Page 20 of Jealous Stepbrother
I shake my head. Squirm when he traces a finger down each vertebra.
“Finish the sketch, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Then I can feed you lunch, hmm? You must be hungry.”
What I am is sliding out of my mind when he casually reaches for his phone and taps away at it with one hand, the other skimming my waist before settling on my hip, his heat branding my bare skin.
And oh, Jesus. It feels savagely good. So good, my head drops as I watch his fingers splayed right there on my skin in blatant ownership.
His anger from earlier storms back into my mind. “You’re angry with me. Not just now. From before, when you came into my room this morning. Why?” I barely murmur the words, but I know he hears me.
His fingers turn bruising on my hip, and his phone clatters onto the table.
Then he surges even closer, until he’s completely surrounding me.
He nudges that place on my shoulder again, but this time with his chin, his jaw. The abrasion of his stubble makes me gasp and jump and squirm.
His hands span my waist, keep me planted harder in his lap.
And then my stepbrother starts speaking in low, rough, darkly ferocious tones.
“The Almighty in His infinite wisdom chose to drop a magnificent bombshell into my life six years ago filled with every deadly sin known to man. Then He ignored my very reasonable request to keep you out of my way. Between you and Him, you connived to tempt the fuck out of me, to drive me crazy every second of every day. Until I couldn’t eat, couldn’t think straight, fuck sleep or sanity. As much as it was a relief to escape every now and then, I felt like a fucking limb had been cut off every damn second.”
His hands release their deathly grip, only to trail up my side, over my ribs. My breath catches fire, but he doesn’t cup my breasts. Instead, he clamps his hands on my upper arms, almost as if he’s about to shake me in his quiet, icy fury.
I’m as still as a rabbit caught in the sights of a wolf. The only thing I can hear is my thundering heartbeat, the only smell is the leather and ice and fury of him, the only feel is the thick rod growing, growing, growing between my splayed legs.
“Then that night four years ago, you crawled into my bed,” he continues, and his middle fingers finally move. The tips glide around my heavy breasts to brush, ever so lightly, against my beaded nipples.
I jolt and cry out.
Attempt to squirm away from the sizzling sensation and the shameful slick building hot and eagerly in my pussy, but he doesn’t relent.
My eyes are riveted on the obscene movement—as if he’s flipping me two birds—as he teases my hardened nubs and growls, “You plastered these gorgeous, mouthwatering tits to my back and hummed happy birthday like you were Marilyn Fucking Monroe until I didn’t have a choice but to snap, did I? So yeah, I fucking snapped. And guess what, darling sis?”
Mouth parted to drag in woefully inadequate air, I turn, blink up at him, not sure whether to breathe in this pillar of fire and brimstone or simply exsanguinate to death. “W-what?”
“Now neither you nor He get to dictate how this goes anymore. He served you up to me on a platter. I took the fucking platter. I own the fucking platter. So you’re mine. Four years ago. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. I’m never letting you go. Even in death you’ll remain mine. Do you hear me?” he demands in his Grim Reaper voice.
I can’t look away from his face, his eyes. It’s like he’s hypnotized me. Like what happens to deer caught in headlights, I can’t move.
Is that your excuse?
I push the voice away. “Asher… I… please.”
Something that looks like sympathy flashes across his face but it hardens in the next second. And his fingers never stop thrumming back and forth, back and forth over my nipples, dragging more shudders out of me.
“You’re a little overwhelmed. I get it. So I won’t even ask you to nod, or say,yes, Asher. Doesn’t change the fact that every word I’ve said stands. Now pick up that pencil, finish that sketch.”
My head is swimming when I turn to the table. When I try to reach out and can’t move more than an inch. “I… I can’t. You’re holding me.”
His nostrils flare like an enraged bull about to charge.
For several seconds, he holds my gaze, then that gaze drops to my mouth and oh God, my pussy clenches with a hunger I can’t deny. A hunger I know he sees because one corner of his mouth quirks in wicked satisfaction, and his dick jumps against my heated slit, as if he’s taunting me with how empty and ravenous, and utterly ashamed I feel.
After a handful of seconds, he slowly unclamps his hands off my arms. But instead of letting me go or returning them to my waist, he slides them under my arms andfinallycups both breasts.
Kneading.
Plumping.
