He gets on top of me and slides his hands up my back, kneading the muscle. I twist and wriggle out of my shirt, and my bra, and lay there naked, sighing into the bed as he ma.s.sages my back. He runs his hands down my legs, and rubs my feet. I don't know how they end up so sore, but they do. It tickles a little and I can't help laughing. When I do, he smacks me lightly on the b.u.t.t and I laugh harder and wriggle out from under him, then spring on him. It's his turn. I get his boxers down and he's already hard for me, but I press his erection against his stomach and rub my belly against it as he pulls his shirt over his head. I slide up, so he can feel the heat between my legs, and bury my face in his soft hair and breathe deep.

My trick, he calls it. I sit up and slide my s.e.x along the length of his shaft, and the look on his face is priceless. He can't keep his hands off my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, my a.s.s, my neck. He pulls me down and kisses me and rolls on top of me. Once he's on top he tickles my sides and grinds his c.o.c.k against me, kisses me hard. I want him now and he knows it, so he holds back, kisses my throat, nips and suck at the soft skin, starts working his way down. I groan and roll my hips, urging him on, but he slows, stops, slowly kisses his way across my collarbone from one side to the other before he shoves his face in my armpit and sniffs. I try to push him down, but he struggles.

I'm still laughing at he takes my nipple in his mouth, slides his arms around me and sucks. My s.e.x is throbbing, my thighs slick, but still he takes his time, making happy little noises as he sucks. Shivers pa.s.s through me, but not from cold. I push on his head and he finally relents, licking down my middle to dive between my legs and softly lick my slit. With a groan I spread my legs and let my arms fall limp on the bed, close my eyes and savor the sensations as he slowly works his way around, tonguing and teasing the skin of my inner thighs before he gives me another lick, each touch making my c.l.i.t throb. Then his mouth as his finger slips inside, and I can't take it, I have to have him inside me.

He rises up, wipes his chin with his arm, slides on top of me and pushes his c.o.c.k into my s.e.x. I curl my fingers in his hair and savor the feeling of his shaft pushing into my walls, the feeling of my body swallowing him. Somehow I feel surrounded and enveloped as I take him inside me and he puts his arms around me and I dig my fingers into his back. He always f.u.c.ks me harder when I scratch him, and tonight I want it hard. I'm celebrating. I urge him on with my legs, rake his back with my nails, moan and whimper and breathe in his ear, begging him to f.u.c.k me harder.

When he slows, he rolls and pulls me on top of him. I sit up and ride him hard, eyes closed, my nails digging into his chest as he holds my sides, steadies me as I ride. I could do this forever, but I'm so h.o.r.n.y I can't make myself slow down and savor it anymore. Soon I'm quivering, my back rounded as I lean over him, and he's taken over again, thrusting into me from below. He pulls me to him, holds me close and digs his heels into the bed, driving into me. When I come he almost loses his grip on me, for my thrashing. It's so intense all I can do is bunch up and squeak, the waves of pleasure too intense to breathe. He holds me tight as he finishes, throbbing inside me.

I go limp on top of him, let him slip out of me and snuggle up to his side. This is going to be one of those nights, and I want him to rest before we go again.

"I have something I really need to tell you," I whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Victor. You're going to be a father."

He sits up, and I rise up on my elbows.

"The test was positive. The one I took on Monday. I went to the doctor yesterday morning and they called me with the results. I'm pregnant."

I'm not sure how he's going to react, but he whoops with joy, s.n.a.t.c.hes me up off the bed and flops me down, so I'm lying with my head at the foot of the bed, and kisses me hard, holding me tight. I reach down between his legs and stroke him, and he growls in my ear.

Round two is going to start a little early.

Thank you for reading Blackbird. I hope you enjoyed it!

Comments are welcome at For more information on current and upcoming books, please sign up for my newsletter here: eepurl.com/0qieT Copyright 2014 Abigail Graham Cover design by Cormar Covers All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief pa.s.sages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner's trademark.

The information in this book is distributed on an "as is" basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or ent.i.ty with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fict.i.tiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Mockingbird A Stepbrother Romance by Abigail Graham ***

Copyright 2015, Abigail Graham Cover Designed by Mayhem Cover Creations http://mayhemcovercreations.com/ ***

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Chapter 1: Apollo.

I have a bad taste in my mouth.

Looking over the railing gives me vertigo. It's twenty stories down from the penthouse, not far by skysc.r.a.per standards, but far enough. The people down there on the sidewalk might be on another planet for how far away they are. I can see them moving, each dragging a long shadow in the afternoon light. It's seven o'clock and it'll be full dark soon. The city skyline takes the sun away from the ground faster than up here, nearer the clouds. A ba.s.so rumble rolls under my feet. The party is starting.

