Page 11 of Jealous Stepbrother (Jealous & Possessive #4)

FINE PUPPET MASTERING

Asher

S he’s mine.

Every breath, every flash of her eyes, every stubborn inch of her. I want to lock her up in my penthouse. But I’m letting her step foot in the studio again today, which means my crew will see her.

They’ll talk to her.

They’ll think things they have no right thinking.

I almost want them to slip up again, to let a stare linger too long, let a joke land too close to her skin. I’d rip the whole building down just for the excuse to punish them.

And her.

Especially her.

Because I can still taste her from last night. Still see the way she shook and sobbed and gushed when she came apart for me. Still hear her voice shaking when she told me exactly what it felt like when I was inside her the first time.

And it’s a miracle I’m not dragging her back to bed to finish what I started.

Instead, I invite the crew I tossed out back in to collaborate on the fall line.

I don’t consider yesterday a wasted day. Lessons needed to be learned. And they’re talented enough to be worth my patience.

But I watch them like a hawk from behind my drafting table as I set Scarlett to work.

The skirt I chose for her today rides up when she leans over the cutting table. Her lips part when she’s thinking. Her eyes light up when she lands on a clever design tweak I didn’t see coming.

God help me, it’s not just the sick, filthy things I want to do to her that scare me. It’s how badly I want to see her smile like that again.

By midday, I know my crew’s been sufficiently cowed. They’re polite, professional, and careful about where they look.

I send them away with instructions to work remotely tomorrow.

Which leaves Scarlett and me in the studio alone.

Her phone starts pinging from where she left it in my desk drawer as per House of M’s no-phones-on-the-floor policy.

Normally, I’d ignore it.

Today, I don’t. She’s mine. I have the right to know who’s contacting my girl.

Plus I know the code. Of course I do.

I stride over, swipe in, and scan the screen.

A string of texts from her mother about Montauk this weekend, concern slipping in with each unanswered message. The naughty little minx didn’t text her mother back like I asked her to.

My jaw ripples as thoughts of how I’m going to punish her reel through my mind. I’m about to slide the phone back when another notification slides down from the top of the screen.

And— the fuck ?

A job offer.

From one of my competitors in Florence.

Every muscle in my body goes taut. My thumb hovers over the message before I open it and read just enough to know they want her.

To take her away from me.

Not happening.

I delete it without a second thought and with zero guilt just as she comes in from the adjoining workspace, cheeks flushed from a burst of creative energy.

She starts to tell me about her latest sketch, but I’m already crossing the room.

By the time she realizes I’m behind her, I’ve caged her against the drafting table, one hand flattening over her stomach, the other sliding down the curve of her thigh.

She stiffens. “Asher?—”

My open palm lands on her left ass cheek in a hard smack.

She yelps.

My dick jumps at how her firm ass bounces as I deliver another smack, same place, even harder.

She cuts herself off mid-shriek, her gaze bouncing between the door and my face, adorable bewilderment and rage building on her own. “What are you—Arghh!”

Smack .

I rain down two more on her right ass cheek to make a neat five, then I toss the phone onto the table.

Gripping both cheeks in my hands, I growl in her ear. “Call her.” My voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the command in it. “Right now. Tell your mother you’re not coming to Montauk this weekend.”

Her breath hitches. “That’s what this is about?”

“Don’t test me, little girl. Do what I told you to do yesterday.”

Her chin comes up, her eyes flashing. “Why? I can’t just cancel?—”

“Yes, you can. And because I said so.” My hand slides under her skirt and, fuck me, her skin is so smooth, so hot from my spanking. “And because you belong to me this summer. All summer.”

“I need…something to…Asher, I can’t just?—”

“Lunch is being delivered in a few minutes. It’s up to you whether you want an audience for this or not but I’m going to keep stroking this pussy until you do as I say.”

My fingers slide beneath her panties, over the thin strip of hairthat arrows to my favorite placeon this whole damn earth.

She jolts when my middle finger grazes her clit, and she scrambles for her phone.

