Becca

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fucking huge!”

“Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—”

I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables.

“This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves.

“Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!”

Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me.

“You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed.

Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants.

I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger.

“Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically.

Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed.

I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick.

Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his 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.

Fuck my life.

Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my ass cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his hip and the boxes stacked on my right.

I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front.

Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right ass 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, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion.

Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Asshole 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 as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go.

Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap.

The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall.

Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Goddamnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach.

My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest.

We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me.

I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying 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 shit,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your damn huffing and puffing. Got it?”

He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest.

It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly.

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.

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 to be heard over the highway noise from the front.

The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see 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 rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder.

Several hours later, my hips are killing 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, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car.

I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts.

I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables.

“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 thighs.

“My hips. 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.

“Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own hips beneath me.

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.”

Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my hips, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto 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 with a low rumble.

I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position.

Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan.

"Fuck, 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 hips.

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 finger slowly flex around my round hips with each bump on the road that jostles my weight.

I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips 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 lips part in a rush of air, and 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 hell 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 hips once, twice, hyper-aware of just how close his thumbs are to my pussy, which is unwittingly growing wetter with each rotation, slicking the fabric of my white thong.

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.

“Fuck, Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips 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 exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle.

Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed.

God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands 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 lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says in a low, husky whisper, “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.”