It always starts with the sound of his footsteps.

Soft. Slow. Careful like he’s trying not to wake me—but wanting me to stir just enough.

The first time it happened, I thought I imagined it. I’d just moved into the house my mom shared with her new husband. A fancy place, too quiet, too clean, and too full of tension. I hated it… until I met him.

Jace.

My new stepbrother.

Six years older. Rough around the edges. Always in that tight black T-shirt, tattoos peeking out from his sleeves like they had secrets of their own.

He barely spoke to me the first week. But I caught him staring when he thought I wasn’t looking. His gaze wasn’t brotherly. It was heavy. Lingering. Possessive.

And then that night happened.

The creak of the floorboard just outside my bedroom.

The way my door opened… slow. Deliberate.

I kept my eyes shut, body still, breath steady. Pretending to sleep. Pretending I didn’t want it.

But I did.

God, I did.

I wore a T-shirt and panties to bed that night. Nothing more. Maybe I wanted to test him. Maybe I wanted to feel that line he was trying so hard not to cross snap right between us.

And it did.

His fingers slid beneath the covers.

Calloused. Rough. So warm.

They hovered over my thigh like he was asking for permission—but we both knew I couldn’t give it, not out loud.

Not yet.

His hand trembled slightly before his palm flattened, fingers splayed over my bare skin. My thighs clenched involuntarily. My heart thundered so loud I was sure he could hear it. I was soaked—ruined—before he even touched my pussy.

But he didn’t go that far. Not that night.

He whispered something I couldn’t hear, then pulled back, slipping out the door just as silently as he’d come.

The next morning, he didn’t speak to me. Didn’t look at me. Ate his cereal like nothing happened.

But that was three nights ago. And now, I hear the creak again.

Same time. Same slow steps.

Only this time… I’m not wearing panties.

Ihear the door open before I feel him.

That soft creak. That quiet hush of breath. I know it’s Jace. I know those footsteps by heart now—he moves like a shadow, smooth and dangerous.

My body hums in anticipation, already aching before he even touches me.

I’m on my side, one leg bent, shirt riding high over my hips. I made sure of that. No panties tonight. I wanted him to see. To know I was waiting. Wanting. Wet.

My heart pounds, but I keep my breathing steady—slow, measured, pretending I’m deep in sleep.

He pauses at the edge of the bed.

I don’t move.

I feel him kneel behind me, his presence thick in the air. His breath brushes over my bare skin, and I swear I feel it between my legs. My nipples harden instantly, tingling under the soft cotton of my shirt.

Then—his hand.

A rough, calloused palm sliding across my hip, the heat of it branding me. His touch is slow, testing, fingers drifting lower, until they glide between my thighs.

He finds me soaked.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stay quiet. I don’t want to break the illusion. I want him to think I’m asleep. That I have no idea how filthy this is—how wrong.

He groans low under his breath. A soft, tortured sound that makes my thighs squeeze together, trapping his hand.

I feel one single finger slide up and down my slit, gliding through my wetness, it feels like delicious torture.

His touch leaves my skin and for a moment I think he’s considering leaving until I hear him lick my juices off his finger and murmur, “so fuckin’ sweet.”

Then—his fingers. Two of them, thick and strong, pushing into me like they belong there.

I almost moan. Almost.

Instead, I press my face deeper into the pillow, gasping silently as he fucks me with his fingers, slow and steady. His thumb finds my clit, circles it lazily, like he’s studying me—learning every twitch, every tremble.

I’m burning from the inside out.

I want more. I need—

Will tonight be the night he claims me? Dear God please let it be, let him relieve this ache.

He starts to move—long, deep strokes of his fingers that send shockwaves through me. I can’t stay still. My hips rock back against him involuntarily, meeting each thrust with silent desperation.

I’m not pretending anymore.

I want him. I need him.

His hand slides up, cups my breast under my shirt, thumb flicking over my nipple. The other wraps around my throat—not squeezing, just holding me there, grounding me, like he knows I’m close to unraveling.

And I am.

The tension is unbearable, my body coiled tight, sweat slick between my thighs as he fucks me with his fingers slow and filthy.

I feel the orgasm coming. Hot. Relentless. Curling low in my belly like a storm about to break.

His lips brush my ear.

