Page 15 of Jealous Stepbrother (Jealous & Possessive #4)

HASHTAG…FUCKIT

Asher

I t’s Friday morning.

I’m fucking my stepsister for the… yeah, shit, I’ve lost count… when my cell starts to ring. She’s spread wide on my bathroom vanity, her knees touching her ears, and I’m kissing the hell out of her, our tongues mimicking the thrust-withdraw happening down below.

I’ve discovered in the past forty-eight hours that Scarlett loves to kiss as she’s fucked. Something about our mouths fusing as I shuttle in and out of her tiny cunt makes her cream like a faucet. And I’m one hundred percent here for it.

I barely register the ringing stop, until it starts again thirty seconds later.

She tenses.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” I growl against her mouth, pinching her nipples.

She gasps and her pussy clenches.

I think I’ve distracted her enough, but another ping and her eyes flicker toward the nightstand. “B-but it could b-be important,” she gasps, then cries out when I tunnel deeper, attempting to feed her those last inches she’s having a hard time taking.

“More important than making my baby sis come all over my cock? Don’t fucking think so,” I grunt. Pinch her nipple harder.

“Asher! Oh God.”

“That’s more like it. Want more of this?”

Her head slams back against the mirror as I grab her ass, lift her higher, and yank her into my thrusts. Feel her pussy flutter madly, a sign that she’s about to come.

I’m addicted to that flutter. Addicted to the drugging look that glazes her eyes when she’s cresting her peak. Crazily obsessed with the way she milks my dick in sublime contractions.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she screams. Then she’s coming, babbling my name every other word.

My balls tighten at the last strains of her orgasm squeezing me. I drop my forehead to hers and groan. “Here it comes, my beautiful princess. You’re going to be a good girl and take it all, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Asher. Give it to me.”

I give it all to her.

Then I carry her into the shower. Wash her from head to toe as is my privilege and my right.

But another series of pings shatter the sweet aftermath when I walk us back into my bedroom.

Setting her on the bed, I pick up the phone just in time to watch the video and photos drop.

Someone, somewhere in Central Park, had their phone out the day I lost it over that asshole looking at her ass.

The angle is bad enough—me in the fucker’s face, then me in Scarlett’s space, my ultra-possessive hand on her waist, her face turned up to mine—but the captions make it worse.

#HouseOfMForbiddenLooksHot

#BossAndInternShenanigans

#HouseOfM #StepOrNot

On their own, I wouldn’t even care what a handful of pictures and hashtags knocking around on social media depict.

But from the missed calls already piling up, I know this isn’t ideal.

“Asher? What’s going on?” Scarlett asks, her sweet voice edged with worry.

I grit my teeth but don’t respond right away.

Two seconds later, her hand lands in the small of my naked back.

I tense, not because I don’t want to answer.

I do. I will. But I didn’t want our time polluted by the noise of anyone else’s expectations, or ruined by the kind of bullshit that always seems to find us before I’ve had my fill of her. Not yet.

But of course it comes anyway.

The phone buzzes in my hand, Dad’s name flashing across the screen like a spray of bullets. Fuck. My fingers clench, but I know I can’t ignore it.

I swipe to answer, my jaw flexing hard enough to ache.

“Asher.” His voice is granite, cold and deliberate. “What’s going on? And before you tell me nothing, we saw the pictures.”

Of course they did. The whole goddamn city probably has by now. “I don’t explain myself to tabloids,” I bite back.

“I don’t give a damn about tabloids. You owe us an explanation. You’ll bring her to Montauk this weekend. We’ll discuss it in person.”

Before I can answer, another line breaks in. Annette’s clipped, worried tone layering over my father’s command.

“Is Scarlett with you, Asher?”

I glance at her, eyes raised. One sign and I’ll cut this short.

She shakes her head.

“Hang on, I’ll get her.” I stab the mute button. “You don’t have to talk to them?—”

“What are they talking about? What pictures?” she interrupts me, fear filling her eyes.

I grit my teeth and show her the screen. A layer recedes but far too much remains.

“Hey, you don’t need to worry about some bullshit pics, okay?”

She nods, then her eyes drop to the phone. “Put her on, I have to talk to her.”

Every bone in my body rejects that, but I unmute the phone.

“Mom?”

“Scarlett, sweetheart, are you okay?”

She frowns. “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

A brief hesitation. “Well, we saw the pictures and?—”

“And Asher was defending me from unwanted attention. That’s all it was.”

“I disagree,” Dad cuts in. “Clearly we’re in the dark about a few more things than just altercations in public parks.”

“It’s handled, Dad,” I cut in, sharp. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Good, then we’ll see you both in Montauk this evening. As previously arranged,” he slides in pointedly. No room for refusal or negotiation. “I’ll send the car.”

Scarlett’s eyes are wide on me.

Now our parents know she’s working in my fashion house as my intern, she can’t plead workload issues without them coming down on me like a ton of bricks. And while I can more than withstand Dad’s guilt trips, Annette is a different issue.

Time with her daughter is precious to her. And any suspicion that I’m manipulating Scarlett’s time will land us both in tricky waters I can’t risk Scarlett navigating on her own. Not when this thing is so new and fragile.

And I’d rather walk straight into the lion’s den than let them circle her alone.

“Fine,” I say, voice low and absolute. “We’ll be there. And there’s no need to send the car. I’ll drive us down.”

Because I’m not about to let them dictate my next move.

And because the thought of having her under our parents’ roof, in a house full of doors that lock, might just kill me in the best possible way.

I hang up before either of them can respond.

The silence in the bedroom is brutal. Scarlett’s still looking at me, trembling with dread, but what she doesn’t know—what she’ll never really understand—is that dread is nothing compared to the craving that chews me alive.

Montauk isn’t a punishment.

It’s an opportunity. The first real trial of our forever.

And God help anyone under that roof who thinks they’re going to take her from me.