Page 8 of Jealous Stepbrother (Jealous & Possessive #4)

OBSESSION’S EDGE

Scarlett

H alf an hour later, we’re stepping out of the private elevator into the cool hum of the penthouse lobby.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he slides a hand to the small of my back.

“Dinner. You barely touched your salad at lunch and I need to get this meeting out of the way. Two birds. One stone,” he clips out, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I swallow the scoffing remark about how he expected me to find an appetite for food while sitting naked in his lap while he pretended I wasn’t there in one breath, then touching me all over as if he needed me for his next breath.

I don’t know yet that the restaurant he’s chosen will be the stage for another public scene—one that will strip away whatever fragile defenses I’m slowly rebuilding.

But that’s for later.

Right now, I’m still in his orbit, and he’s not letting me go.

The restaurant is the kind of place where the waiters wear white gloves and the menus don’t have prices. Every surface glimmers under low, flattering light, and the Manhattan skyline blazes through the floor-to-ceiling windows like someone scattered diamonds across the night.

I’d wanted a little breather, maybe shower before wearing something casual.

Asher vetoed that before I even stepped out of my room, sending me back with a dress he held out and a command to change into something worthy of my “first evening representing House of M.” Which, apparently, meant a black slip dress that felt indecent the second it slid over my skin.

Now we’re here with two investors from Milan and a gallerist Asher calls “essential,” which means I have to smile and answer polite questions about my role. The problem is, they keep looking at me.

And it’s not in the harmless, curious way strangers sometimes do. No, this is longer, heavier, the kind of look that feels like fingers trailing where they shouldn’t.

Having suffered through one catastrophic episode of Asher’s unhinged jealous fit, I lose what little appetite I thought I’d managed to scrounge together as the memory of this morning crashes back—Asher’s voice, low and lethal, laying down rules that made my skin burn.

I’m aware of every one of them.

And so is Asher.

He’s in his element in his tailored charcoal suit, shirt open at the throat, cufflinks glinting when he lifts his wine.

He’s all charm when he wants to be, voice smooth enough to butter the bread that costs more than my old week’s rent.

But I can see it—the slow ramping of tension in the flex of his jaw, in the way his finger taps the stem of his glass like he’s ticking down seconds until someone crosses a line.

Then it happens.

Matteo, one of the Milan guys, leans over to refill my wine without asking. His hand brushes my wrist. I’m about to pull back when Asher moves.

Smooth. Unhurried. But there’s nothing casual in it.

He hooks my chair with his foot and draws me flush to his side without looking at me.

His arm settles along the back of my seat, fingers grazing my bare shoulder like they’re staking a perimeter.

“Careful, buddy,” he says softly. Everyone hears it. “She’s here with me. If anyone’s going to pour her wine, it’ll be me. And touch her skin again and there might just be a fire that burns yours off.”

Matteo laughs a little too quickly and mumbles something about hospitality. The gallerist chuckles. The other investor smirks.

Asher tips his glass toward me, that dark smirk spreading slow. “Fuck hospitality. My muse doesn’t share. Neither does her brother.”

The table laughs again, thinking it’s a joke. But I feel the steel in his voice, the warning aimed directly at them.

I focus on my plate, heat climbing my neck. My pulse is a wild, stupid thing. Because part of me wants to be furious at him for making me into a possession in front of the art world, and the other part is dangerously close to melting into the hand he’s now resting at my waist.

The rest of the meal blurs. I manage to keep up with the conversation, but Asher keeps me anchored, his thumb moving lazily over my hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When dessert is offered, he declines for both of us. “We have an early start tomorrow,” he says, and no one argues.

Rising, he steps behind my seat and helps me up. “Gentlemen, it’s been a productive evening. I’ll be in touch.”

By the time we’re outside, the warm August night wrapping around us, I’m half certain he’s going to put me straight into the car and take me home.

He does put me in the car. But the way he shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side tells me “home” isn’t going to mean safe.

Not tonight.

For the first few minutes, he says nothing.

The partition in the sleek town car is up, sealing us in together, and I feel the tension pouring off him in thick, suffocating waves.

