Page 21 of Jealous Stepbrother
Tip-teasing.
I moan. Loud and helpless and Jesus, I need it. My stepbrother’s cock. Inside me so badly! And he’s the absolute devil for doing this to me.
I hate him.
I hate him.
I—
“Love these. God, you’re so beautiful, Scarlett,” he breathes in my ear, shuddering against my back while plucking at my nipples before he squeezes the mounds. “But that sketch won’t fucking draw itself. So don’t make me spank this juicy ass you’re still wriggling on my dick to get you moving. Sketch. Now.”
Every atom trembling, I pick up the pencil.
He doesn’t let up.
For hours, I’m a machine under his direction—fetching fabric samples, pinning swathes of silk onto mannequins, measuring seams, sketching silhouettes he immediately critiques with ruthless precision.
And even as he corrects my work or sketches his own, his fingers trail over me. A grip of my waist. A caress at the top of my ass or along my collarbone. Tucking a strand of hair behindmy ear. But he never goes near my pussy, my mouth, or even my breasts after I pick up the pencil.
I’m near delirious with a savage hunger, aching and fury.
What my stepbrother is doing to me is borderline inhumane, and I’m certain crosses every line in every HR handbook in the world. But Asher Masterson has always lived by his own rules. It’s what’s made him a maverick in the fashion world.
But even as I insist to myself that I hate every second of it, the moment I stop resisting and start throwing my own ideas onto paper, something shifts.
Lines flow easier, fabrics in my hands start whispering possibilities.
I catch myself looking at the way his hand moves across a page—sure and fluid and visionary—and I hate that my chest feels tight with something almost like… admiration.
By late afternoon, my brain’s fried and my hands ache. But my ideas are sharper than they’ve been in months.
Then I hit the wall.
His cell rings, and unlike all the times he’s let it go to voicemail before, surprisingly, he takes this one. With one arm around my waist he sets me on my feet, smirking when he glances down at the wet patch I’ve left on his crotch.
Flames devour my face and the second he strolls to the window to answer the call, I duck into the adjoining bathroom that opens directly from his studio.
I lock the door and the quiet presses in, and before I know it, I’m sitting on the cool marble edge of the toilet with my head in my hands.
The tears come fast—half frustration, half exhaustion, and something deeper I don’t want to name.
The knock is soft but insistent. Then his voice rumbles through the solid wood. “Scarlett.”
I swipe at my cheeks, trying to sound normal. “I’m fine?—”
The lock clicks from the outside, and he’s suddenly there, filling the doorway, those searing eyes zeroing in on me, taking in my slightly blotched cheeks, my puffy eyes.
I stiffen. “Do you ever respect privacy?”
“No.” He steps inside, closing the door behind him. “Especially not yours.”
Two strides and his hands are on me, pulling me up, tucking me against his chest. I want to push him away, but the moment I feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the fight drains out of me.
One hand glides from nape to waist and back up again but this time he’s soothing, not torturing, and damn it, I shouldn’t but I melt deeper into him.
“Talk to me, princess,” he croons.
“Why do you hate me?” I whisper.
