants, giving me that challenging look. I try—really hard—not to let my eyes drop lower. I fail. He catches me, of course, and the knowing smirk that follows makes me want to flip him off. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that take up the entire back of her Lexus. The front passenger seat is buried under overnight bags. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” ashole, I finish silently. Mom’s glare snaps my mouth shut. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses and white bows, their brown hair in neat little pigtails, but they’re little hellions when they’re unhappy. Their combined screams can make your ears bleed. I’d literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of a bus to protect them. But between a full day on the road with them and being crammed in the back seat with Samir, I’m not sure which torture is worse. Samir is already getting ready to climb in. He folds his six-foot, two-hundred-pound frame into the back, his broad back stretching the red University of Arizona T-shirt—a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That’s why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fvck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my a ss cheeks fits between his h1p and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of him while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, building a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right a ss cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom Veda and my dad Kevin got married when we were fourteen, they moved us into a new house. Samir’s hated me ever since, like it was my fault his mom remarried and dragged him halfway across the country just because my dad got a promotion. Spending the whole day on Ashole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath, shifting for the thousandth time in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I “accidentally” elbow him. Before I can react, he roughly grabs my waist and yanks me squarely onto his lap. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is more physical contact, yet here I am, sitting on his lap like a little kid on some mall Santa’s lap. Samir gr0ans, exhaling a heavy breath as he man-spreads his legs to claim whatever tiny inch of space I left. “Godd@mnit, stop it!” he whisper-snaps when I elbow him again. He wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. I’m startled by the sudden move. We’ve fought like hel, but he’s never laid hands on me before. I go freakishly still when he applies a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough sh1t,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your d@mn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He eases his grip when I give a stiff nod, finally letting go. I gasp for air, my heart hammering erratically against my ribs. Sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours is a special kind of torture. By the time we hit the first gas station, I practically tumble out of the Tahoe and sprint inside, desperate to escape him—and the weird, fluttery panic doing backflips in my stomach. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach, or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ###Chapter 2 Becca Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is too tall for us to catch each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps prickle along my arms when Samir murmurs right beside my ear, loud enough for only me to hear: “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic. I shoot him a questioning, side-long look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h1ps are k1lling me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, who’s driving ahead, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I try to argue, but Dad just cranks the volume higher, cutting me off. I’m left grinding my teeth, seriously considering “accidentally” putting my foot through a box of fragile stuff. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rubs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th1ghs. “My h1ps. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my period. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “First of all, TMI.” A beat passes while he flexes his own h1ps beneath me. He probably needs a good stretch, too, especially since his legs are so much longer than mine. “Second, put your knees up on the seat.” I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” When I shoot him another blank look, he rolls his golden-brown eyes like I’m the idiot, even though he’s the one speaking in riddles. Guiding me out of my sandals, he grips my h1ps, sliding me forward so I can plant my feet firmly on the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says in a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my h1ps and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my h1ps eases instantly. I close my eyes and let out a soft moan. "Fvck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on my h1ps. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long fingers slowly flex around my round h1ps with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. When the dull ache begins to creep back in, I shift uncomfortably. “They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your h1ps a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My l1ps part. An involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. I bite my tongue, hoping like hel that Dad didn’t hear me above the music. Samir freezes for a few seconds, then starts massaging with more fervor, widening the area he’s working. I unintentionally swivel my h1ps once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pvssy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white th0ng. On the third roll, his hands slip lower, massaging my quads, too. Up and down and back up to dig into the crease before slipping lower again. “Fvck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my l1ps between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhales too. His breathing has changed. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his l1ps against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. What is happening to us? Before I can fully process the thought, he suddenly pulls his hands out of my leggings. I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while he worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft l1ps brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your h1ps for me again.”