It’s unbearable.

The silence stretches until it’s a barely visible thread I’m struggling to hang on to.

Maybe that’s his ploy—his plan—to break me first, the way he implied I broke him. It’s unfair and ridiculous and… God, why does every infuriating thing he does turn me on?

I shouldn’t want this.

Want him.

And yet…

My gaze drifts to the square cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the brooding eyes locked on his phone. Even the way his long fingers move over the screen makes heat lick low in my belly.

Hands that touched me repeatedly today like I was his personal toy.

You’re mine. Four years ago. Yesterday. Today…

I swallow the sound building in my throat, some dangerous hybrid of moan and curse, and tear my gaze toward the window. The city blurs past and lights smear into streaks of gold and red.

The storm inside me builds and builds and builds.

The second we stop in traffic I reach for the door handle.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His voice is a volcanic rumble.

“This traffic is insane,” I snap, reaching for the nearest excuse—anything but admitting how badly I want to crawl into his lap. Not even for sex. Just for the warmth of his embrace, the way he tucked me close in the bathroom this afternoon. And maybe… maybe… if that led to other things?—

No. Jesus, Scarlett. He’s your stepbrother!

“And you’re going to do what, exactly?” His tone is slow and lethal.

“Walk. We’re only a few blocks away and I… I can’t stay here.”

One eyebrow lifts in lazy mockery. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve had it with the Neanderthal control-freak act, Asher.”

The phone vanishes from his hand. “Neanderthal?” he echoes softly.

“Caveman. Dictator. Tyrant. Take your pick?—”

I don’t get to finish.

One second I’m on my side of the car. The next, his hand has closed around my wrist and I’m yanked into his lap, my back to his chest, his arm banded across my middle like steel.

“You want to talk about my behavior?” His mouth is at my ear, voice low enough to scrape along my spine. “You keep pushing me in public, princess. Smiling at other guys. Letting them pour fucking wine for you. Flirt with you? You think shit like that won’t go unanswered?”

My pulse is a jackhammer, my body strung tight between outrage and something far more dangerous.

“I wasn’t flirting,” I say, the words rushing out before I can temper them.

“I was just… being polite. If I knew every interaction was going to be put on your microscope, maybe I’d—” I clamp my mouth shut, realizing how defensive I sound.

The car glides to another traffic light. I reach for the door again.

His grip only tightens.

“Stay.” One word, edged with command.

I stay.

“Try again,” he says, not moving an inch. “Give me an answer that won’t make me want to put you over my knee.”

I swallow hard. “I can’t control what other guys do… the same way I can’t seem to control you.”

“Sure you can,” he says smoothly. “You simply don’t do what will get you and everyone around me in deep fucking trouble. That’s all.”

I scoff. “That’s all? You might as well ask for the moon to rise in the west and the ocean to run dry.”

His mouth curves in a slow, predatory smirk. “Atta girl. You’re learning.”

The rest of the ride is a blur of pounding heartbeat and his thigh muscles shifting under me. I’m so wound up I practically trip over my own feet when we glide into the underground parking garage.

He steps out still holding onto my wrist, his thumb sweeping back and forth over my pulse like he wants to gauge the level of my angst.

We enter the private elevator in silence, the air between us thick enough to choke on.

The moment the doors seal shut, he backs me against the mirrored wall, caging me in, his hands braced on either side of my head. Eyes dark and dangerous drill into me, his nose one inch from mine.

“You’ve been staring at anything and everything but me all fucking night,” he growls. “That stops now.”

“I wasn’t?—”

His mouth cuts me off—hot, punishing, claiming.

The kiss is all teeth and tongue, a dark drag of possession that wipes every coherent thought from my brain.

His hands are already in my hair and sliding down to my throat then lower still, gripping my hips and pinning me harder against the wall until my back arches and my nails bite into his shoulders.

I gasp into him, and his tongue sweeps in deeper, tangles decadently with mine. He kisses like he fights—without mercy, without giving me any room to retreat.

When I tear away for air, my voice is shaky. “Asher, stop! We’re in an elevator.”

