Page 34 of Jealous Stepbrother
It’s the kind of concern that turns into confrontation.
And I know this won’t be the last I hear about it.
Good.
Let them all try to fight me for her.
They’ll fucking lose.
Scarlett
The first twoweeks of my internship at House of M are a blur of heady accomplishment and utter insanity.
By day, I’m his intern. Fetching fabrics, pinning hemlines, sketching ideas only to have them shredded by his blunt, near-cruel critique—then built back up again under his exacting guidance. I might despise his high and mighty attitude, but I’m soaking up the kind of knowledge most people in my position only dream about.
By every other moment, I’m his possession.
Asher’s given up any semblance of professionalism.
He touches me whenever and wherever he wants.
A palm sliding down my spine as he passes me a swatch. Fingers circling my wrist while he leans in to correct a sketch. His thigh pressed against mine during fittings, his breath ghosting my ear when he murmurs instructions that have nothing to do with work.
He doesn’t care who sees it.
From crew to the models, totheadmin staff pretending not to look, the whispers have started.
I hear them when I’m in the fabric room alone, tossing around words likeboss’s pet, didn’t know nepotism could look like that, wonder if she’s the reason he’s not dating anyone.
If only they knew that Asher has only gone so far only to consistently—and yes, puzzlingly and maddeningly—pull the brakes.
Except far has been shamefully far.
Since that filthy and feral morning when he forced me to relive losing my virginity to him, I’ve woken up three times to find him crouched over me.All in the middle of the night, when I guessed his need rode him the hardest.
Dressed in the same sweatpants, with his massive, veined cock in his hand, my stepbrother would order me to recite our single time together while I held my breasts cupped and my eyes fixed on his.
Sometimes he would kiss me in between speech, his tongue tangling with mine. One time, he slid four fingers in my mouth until I nearly gagged. Then he used my spit to lube his cock before sliding it between my tits.
And while I replayed everydetailfrom four years ago, Asher fucked my tits until he blew his load all over my chest.
Often, after that, he would revert to almost gentlemanly status, with every stolen touch, every loaded look more like mild foreplaythanraging need.
I’ve started to wonder if he’s just toying with me. If the point is to drive me out of my mind, not actually have me.
Sunday morning answers nothing.
I’m looking forward to a lie-in after a frantic week where even yesterday was spent at the office, putting together a mock collection board that Asher tore apart and made me rebuild like a goddamn tyrant.
But apparently he has other ideas.
He yanks the covers off my bed without warning, tosses me a pair of running shorts and a tank. “Get up. We’re going for a jog.”
I groan. “Why?”
“So you can keep up with me when the time comes.”
The smirk that comes with it makes my knees weak. And I absolutely ignore the heat swirling in my belly as I brush my teeth and dress.
