Possessive Stepbrother's Cherry Obsession (Stepbrother's Forbidden Fantasies #25)

1. Zoey

ZOEY

I stretch out on the lounge chair, tilting my face toward the afternoon sun. The heat sinks into my skin, almost too much, but I don't move. It feels good to have this place to myself for once.

One month ago, Mom married Raymond Steele in a whirlwind ceremony that still doesn't feel real.

One month, and suddenly I'm living in this massive estate with marble floors and infinity pools, sharing space with people I barely know.

Raymond seems nice enough—quiet, always working—but the whole situation is still strange.

New house. New stepfather. New last name on the lease.

At least I have the weekend alone. They left this morning for some business trip, won't be back until Monday. The first time I've had this place completely to myself, and I'm taking full advantage.

I glance down at my white bikini, simple and modest compared to the luxury surrounding me.

The pool stretches out before me, water so clear I can see every tile on the bottom.

I've been here for an hour, maybe longer, letting the sun bake away the stress of finals week.

Ashford College of Design doesn't mess around—the interior design program is brutal, every assignment demanding perfection.

I haven't had time to breathe in months.

I grab the sunscreen and squeeze more onto my palm, rubbing it across my shoulders and down my arms. My skin is pale despite the summer heat.

I've spent too much time hunched over drafting tables and fabric samples.

At 5'5" and slim, I've never thought much about my body.

It's just there, functional. Modest curves, nothing special.

I pull my brunette hair tighter in its messy bun and settle back against the chair.

Twenty years old and I've never even been on a real date.

Never had time. Between classes and projects and trying to keep my scholarship, relationships felt like a luxury I couldn't afford.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm missing out on the typical college experience—parties, hookups, all of that.

But then another deadline hits and I forget about it entirely.

A car engine cuts through the quiet.

I sit up fast, heart jumping. No one should be home. The sound grows louder, tires on gravel, then the slam of a car door. Footsteps.

Someone's here.

I scramble for my towel, suddenly aware of how exposed I am in this tiny bikini. The footsteps grow closer, coming from inside the house, heading toward the pool deck.

Then I see him.

A man steps through the French doors, tall and imposing in expensive business attire.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms marked with dark tattoos.

Black hair, perfectly styled. Even from this distance, I catch the sharp angles of his face—strong jaw, straight nose, the shadow of a neatly trimmed beard.

He has to be my stepbrother. Zachary. The one who wasn't at the wedding.

He stops at the edge of the pool deck, and his eyes lock onto me.

I forget how to breathe.

He's huge. Six-five at least, broad shoulders that strain against his shirt, narrow waist, the kind of build that comes from discipline and money.

His presence fills the space, makes the massive pool area feel small.

But it's his face that pins me in place.

Sharp cheekbones, gray eyes that scan me slowly, methodically, taking in every inch of exposed skin.

He looks older. Not just a few years—this isn't some college guy. Late thirties, maybe. Mature in a way that makes my stomach flip. He radiates authority, control, like he's used to people obeying him without question.

Heat floods through me, and it has nothing to do with the sun.

I shouldn't be noticing any of this. He's my stepbrother. I should be thinking about how awkward this introduction is, not about the way his shirt stretches across his chest or how his tattoos disappear beneath the fabric. Not about the line of his jaw or the intensity in his eyes.

But my body doesn't care about logic. My pulse races. My skin prickles with awareness. A nervous flutter starts low in my stomach and spreads outward.

"Zachary." His voice is deep, controlled, each word deliberate. He doesn't move closer, just watches me with those gray eyes. "I live here."

The words carry weight, claiming territory, establishing dominance. This is his space. I'm the intruder.

"Zoey." My voice comes out higher than I want. "I—sorry, I didn't know anyone was coming back early."

He doesn't respond, just continues that slow, assessing scan. His gaze lingers on the curve of my waist, the exposed skin of my thighs. Not leering, exactly, but thorough. Like he's cataloging every detail.

I suddenly feel like I'm wearing nothing at all.

I stand up quickly, needing to do something, needing to act normal. "I should probably?—"

The world tilts.

One second I'm upright, the next the ground rushes toward me. Too much sun. Too much heat. My vision swims, dark spots blooming at the edges.

I reach out blindly for support.

Strong hands catch me before I hit the ground.

He moves faster than I thought possible, crossing the space between us in a heartbeat. His arms wrap around my waist, steadying me, but the momentum carries me forward. My knees buckle. I fall into him, and then?—

Then I'm straddling his lap.

He's sitting back on the lounge chair, and I'm pressed completely against him, my thighs spread wide over his hips.

My wet bikini provides almost no barrier between us.

I feel everything—the hard planes of his chest beneath my palms, the heat of his skin through his shirt, the solid muscle of his thighs beneath mine.

And something else. Something hard pressing directly against my core.

My eyes go wide.

He's aroused. I can feel him through the thin fabric, thick and insistent, right where I'm most sensitive.

"Oh—" The gasp tears out of me before I can stop it.

Heat floods between my legs, sudden and overwhelming. My body reacts on instinct, some primal response I don't understand. Wetness slicks my inner thighs, and it's not from the pool. My hips roll forward without permission, grinding against him, seeking friction I've never needed before.

The sensation shoots through me like electricity. I've never felt anything like this—this ache, this need, this desperate pull toward something unknown.

I'm trembling violently, hands pressed flat against his chest. I can feel his heart beating beneath my palms, steady and strong, while mine races out of control.

His hands suddenly clamp down on my hips.

Fingers dig into my skin, hard enough to hurt, stopping my movement entirely. The pressure is bruising, possessive, claiming. He holds me completely still, and I can't move even though every nerve in my body screams for more of that friction.

"Don't." The word comes out rough, darker than before. Not a request. A command.