“Exactly.” His forehead presses to mine, his breath rough. “No distractions. No one else. And by the time those doors open, you’ll remember exactly who you belong to.”

His mouth claims mine again, deeper this time, and my knees threaten to buckle. I’m dizzy with the taste of him and I barely notice the elevator slowing until the chime sounds for the penthouse.

The doors slide open, but he doesn’t step away. His eyes burn into mine, mouth curved in something dark and final.

“Inside,” he orders. “Now.”

We barely make it into the penthouse before my back hits the wall.

“You’ve been poking at me all day, sweetheart. You want to see what happens when I stop being patient?”

The first brush of his mouth on mine steals my breath. The second has me clawing at his shirt. His hands slide up my thighs, hitching my skirt higher and higher until?—

He drops to his knees.

I’m frozen for half a second, the sight of my powerful, infuriating, sexy and deranged stepbrother at my feet robbing me of speech. “Asher?—”

“Shut up and let me taste what’s mine.”

His palms yank my thighs apart, his breath scorching the inside of my leg.

Hard, sucking kisses land on the sensitive skin of my inner thigh—the kind I know will leave marks I’m absurdly eager to see—before his mouth finds me through my panties.

I’m damp, his mouth is hot, possessive, claiming my pussy lips so brazenly I gasp.

My fingers tangle in his hair, because he’s not teasing or tormenting me the way he did this afternoon.

Asher is devouring, pulling the fabric aside and licking into me like a man starved. He licks me from hole to clit, lapping at my wetness with unvarnished eagerness that makes my eyes roll, my hips piston into rabid demand.

“Oh God…”

He groans into me, the vibration rolling straight through my core.

One hand comes up to grip my hip, the other hooking behind my knee and hauling it over his shoulder.

I’m open to him now with nothing between us, and he doesn’t waste a second.

His tongue works me mercilessly, alternating between deep strokes and quick, teasing flicks over my clit until I’m shaking.

Gushing. Sobbing. Begging.

“That’s it, little sis. Cream for your brother. Drench my face like the horny little slut you are.”

How is it possible to be angry, turned on and humiliated at the same time? Because his filthy words achieve the exact results he demands. I gush for him with a shameless abandon that makes me feel positively wanton. A slut for my brother.

Step brother, I remind my sluggish brain.

As if that’s any better. As if that would in any way slow the desperate race toward the ocean of bliss glittering behind my clamped eyelids.

I can’t think, can’t breathe, only feel.

The filthy wet sounds, the soft curses he mutters against me, the way his shoulders lock me in place so I can’t escape even if I wanted to.

“Asher—” My voice breaks on his name as pleasure coils tight, tighter, then shatters.

“Fuck, you taste fucking incredible. You’ve been taking care of this pussy for me, haven’t you?

Making sure it only gives your brother the best juice, hmm?

More, my slutty princess.” He groans and laps, laps, laps.

“That’s it, baby. You’re shaking like that because you’re going to burst, aren’t you?

Look at you, so damn beautiful.” One hand clamps on my hip, stopping my rolls. “Do you want to come, little sister?”

“Y-yes! Please.” Desperation lines every octave but I don’t care.

His other hand rips off my panties, then his fingers part my pussy lips. I can feel his rabid stare, right there .

He blows on my clit and I lose my mind. “Asher!”

“That’s right. It’s me, your brother, taking care of this pretty pink slutty pussy. Making it gush and quiver. Beg me to come, baby.”

I toss my head, a poor parody of refusal I know will never make it. Because when I open my mouth, I give him exactly what he wants. “Please. Asher, I want to come. I… need to. So bad. Please!”

He rolls his tongue over my clit, pulls back, blows lightly on it. Then Asher sucks it into his mouth, flicking his tongue-tip over my swollen hood with relentless strokes until?—

I explode with a shrill scream. I come so hard, trembling against the wall, his mouth swallowing every broken moan.

He doesn’t stop sucking and licking until I’m whimpering, pushing him away, jagged incoherent words dropping from my lips as I sag against the wall.

Spent.

Overcome.

Desperately trying to avoid thinking about what I’ve just done with my stepbrother.

Again.