Road Trip Oops My Hot Stepbrother Slid Into Me – Lena “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I snap at Dad, my voice climbing with pure irritation as I plant my hands on my hips in the driveway. “You honestly expect Rohan and me to cram into one measly backseat for two straight days? He’s built like a goddamn tank!” “Language!” Mom fires back, shifting my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip—so their yellow sundresses flutter around their chubby legs. Aria and Sofia blink up at me with those big brown eyes, pigtails swinging, but I swallow the next curse before it escapes. I scoff and drag a hand through my hair. “Not ideal? Try impossible. Rohan’s legs are longer than my entire body, and the Tahoe’s stuffed wall-to-wall with fragile boxes. There’s literally nowhere else to put anything.” Dad doesn’t even look up from wedging the last cardboard tower into the cargo area.
“It’s this or we leave half our life behind, Lena. Deal with it.” “This is such bullshit,” I mutter, twisting the hem of my oversized vintage band tee until the fabric bites into my fingers. I glare at Rohan like I could set him on fire with my eyes alone, fighting the insane urge to yank off my flip-flop and bean him right in that stupidly perfect head of thick, dark waves. “Why can’t I just ride with you and the girls, Mom?” I plead, jerking my thumb toward her Lexus. “They’ve got their car seats hogging the whole backseat, and your passenger seat is buried under overnight bags anyway.” Mom hits me with The Glare—the one that could silence a riot. “You know exactly why. The twins need me right there, and there’s zero room up front. End of story.” I snap my mouth shut and stab a finger toward Rohan instead. Must be nice riding shotgun in luxury while I’m stuck playing sardine with this asshole. He rocks back on his slides, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of those gray sweatpants, and gives me a slow, challenging smirk that makes my stomach tighten in all the wrong ways. My gaze betrays me for half a second, dropping to the way the soft fabric clings and outlines… everything. Heat crawls up my neck.
He catches it. Of course he does. That smirk turns wicked. I flip him off behind my back where Mom can’t see. “Oh please,” Mom says with a sarcastic laugh as she buckles the twins in. “Road-tripping with two toddlers is a total vacation. You’ll be begging to trade places by hour three.” She’s not wrong. Those two look like tiny angels right now—white bows in their pigtails, matching dresses—but give them twenty minutes of boredom and they’ll scream loud enough to burst eardrums. I’d throw myself in front of a truck for my sisters in a heartbeat, but forty-eight hours trapped with their meltdowns? Hard pass. Between Mom’s car and Dad’s with Rohan and me in back, I still couldn’t decide who drew the shorter straw. Rohan doesn’t bother arguing. He just ducks his six-foot-two frame into the Tahoe, broad shoulders stretching the red University of Arizona tee tight across his back like it’s about to rip. Another reminder that he got into the same school I did. That’s why our parents decided to uproot us all and head to Phoenix—so we could live at home and save money. Four more years of him.
Kill me now. He scoots over as much as the boxes allow, which isn’t much. I climb in after him and immediately realize one ass cheek is all that fits on the sliver of seat left between his thigh and the cardboard wall. I’m basically half on top of him already. Dad slams the door, sealing us in like sardines, and the engine rumbles to life. Thirty-five minutes later my right side has gone completely numb. I squirm, trying to steal even an inch that isn’t pressed against Rohan’s stupidly warm body. My shirt rides up my thighs with every shift. We’ve never gotten along—not since his mom, Priya, married my dad when I was fourteen and they hauled us across the country for Dad’s big promotion. Rohan’s hated me ever since, like it was my fault his life got flipped upside down. Being forced half on top of him for two days might finally make us explode. I “accidentally” drive my elbow into his ribs while trying to adjust. He grunts. “Watch it,” he mutters. “Make me,” I hiss right back. Big mistake. Rohan’s hands clamp around my waist like they own me. In one effortless move he hauls me fully onto his lap, my back slamming against his hard chest, my ass settling right between his spread thighs. “What the hell are you doing?” I whisper-yell, scrambling to get free.
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Hold still, brat,” he growls low against my ear, breath hot on my skin. His voice is rough, edged with something darker than just annoyance. I wiggle harder, which only grinds me against the unmistakable bulge beneath me. Heat floods straight between my legs. Oh God. His arm bands across my stomach like steel, pinning me in place. His other hand slides up and wraps around the front of my throat—not choking, just firm enough to tilt my head back against his shoulder. “Stop. Fucking. Moving,” he breathes, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’re making this ten times worse for both of us. I’m just as uncomfortable as you are, Lena. Tough shit. Sit still and behave for once.” His thumb strokes slow and lazy along the side of my neck, sending traitorous sparks racing down my spine. I freeze, breathing fast and shallow.
The clean, masculine scent of him—mint gum and warm skin—wraps around me completely. For the next two hours I sit rigid on his lap, hyper-aware of every rise and fall of his chest against my back, the steady heat of his palm splayed low on my stomach, and the way his thumb keeps tracing idle circles on my side like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. When Dad finally pulls into the gas station for our first stop, I practically launch myself out of the Tahoe on shaky legs. I don’t want to think about how his arm never left me the whole ride… or why that fluttery, forbidden heat low in my belly refuses to fade.