Page 41 of Jealous Stepbrother
Still gripping her hair, I straighten in the chair and angle her face, then wrapping my other hand around her throat, I kiss her long and deep, not caring one iota that I’m tasting my spend on her lips, on her tongue.
I stroke her tongue with mine, tangle and suck on the tip until she’s quivering and moaning. Her hand is gripping my arm when I ease back.
“You did so good, baby sis. See how hard I came for you?”
A blush climbs into her face and fuck if she isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And a sucker for a compliment. “Yes.”
“And did you enjoy that?” I search her face, for what I don’t know.
Okay, maybe Idoknow.
Call me nuts but I feel my stepsister eagerly sucking my dick is great progress for us. One giant step closer to making her mine.
It’s no big deal if I have to keep up the pressure on the journey to owning her completely but I need to know I wasn’t imagining this breakthrough.
So when she gives a shy nod and says “Yes, Asher,” several muscles ease in my belly.
Do I think the fight is by any means over?
Fuck no. Scarlett is stubborn and feisty.
No surprise that she lives up to her name. But I’m no fucking slouch when it comes to pursuing what I want. But since she’s made what I want next so much easier with her simple admission, I smile.
Watch her eyes widen as she tracks it.
Right before I stand and yank her over my shoulder.
“Asher!”
I smack her ass, smile wider when I feel it bounce against my cheek.
Her hands grab my waist to steady herself and I can see her twisting to see where we’re headed.
CHAPTER 10
HUNGER & PRIVATE SHRINES
Asher
My bedroom.
The only place she hasn’t seen in the penthouse.
I didn’t…couldn’t allow it before. Not without throwing her down and fucking her on every surface.
I kick the door shut behind us and set her down, pull her back to my front as she spins around and slowly takes everything in.
The massive bed that’s felt lonelier than reclusive monk for four long years and even lonelier still in the last two weeks.
The sheets are dark, crisp, with a faint cedar scent that clings to me no matter how many times they’re laundered. A wall of glass gives way to the skyline, jagged lights cutting through the night, a constant reminder that the city never sleeps even when I lie here wide awake, staring at the empty side of the mattress.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves hold sketches and leather-bound portfolios instead of novels—my real bedtime stories.
At the foot of the bed sits a sleek bench draped with cast-off jackets.
Her eyes catch on everything, curious, wary, and I drink in the sight of her standing in the room I’ve imagined her in too many times to count.
I see curiosity getting the better of her and set her free for a moment. Watch as her fingers touch my things—the bedpost, the comforter, and on the nightstand, a single photograph turned face-down.