“You want to cum for me, little stepsister ?” he whispers. “Even in your sleep?”

And then he does the unthinkable, slowly he pulls his fingers out of wet hot needy pussy. I feel him get off the bed, hear the door shut as he leaves and I’m left panting. Panting, frustrated and fucking desperate for my stepbrother.

Iwake up with my thighs clenched, my panties damp, and my body buzzing like I’ve been edged in a dream I can’t fully remember—but can still feel everywhere.

Because it wasn’t a dream.

Jace touched me last night.

Not all the way. Not enough. But just enough to ruin me.

I turn over and groan into my pillow. My clit is still pulsing, over-sensitive, like it’s begging me to finish what he started. My body feels hot and restless, nipples hard beneath the oversized sleep shirt I wore just for him—because I knew he’d come in.

And he did.

He touched me like I was something precious. Something filthy. But right before I tipped over that edge, he stopped.

Left me needy. Aching. Desperate.

What kind of monster does that?

I shove back the blanket and stomp to the bathroom like the floor offended me. Shower? Cold. Everything? Wrong. My body’s betraying me, rubbing against the towel as I dry off, trying to chase the friction he denied me.

By the time I make it to the kitchen, I’m in full grump mode. My hair’s a mess, my cheeks are still flushed from nothing, and there he is—already at the table, sipping coffee like he didn’t just mentally destroy me twelve hours ago.

He looks up. Smirks.

And I want to launch my cereal bowl at his head.

"Morning, sunshine," he says, like he’s not a smug bastard with the cock that nearly ruined me.

I grunt.

I slide into the chair across from him, arms crossed, glaring at the countertop. The ache between my legs is distracting. Every tiny shift of my thighs is a reminder of what he did.

Or didn't.

And he’s loving every second of this.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Mom’s voice floats in as she breezes through with a fresh pot of coffee and her usual mom-energy smile. She’s still in yoga pants and a tank, glowing from her morning run.

“Fine,” I mutter.

She raises an eyebrow. “You look… tense.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” I grumble, stealing one of the mini muffins off the plate she set down.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jace lean back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head like some smug lion who just watched the lamb suffer.

“Poor thing,” Mom says, pouring herself coffee. “This move has been a lot. And with freshman year starting soon…” She tsks and gives me that motherly once-over. “You’ve got to find a way to relax, baby. Burn off some steam.”

Steam? Lady, I’m a volcano right now.

“Mm-hmm,” I hum, stuffing the muffin in my mouth and avoiding his eyes.

But I can feel him watching me. That little cocky smirk hasn’t left his face.

Oh, he knows exactly why I’m cranky. Why I couldn’t sleep. Why I’m crossing my legs under the table like a desperate virgin with a dirty secret.

Because of him.

He shifted something last night.

And now he’s just… waiting.

Watching.

Testing me.

The bastard.

He lifts his coffee cup and tilts it toward me like it’s a toast. “Yeah, some steam might do you good,” he says smoothly. “Maybe a nice long… release.”

I nearly choke.

Mom hums like she agrees, totally missing the innuendo. “You should go on a run with me sometime,” she says brightly. “Clear your head. You always feel better when you’re moving.”

Oh, I need to move, alright. I need to move right onto Jace’s lap and grind against him until he finishes what he started.

Instead, I flash a tight smile. “Sure, Mom. Maybe later.”

Jace licks a crumb off his thumb and looks right at me when he says it: “Patience is a virtue.”

Oh, fuck you.

But I bite my tongue. Because he’s testing me. And I refuse to let him win.

…Even if I’m still soaking through my panties under this damn table.

Mom’s words echoed in my head all morning: You need to relax. Burn off some steam.

Well… okay, then.

What better way to do that than by inviting a few friends over for an impromptu pool day?

And what better way to make Jace burn a little, too?

The white bikini had been a reckless online buy months ago. One I shoved to the back of my drawer and never actually wore in public. It was tiny—like, criminally so. Barely-there top. Ass-baring bottoms that rode up every time I moved. But it made my tits look incredible and clung to my curves like it wanted to get me arrested.

I knew exactly what I was doing when I wore it.

And I knew he’d be watching.