"What are you doing?"

I shouldn't have stopped to look. At the sound of her voice I almost drop the tray I'm carrying, perched on my upturned hand. I think I look ridiculous in this monkey suit; whoever chose red crushed velvet for the hotel livery deserves to die for crimes against fashion. I put on my best fake smile and my best dull please-don't-fire-me look. The heiress is staring me down with the fury only the offended wealthy can muster, and if I get fired I won't be able to steal that pretty necklace she's wearing.

Of course, I don't actually work here, but if she kicks up a storm and gets me 'fired' it would raise quite a few uncomfortable questions, such as what I'm doing here in the first place.

Just an honest thief, doing my job. Robbing the rich, giving to the poor... and myself. Mostly myself.

Veronica Maxwell is easy on the eyes. If I wasn't worried about her s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the job, her fury would be almost endearing. She has a rosebud mouth given to petulant pouting, high cheekbones, flawless skin, and shocking blue eyes, captivating, ethereal, and without a spark of human decency. All I need is to hear her grating voice for confirmation that the rumors are true. You wouldn't know it from looking at her, but she is a total b.i.t.c.h.

She flicks her perfect platinum blonde hair over her bare shoulder and scowls at me.

"Well?"

"Sorry, ma'am. Just got caught up in the view. I don't get up here much-"

"Whatever. My guests are thirsty, get your a.s.s to work. If I have to talk to you once more I'll make sure-"

Oh my G.o.d, she's actually going to say 'I"ll make sure you never work in this town again.'

"-you never work in this town again. Am I understood?"

"Of course, ma'am."

I hurry on, and mentally pat myself on the back for not looking at her t.i.ts. She has amazing t.i.ts. Fakes so good you can't tell they're not real, and she's not shy about showing off the goods, parading around in a skintight off the shoulder dress covered in blue sequins, so she looks like a voluptuous, stormy sea every time she moves. If it were any tighter it would explode when she sits down, and move the slit in her skirt two inches to the right and she'd be putting on a show when she sits down. As it is, every time she takes a step one long creamy leg sweeps the air, a matching blue pump clacking on the floor. If it wasn't for the att.i.tude I'd be won over by her looks.

If it wasn't for the att.i.tude.

Time to work.

The creme-de-la-creme is here. The net worth of this room must be in the billions. I feel like a kid in a candy store. Watches, bracelets, necklaces, you name it, it's all here. I spot an iPhone with a diamond case that retails for $500,000, other gadgets equally blinged out. I consider myself a connoisseur of the finer things but I will never get my head around a diamond-encrusted phone.

Just seems excessive, really.

The job here is simple. Right now, I'm killing time. I wander around with a tray of champagne flutes. When they've all be s.n.a.t.c.hed away and my tray is covered with empties, I go back and get more. If I was on the payroll I'd be making minimum wage plus very generous tips. Right now I'm just making tips. It would look out of place if I turned them down and hey, free money. Along the way I help myself to some goodies. My stupid crushed velvet tux has an extra dozen pockets sewn inside and by the time I make my first pa.s.s, half of them are full. A few wallets, mostly, and a watch.

Yeah, I'm good.

I've been learning this trade since I was nine years old. That's when my father took me in, after I lost my mother. I've been refining my skills ever since.

The party is jumping. There's a baccha.n.a.l atmosphere, the heart of a carnivale that never stops, only takes breaks for daylight. Smoke machines, lights, a DJ on the stage, you name it. Veronica has the top three floors of the hotel to herself, a ma.s.sive suite with its own dancing hall slash orgy room. The dancing here is not very polite, and the hostess is not wearing underwear, as I see very clearly when she sits down on a leather couch that costs as much as a car and makes a show of crossing her legs. She looks not at me but through me. I'm like one of the ferns planted in a pot by the door to her.

I need more booze. I thread through the crowd, gathering empties as I go, through a service entrance and into the warren of hallways that serves the hotel. The suite doesn't have one door, it has twenty. When you're dropping a year's pay for a good job every night for your stay, servants come as part of the package. I deposit my tray on a cart and grab another, hoisting it to my shoulder all professional like. Carrying a tray of stuff like this takes practice. My knack for balance comes from walking tightropes and practicing kicks and punches standing on poles.

My partner's comes from practice. She gives me a look as she pa.s.ses by, and the most subtle of nods.

Brenda, her name is.

