Page 54 of Jealous Stepbrother
He follows anyway, his steps matching mine, close enough that I can feel the shadow of his body heat.
“I brought sunscreen,” he murmurs, “and something to drink.” He holds up the cooler. “Would be a shame if you burned. Then again…” His gaze sweeps over me slowly, deliberately. “Pink looks good on you.”
My skin feels too tight. “Don’t you have work to do?” I mutter. “Or someone else to bother?”
He smirks. “Watching you counts as work.”
On the sand, I stretch out on a towel, trying to pretend I can’t feel his eyes on every inch of exposed skin.
The sun’s hot, but it’s nothing compared to the slow burn of him sitting just far enough away to look innocent, but close enough that I can’t forget last night. How I rode his cock while calling him names that society would deeply frown on.
“Bikini like that, princess,” he drawls, low and lazy, “you’re asking for trouble. Your ass is practically begging to sit on my face.”
Heat flashes through me.
I grab my water bottle, gulping like it’ll cool me down, but it doesn’t touch the fire prickling under my skin.
“Easy,” he murmurs, watching my throat work. “Sip. Don’t gulp. Or I’ll start thinking about what else that pretty mouth should be doing.”
I choke, water catching in my chest, and his chuckle is shameless. My face burns as I roll to my stomach, desperate to hide, but he leans closer, voice dropping like a dark promise, exhaling like he’s fighting something brutal. “You’re an asshole,” I hiss.
“Never said otherwise, baby. And you keep wiggling your hips like that, I’ll pin you to this towel and fuck you so hard the ocean forgets its own rhythm.”
My fingers curl in the fabric, torn between fury and something far more dangerous. I’m opening my mouth to tell him off—loudly—when my phone buzzes beside me.
Mom:Heading into town, come with me?
Relief floods through me. I bolt upright. “I have to go. Mom wants me to go shopping with her.”
I don’t wait for his reaction, just snatch up my cover-up and flee back inside, pulse jackhammering.
Behind me, I hear the dark curve of his satisfaction when he says, “Run, princess. It’ll make catching you all the sweeter.”
Asher
The house is too damnquiet without Scarlett’s laugh or Annette’s chatter in the background.
Dad cornered me two hours after the girls left, when a long walk on the beach and a swim in the pool did fuck all to alleviate the hell of missing Scarlett.
Now I sit across his desk in his study, the clink of ice in his glass, and that razor-sharp stare he hides behind fatherly civility.
“You think I didn’t notice?” he says finally, voice low. “Scarlett. You. It’s not allbrotherly concernand goodness-of-your-heart charity, is it?”
I don’t blink. I don’t waste my breath asking what the fuck he’s on about. “You sure you want to know, Dad?”
His knuckles tighten around the glass. “I hope you don’t mean what I think you mean, son.”
“Ask me then,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “If you dare.”
Something shifts in his face, rage and dread colliding. He pales, then drags a hand down his jaw like he’s trying to hold his composure together.
“Not even you would…” He cuts himself off, pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he laughs, sharp and bitter. “But then you would, wouldn’t you? What is this, some sort of spite?”
I lean back against the expensive leather, watching him unravel. “Spite? You think this is about you?”
“I’ve never understood what pissed you off so much when I met Annette,” he mutters, pacing. “I thought it was because you didn’t want me to remarry after divorcing your mom. But it’s not that, is it, son?”
I don’t answer. Just fold my arms tighter, wait him out. Let him stare me down, because I won’t flinch.