Especially when Kyle—the guy who’s been trying to date me since tenth grade—showed up shirtless, grinning, and overly eager to help apply sunscreen to the small of my back.

We laughed, splashed, and flirted like it was summer camp. And it was all for Jace. Every smile. Every flip of my wet hair. Every bounce when Kyle lifted me on his shoulders during chicken fights. His hands slid over my thighs and I could feel Jace’s gaze like a damn laser on my skin.

He stood next to his motorcycle in the garage, watching.

Brooding.

I saw the way his arms folded across his chest. The way his expression darkened when Kyle smacked the water and said something stupid that made me laugh. I leaned in too close. Sat on Kyle’s lap like I didn’t know Jace was watching.

But I did.

And when I went inside to grab a drink, I made sure to walk slow, ass swinging, droplets trailing down my legs.

Opening the cabinet, I stared at the empty bottom shelf. Sighing, I stood on my tiptoes and struggled to reach the glass far back on the top shelf. As I was about to give up and climb the counter, I felt it.

His presence.

His heat.

The air shifted, thickening, coiling around me like smoke. The hair on the back of my neck stood up just as an inked forearm reached past me—skin warm, veins prominent, busted knuckles bruised and raw—and grabbed a glass.

He set it on the counter beside me. The clink of it landing was deafening.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Fire bloomed low in my belly.

My breath caught as I turned slowly.

My breathing shallow as his gaze trailed the drips of water running down my body. Each drop that hit the tile was a slow countdown to combustion. His eyes followed every bead, lingering on my breasts, my hips, the way my swimsuit clung to every curve.

And then he looked at my face. His jaw clenched. His dark eyes burned with something feral and angry.

“You done?” he asked, voice rough.

I swallowed. “Done with what?”

His gaze dropped to my barely-covered breasts. “Playing games.”

“I’m just having fun,” I whispered.

He took a step closer. Too close. The front of his black shirt barely brushed my chest. My nipples tightened against the wet fabric. His body heat poured over me, sinking into my skin, making me want to lean forward and melt into him.

He leaned down, his mouth near my ear, voice low and dangerous. “You’re playing with fire.”

My thighs pressed together. “You started it.”

“I don’t think you realize what game you’re in.” His voice was like steel wrapped in velvet. “Or who you’re playing against.”

And then—God help me—his finger slid down the curve of my ass, tracing the edge of my too-small bottoms. Just barely grazing skin, like he needed to remind me who I belonged to.

I gasped, my hands tightening on the counter.

His other hand slid up my side, calloused fingers brushing under the damp strap and resting just beneath my breast. So close. Too close. My nipples tingled, my core throbbed, and I swore my legs were about to give out.

His hand dipped under the back of my bikini, dragging the fabric out from where it’d ridden between my cheeks. The friction, the ownership in that one movement—I nearly whimpered.

Then both hands gripped my waist.

Possessive. Firm.

And oh God, I felt it—his erection, hard and hot, pressing against my belly. I leaned forward, just slightly, not even thinking, just needing.

His breath ghosted over my neck. “You think sitting on another guy’s lap makes me jealous?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He gripped me tighter. His voice dropped, cold and biting. “Get your sweet ass upstairs and put some clothes on.”

I blinked, breath shattering.

He leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “And send that boy you’ve been playing with home. Now.”

A shiver rolled through me.

His hands stayed a second longer than necessary before he pulled back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. And then he was gone—back through the garage door, the tension still humming in the air like an electric current waiting to snap.

I stared at the glass he left behind.

Still thirsty.

Still aching.

Still his.

He didn’t come to me that night.

Not after the pool. Not after the white bikini. Not after he told me to go upstairs and put some clothes on.

And he didn’t come the next night either.

Or the one after that.

By the third day of silence, I started wondering if maybe I had pushed him too far. Maybe he wasn’t jealous. Maybe he was disgusted. Or maybe—just maybe—he really meant what he said the other day:

“I don’t think you realize what game you’re in. Or, who you’re playing against.”

And now I was wondering if I’d already lost.

***

The party was packed. Loud music floated out through the open patio doors, the smell of catered food and perfume clinging to every guest like an extra layer of clothing. My mom called it a "housewarming," but it felt more like a show—their way of letting everyone know they’d arrived in the neighborhood, shiny and blended.