I look up at him, and his expression has changed. His jaw is clenched tight, muscles jumping beneath his beard. His gray eyes have darkened to slate, pupils blown wide. Something predatory lurks in his gaze, something that makes my pulse spike with fear and something else I can't name.

His breathing has changed too. Heavier. Rougher. His chest rises and falls beneath my hands.

"Has anyone ever touched you?" His voice drops even lower, dangerous and demanding. "Answer me."

The question is invasive. Wrong. But I can't think straight with his hands on my hips and his hardness pressing against me and these sensations flooding through my body.

How did he know?

The thought cuts through the haze. Was I that obvious?

Was I so awkward in his lap, so clumsy in my movements, that he figured it out?

Did my inexperience show that clearly—in the way I froze when he touched me, in how I didn't know what to do with my hands, in the desperate, graceless way I tried to find friction?

Heat floods my face. Mortification wars with the ache still pulsing between my thighs.

"No." The word tumbles out. "No one—I haven't?—"

I'm panicking now, words spilling without thought.

"No one's ever seen me like this. No one's touched me. Ever."

The truth hangs between us, raw and exposing.

I watch something shift in his expression.

His eyes go darker. His grip on my hips tightens even more, fingers pressing into flesh that will definitely bruise. Every muscle in his body goes taut beneath me, coiled and dangerous. The air between us grows heavier, charged with something I don't understand but can feel pressing down on me.

The way he's looking at me now—it's different from before. Possessive. Hungry. Like I've just confirmed something he needed to know.

My rational mind finally catches up.

"You're my stepbrother." The words come out in a stutter. "This is—we shouldn't?—"

I try to scramble off his lap, but my limbs don't cooperate. I'm still trembling, still hyperaware of every point of contact between us.

He doesn't move immediately. For one long, charged moment, he holds me there, eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Then, slowly, deliberately, he releases my hips.

He stands, bringing me up with him, his hands steadying me when my legs threaten to give out. I sway, and he catches my elbow.

Then his coat appears—expensive, dark, smelling of cologne and something uniquely masculine. He wraps it around my shoulders, the fabric swallowing my small frame entirely. The scent surrounds me, overwhelming my senses.

"Go inside." Not a suggestion. An order, delivered in that same commanding tone.

I obey without thinking.

My legs carry me toward the house, unsteady and weak. I clutch his coat around me like armor, drowning in fabric and his scent. I feel his eyes on me the entire walk, burning into my back.

I don't dare look back.

Entering my bedroom, I lock my door and lean against it, heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

What the hell just happened?

His coat is still wrapped around me, heavy and warm, saturated with his scent. Cologne and something else, something masculine and distinctly him. I can't stop breathing it in.

My body is still trembling, still flooded with sensations I don't know how to process. That heat between my legs hasn't faded. If anything, it's worse now, an ache I've never experienced before.

I press my fingers to my hips where his hands gripped me. The skin is tender, already starting to bruise. Five distinct pressure points on each side.

The thought makes me shiver.

I've never felt anything like what just happened.

Never even came close. At twenty years old, I've never been kissed.

Never had a boyfriend. Never even been on a real date.

Ashford College of Design demanded everything—every hour, every ounce of focus.

The interior design program is competitive enough to crush you if you're not careful.

I never made time for relationships or anything physical.

I thought I wasn't missing anything.

I was wrong.

That heat, that need—it consumes everything else. My body knew exactly what it wanted even though my mind had no frame of reference. I ground against him like I knew what I was doing, seeking friction I'd never needed before.

And he felt it. Felt me. His arousal pressing against my core, thick and hard through thin fabric.

My stepbrother.

The wrongness of it makes my stomach twist. Mom married Raymond one month ago. One month, and suddenly Zachary is family. Off-limits. Taboo.

But knowing that doesn't change how my body responded. Doesn't change the way my pulse races just thinking about those gray eyes darkening as I confessed my inexperience.

I touch my hips again, tracing the tender spots. He held me hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to mark me.

Something about that thought makes the ache between my legs pulse stronger.

I don't understand any of this. Don't understand why my first real attraction has to be him. Don't understand why the taboo makes it more intense instead of killing it entirely.

He's so much older. Has to be late thirties at least, nearly twice my age. Mature and confident in ways college boys aren't. He commands spaces, expects obedience, radiates the kind of authority that comes from power and money.

I should be intimidated. Should want to stay far away from him.

But I can't stop replaying the moment. His hands on my hips. His hardness against my core. The way his expression changed when I admitted no one had ever touched me. That dark, possessive look in his eyes.

He's dangerous. Not physically—I don't think he'd hurt me. But emotionally, mentally. He could destroy whatever equilibrium I've built. I should avoid him completely, stay locked in my room, pretend today never happened.

Even as I think it, I know I won't be able to.

I replay the feel of him beneath me, over and over. The hard planes of his chest. The thickness pressing against me. His voice dropping to that commanding growl. His fingers digging into my flesh.

My body aches in ways I don't have words for.

I'm terrified of seeing him again.

But I also desperately want to.

The reality crashes down on me. He's my stepbrother on paper as of one month ago. We live under the same roof. Share the same house. I'll see him at family dinners, in the hallways, by the pool. Our parents just married—we're bound together whether I want it or not.

I can't avoid him even if I tried.

I pull his coat tighter around me, breathing in his scent. My body remembers every second of contact. My hips remember the bruising grip of his fingers.

Something irrevocable happened today. I was changed by those few minutes in his lap. My body now knows what attraction feels like—what need feels like.

And it happened with the one person it absolutely shouldn't have.

My stepbrother, Zachary.

I climb into bed still wearing his coat, drowning in fabric and scent. My eyes close, but sleep doesn't come easily. When it finally does, I dream of gray eyes and bruising grips and the weight of his hands claiming my hips.