You can put a treasure in a vault. You can bury it on a forbidden island, send it to the bottom of the sea or put it on a mountain, and the weakness will always be the same: Somebody knows where it is and how to find it. Any security system is only as strong as people, and people are, by nature, weak.

Brenda. Thirty six years old. Mother of three, Divorced, lives in a rent-controlled two bedroom flat with her kids, will soon be struggling to house them as the eldest, a girl, grows too old to sleep in the same room as the boys. Smoker, drinker, and most importantly, gambler. Of the illegal variety. She has an addiction to hold'em, knows how to play but doesn't know how to win, and owes money. She owes money to a t.i.tle loan agency, to one of those late night commercial lenders, and to some very unfriendly people who break legs when they don't get paid.

That would be a terrible shame. Brenda has great legs. She is the full package, in fact. I'd take her over three Veronicas any day. Long legs that look very nice in the fishnets she's wearing, great a.s.s, big rack, and a sweet, warm smile. A real person, and she looks like she'd be wild in the sheets, too. Makes me wonder why the old man bounced her. He probably traded up, or just got bored. I consider myself a student of the human species.

Lesson number one: Love is bulls.h.i.t. I don't have time.

Now, other pursuits...

I peel my eyes off of Brenda's a.s.s. I can't afford to get either of us in trouble. Truth is, I can make an escape if need be, but I can't let her go down. She does have kids. I have a soft spot for women with kids, always have. Especially single moms. Almost makes me want to settle down sometimes, but no.

This will be one of the easiest jobs I've ever pulled, if everything goes right.

Getting in was easy. I'm here, after all. Getting back out is the problem, since I'm not supposed to be here. It took me a month of scouting to b.u.mp into Brenda and learn her story, start working on her, spending time with her, finally convince her to help me out with this crazy scheme. I can talk anybody into anything, if you give me enough time. Right now I need to keep my eyes on the prize.

Not too hard, though. The prize is a diamond necklace currently strung about the pale slender throat of the b.i.t.c.hy heiress, and what a necklace it is. On the street the gold would sell for a few grand, the diamonds maybe twice that. The value of the bauble lies in its history- it's been in her family for four generations, bought for her great grandma by the founder of the fortune Veronica is set to inherit, if she doesn't p.i.s.s off her grandfather too much with her antics. She has something of a reputation, and a reality show. Thankfully there's no cameras here.

I'm having a bad hair day.

The necklace drapes diamonds and emeralds just above her awe-inspiring cleavage. Believe me, I tried to come up with a plan to get myself in bed with her and then steal the necklace. It would be easier, but crueler. Something about it left a bad taste in my mouth, so I went for Plan B: Fake my way inside, get access to it while she takes it off.

Circulate. Steal a little. Keep an eye on the mark. That's all there is to it. I keep an eye on my partner, too. She's nervous, but she doesn't show it to the guests, even when they slap her a.s.s. A big guy smacks her rump after taking a drink from her tray, and I can see her face twist in anger for just a bare second before slipping back into an almost preternatural calm. The guy that got a handful of her backside has six inches in height and maybe a hundred and fifty pounds on me. Football player, I think. He looks familiar. Brenda scurries away from him as casually as she can. By the time she's out of sight he's already forgotten his humiliation.

Also, I stole his wallet. He didn't even notice me.

f.u.c.k you, mister running back. I have your platinum card.

I almost lose Veronica. She's leaving the d.a.m.n party, headed up the stairs to the top floor of the penthouse, laughing with another girl dressed in even slinkier clubwear, a black dress that's really just a tube that stretches from her armpits, over an ample bust and down to just barely cover her a.s.s. I get an eyeful as she scampers up the stairs next to the smoothly striding Veronica.

Might be time to make a move.

I slip away from the crowd, tuck my tray under a table and use the dark and smoke and noise to my advantage. There's a corner by the terrace where I can slip out of my crushed velvet. Underneath, a black body glove and some sewn-in pouches for my tools. The hardest part is getting up the stairs, but no one's looking. They all feel safe here.

This is the really fun part.

The door to the suite of rooms isn't locked. I slip in, and don't close it, making no sound as I creep through the room. I've studied the blueprints, and it's a good thing. The room is pitch black, all the lights out except for the glow of a fish tank and soft light from above. The bed is set on a loft above the rest of the suite. The aquarium light reflects on sparkling blue, like a slice of sky laid out on one of the couches. Veronica's dress. I hear a soft sound like a whimper.

Oh. Okay.

Focus, Apollo. You're here for the necklace.

I check the dress first. Her bracelet and ear rings are on a side table. My fingers itch at the sight of them, but it feels petty to take them.

f.u.c.k petty, in the pouches they go. I search slow, working my way across the room...