Her hand shakes as she dials. I stay close enough to hear every word, my fingers stroking slow, distracting circles over her clit.

“Mom? Yeah, I—I’m sorry, I meant to call e-earlier. I can’t come to Montauk this weekend,” she says, her voice faltering when I press a little harder. “Work… no, it’s not like that. I’m fine. Really.”

But her mother’s tone, sharper now, laced with worry, sticks in my head.

“No, Mom, they’re not working me too hard.

” She turns her head, attempts to glare at me.

I strum her clit. She shakes and grips the bench with her free hand until it shows white.

When I lift my eyebrow, she ducks her head.

“I promise I’ll tell you more about it soon.

No, Mom, I’m at work, I h-have to go. Love you. Talk soon.”

She hangs up as her mother’s launching into another third degree.

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 two weeks 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 like boss’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 everydetail from 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.

We end up in Central Park, summer sun turning the paths into a slow-moving river of joggers and dog walkers.

I don’t notice the guy until Asher stops dead in his tracks.

He’s mid-thirties and athletic, jogging past in the opposite direction. But his eyes dip to my ass for a second. Then again. And again.

Three seconds that doom him.

Shit .

Asher’s in his face before I can blink. “You like what you see?” His voice is low, lethal.

The guy stammers something about just running.

“Here’s the thing,” Asher says, stepping closer. “You look at her ass again, I’ll pluck your eyes out and make you eat them.”

“Hey, buddy?—”

He surges closer until they’re nose to nose. “I’m not your fucking buddy. But sure, feel free to try me if you’re feeling brave. Are you feeling brave, asshole?”

The man mutters an apology and scurries off, but it doesn’t cool Asher’s fury.

By the time he drags me away, my cheeks are wet with angry, humiliated tears.

Back at the penthouse, he doesn’t say a word.

Just scoops me up like I weigh nothing, carries me straight to the bathroom, and sets me under the spray of the walk-in shower.

The steam builds fast and so does the tension. His hands find my hips as his chest presses to my back. “Quick question, baby.”

I shake my head, overwhelmed and miserable. “Leave me alone, Asher.”

He asks anyway. “Are you about to flush my mood further down the toilet? Are you crying because of that fucker?”

I turn in his arms, heart hammering. “Would you care?”

“I care, princess. More than you know. More than is wise for either of us.”

More tears spill and his eyes narrow. I fool myself into thinking I spot concern and mild panic in his eyes. “What the hell’s going on, Scarlett?”

“I’m tired. You’re infuriating. And…and I’m on my period.”

His eyes darken, not with disgust, but something else entirely.

Panic softens into understanding. “You poor baby.” He brushes a kiss at my temple.

But when he pulls back a second later, his face hits neutral.

“But it’s a good thing too,” he says after a beat, voice low and rough.

“Means I get to focus on every other way to ruin you.”

Of course I take that to mean he’s going to be even meaner to me now that his access is cut off. But instead of leaving, Asher steps even closer. Wraps his inked arms tighter around me.

The heat of the shower doesn’t compare to the heat of him.

It’s blowing my mind a little that he’s right there, wet, fully clothed, water streaming down his hair and jaw, looking like he wants to be nowhere else.

When my short bout of sobbing subsides, he loosens his hold on me.

His touch is different this time. Slower. Gentler. More deliberate. As if he’s not just touching my skin but tending something underneath it.

His hands roam over my shoulders, my back, down my thighs, cleansing and comforting me.

Grounding me.

It’s almost worse than his usual teasing, because I can’t fight it.

Can’t fight the way my chest aches under the weight of it. The way my heart yearns for more of it.

When his fingers slip up to shampoo my wet hair, I feel something twist low in my belly. He washes me from head to toe, then after he undresses and washes himself, he wraps me in a towel and walks us to my bedroom.

“You’re mine, Scarlett,” he says, quiet enough to make me lean in to hear. “Every day. Even like this.”

He presses his lips to my forehead again.

And I hate how much that undoes me.