Page 2 of Jealous Stepbrother
South.
But a nanosecond later, my tension ramps higher. Because that knock? I know it well. Short. Polite.Deadly.
“It’s the middle of the night. Go away,” I bark.
The door handle turns and my lungs fold in on themselves.
She steps inside, a whisper of satin over bare skin, the hem of her nightie flirting with the tops of her thighs. Thin straps slip down one shoulder, exposing smooth skin I have no business noticing.
Her hair is a little sleep-tousled but she could walk down Times Square and still stop traffic with those silky waves and the curves on that body.
My jaw clenches. “I know you heard me.”
She shrugs, her full chest—Jesus, when did her tits get so big?—jiggles. “Maybe.”
I take a long inhale to try and re-inflate my lungs but I may as well be attempting to breathe in the vacuum of space when she steps into the pool of moonlight slanting through my windows.
Sweet fucking God.
Annette, Scarlett’s mother, went big and luxurious on the bedding accessories when she redecorated our house after the wedding two years ago, so I’m tucked beneath a thick comforter-duvet combo that would probably withstand a hurricane. Enough to hide my body’s reaction as Scarlett catwalks closer. But not even gravity itself will keep my condition hidden for long if she?—
“If you heard me then what the fuck are you doing coming into my room?” I growl.
She pads across the carpet, bare feet silent. And she pouts. “I knew you weren’t asleep,” she says. And before I can ask how she knows what, she continues, “You didn’t even stay to wish me happy birthday. And you didn’t give me a chance to wish you happy birthday back.”
“You had a room full of people for that.”
She pauses next to my bed. My dick jumps and fills and Jesus, this isn’t right. Especially when she replies, “I wantedyou.”
My hands curl into fists behind my head. “Scarlett, go back to your room.”
Her finger traces the edge of my comforter. “It’s cold. And boring.”
“Not my problem. You should’ve arranged one of your sleepovers.”
Her eyes flash. “I’m nineteen, Asher. I’m too old for sleepovers.”
I roll onto my side, turning my back to her. “Again, not my problem. Leave, Scarlett. Now.”Or so help me fucking God.
The mattress dips under her weight and genuine fear climbs into my throat.
Because the things I want to do to this girl…
The resentment I’ve piled high, not just for my pops, but for her too. For being so stupidly, maddeningly gorgeous. For the way she looks at me when she should know better.
For simply breathing.
Her scent, warm and faintly sweet, like vanilla spun through smoke, wraps around me. Then her chest presses against my back, her arms sliding around my waist in a hug that feels like a noose. A noose I will happily let snuff the life out of me if she would keep?—
No!
I tense, ready to vault out of bed, but the damn girl throws one of her shapely legs over both of mine. “You’ve been gone for a year. A whole year, Asher.” I clench my gut against a shiver when her soft breath washes between my shoulder blades. “No phone call, no email. Nothing. No one would tell me what you were doing in Europe.”
I hear the hurt and the questions in her voice, but all I can think of is how close her foot is to my cock. My fully engorged, ready-to-pound-hard cock.
“And now you’re back and you look…so pissed.” She sighs. “You’re always so serious, Asher,” she whispers against my shoulder. “I bet I could make you smile.”
I’m one hundred percent sure several organs in my body have paused, waiting on tenterhooks just to see what she does next. If I throw her out or?—
