Page 15 of Jealous Stepbrother
A gasp is followed by another moan when I repeat the act.
“You’re going to wake the whole neighborhood with that moaning,” a deep voice drawls. “And then I’m going to have to break a few bones.”
I bolt upright.
He’s leaning in the open doorway to the balcony—a doorway I was way too distracted to hear him ease open—the morning light pouring in around him. Barefoot, hair mussed, wearing gray sweatpants slung low on his hips like he rolled straight out of bed.
“Asher! What the hell?—”
“Payback’s a beautiful bitch, isn’t she?” he says lazily, sauntering in. “Or in this case, a handsome brother. You walked into my bedroom uninvited four years ago. Consider the balance restored.”
My mouth goes dry. “I knocked. And I don’t even know why you’re still so pissed?—”
He stops at the foot of the bed, eyes narrowing. “Don’t play dumb, Scarlett.”
“I’m not?—”
“Oh no?” he asks ominously. His nostrils flare, and the next second he climbs onto the bed, all unhurried menace, until he’s stretched out beside me, one arm braced above my head.
The warmth of him seeps through the sheet like a taunt. His scent—clean skin, faint cedar, and something darker—floods my senses.
I make the mistake of meeting his eyes, and the air between us sharpens. We’re leaning in before I even register moving, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “You sure about that? Think carefully before you insult me by saying you don’t remember every fucking second of what happened that night, Scarlett,” he breathes.
“Okay, yes, fine. I remember.”
“Good girl.”
Those two words send fresh zings through my body. I want to reach for the sheet, pull it up over my traitorous body, but I can’t move beneath the sheer hypnotic captivity of his icy-blue eyes.
Not even when those eyes drop to the twin peaks of my aroused nipples. Not even when his nostrils flare and his lips part and?—
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I flinch back and grab it, at once grateful for and intensely irritated at the interruption.
It’s my mom.
Been calling you, honey. I want to hear about your first day. And don’t forget, Montauk next weekend!
“Text her back,” Asher says, still too close, his coffee-and-mint breath washing over my cheek as his ferocious gaze moves from the screen to my face. “Tell her you won’t make it this year.”
I blink. “And why won’t I?”
His mouth curves, dangerous and deliberate. “Have you forgotten already, princess? I own you. And my plans for the summer don’t include letting you run off to Montauk.” He swings off the bed like the conversation’s over. “Breakfast is ready. We leave in half an hour. Be late and I’ll leave without you.”
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me staring at my phone, pulse still tripping.
Breakfast was…tense.
Tense andsilent.
I sat across from Asher at the long marble island, picking at a croissant while he scrolled through his phone, every flick of his thumb an exercise in self-control.
His jaw worked once, twice, like he was chewing on words he had no intention of sharing. After casting me a frowning look when he realized I wasn’t going to eat more than two bites of the croissant, he’d jerked his head at the door.
Outside, when the town car pulled up, he didn’t so much as glance at me before sliding in.
Now, thirty minutes later, we’re walking into the top floor of House of M, bypassing the conference room where the scene of my capitulation happened.
The main studio is nothing like I pictured.