... I just heard a moan.

I take a deep breath and hold it, waiting for the creak or the cat or some unexpected thing to give me away, but when I reach the top of the steps I realize I don't need to be to so careful. I'm not going to be noticed. Another moan, louder this time.

In a movie, they'd both be buck-a.s.s naked writhing around on the bed, posing artistically to give me a full view of everything. This isn't a movie. The pair are in the bed and covered up with sheets. Veronica is on top of her girlfriend, and while they're not putting on a show for anyone's benefit when she sits up a little I can see that I was wrong, and they're real, and as the man said, they're spectacular. I feel dirty looking, though. I look away, even as they put on a different kind of show. I need to think with my brain and not my b.a.l.l.s and have at least a shred of decency. Don't look.

A man must have a code.

There she is, my huckleberry. The necklace, just sitting on the dresser. In the dark, they don't see me. Here, at the very end, my heart pounds, my mouth goes dry, and I move to take it. No sound. If I move to fast, just s.n.a.t.c.h it and run, I'll give myself away. The master employs discipline, subtlety, finesse. The master lifts the necklace without even the sound of diamonds sc.r.a.ping on wood, curls it in his hand and very securely tucks it into the pouch on his belt, and turns.

From here it's a matter of slipping out the way I came in.

Now, if I wanted to be daring I'd have planted some means to rappel down the side of the building or climb up to the roof, but I'm not daring, I have Brenda for that. Once I'm through the door I gingerly pull it shut, and crouch along the wall. The lights are still low, lasers and party lights and fog making the whole thing too easy as I slip back into my uniform and meet up with her.

"Follow me," she says, grabbing my wrist.

I let her lead the way to the service elevator. Another staff member in a crushed velvet suit with a bored look in his face strides out, and we just walk in. I hit the b.u.t.ton and we ride down to the eighth floor.

I can see she's nervous. She's shaking like a leaf. I squeeze her hand, hoping to calm her down.

She gives me that look.

I know she's attracted to me. It's part of how this whole thing works. I've been flirty, but this is work, and after tonight she's never going to see me again.

I had a long talk about this with my father. No attachments, no regrets. She's going to be fine, she will be well compensated for this.

That's where we're headed now. Two staff members will attract no attention, walking down the hall, but they might heading into a room. So I hit pause on the elevator, and Brenda holds it while I open the elevator roof and pull down the bag I've planted there. She continues to hold the b.u.t.ton while I change, slipping out of crushed velvet and into something simpler, just slacks and a dress shirt to cover up my body glove.

Then I hold the elevator for her and turn away.

I spare a look over my shoulder. I have a code, I'm not dead, and Brenda has a nice body. She's not wearing anything fancy under her uniform, just a bra and white cotton panties, but the sight of the way she hunches her back and shyly hides her body from me stirs something down below and I look away, more to preserve my calm than give her privacy. She changes into sweat pants and a long t-shirt and sneakers, and then the elevator resumes its route, with the gym bag now slung over my shoulder.

The elevator stops, and we walk out. She's pulled her hair into a ponytail and is consciously looking away from the security cameras, trying too hard.

No one is going to check, hon. I planned this.

I open the door and motion her inside, close it, lock it.

"Where is it?"

"Calm," I murmur. "Sit on the bed."

She goes over and folds her hands on her knees, nervously watching me pull open the bottom drawer of the TV stand. Hotel rooms, at the most basic level, are all the same. This place charges over a grand a night and to me it looks like a Motel 6 with fancier carpeting. You still have to pay for the booze in the fridge, even. Anyway.

In the bottom drawer is a small bag, like a toiletry bag. An attache would be so cliche, you know?

I drop it on her lap and her mouth trembles as she opens it and pulls out a wrapped pack of hundred dollar bills. Ten grand. It's probably more money than she's ever seen all together in her entire life, and there's nine more inside the bag. Another reason to skip the briefcase: It would be mostly empty, we're not paying her that much. Enough to cover her bills and have maybe sixty left over, enough to make herself quiet comfortable. I let her count and moon over the money while I repack my goodies, most carefully placing the necklace in a prepared box, first checking it for damage. It's as pristine as the day it left the jeweler's grasp.

As I close everything up, she says, "You're going to leave now, aren't you?"

She looks very sad. She has big, expressive brown eyes, and dyes her hair a pretty natural shade of auburn. She's a woman but my brain calls her a pretty girl. It must be the vulnerability. She looks younger than her thirty-six years, doesn't look nearly old enough to be my mother. She looks scared.