7. Millie
MILLIE
I wake to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manhattan skyline stretching endlessly before me. For a moment, I'm disoriented—this isn't my dorm room. The sheets are too expensive, the mattress too perfect, the view too spectacular.
Then memory floods back. Maxwell's penthouse. His bed. I've been here more nights than not over the past two weeks.
The space beside me is empty, but I hear sounds from the kitchen. I sit up, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. My clothes from yesterday are scattered across the floor—evidence of how quickly Maxwell stripped me when we got here last night.
I grab one of his shirts from a nearby chair, slip it on. The Italian cotton is soft against my skin, expensive in a way my own clothes never were. Even now, wearing his things feels intimate. Possessive.
I pad out to the main living area. Maxwell stands in the kitchen wearing only pajama pants, his tattooed arms moving as he makes coffee. The sight of him—sculpted torso, complete domestic comfort—makes my heart skip.
"Good morning, stepsister." He looks up, smiles. "Coffee?"
"Please."
He pours a cup, hands it to me. I've learned he only keeps the best—this is probably fifty-dollar-per-pound beans. The taste proves me right, rich and perfect.
I sit at the kitchen island, wrap both hands around the mug. Through the windows, the city sprawls below us. I should be in my dorm room right now, getting ready for classes. Instead, I'm here. Again.
"I have something to tell you." Maxwell leans against the counter, watches me over his own coffee cup. "Don't be angry."
My stomach drops. "What did you do?"
"I had your belongings moved from your dorm to the guest suite here. You're officially living with me now."
I set down my coffee cup carefully, afraid I'll drop it. "You did what?"
"You're here every night anyway. It made sense to consolidate."
"You moved my stuff without asking me?"
"If I'd asked, you would have said no. This way, it's done."
His casual arrogance about making decisions for my life ignites something hot and furious in my chest. I stand, chair scraping against the marble floor.
"You can't just decide I'm moving in with you."
Maxwell remains infuriatingly calm. "I didn't decide. I observed a pattern and acted on it. You haven't slept in your dorm in ten days."
"That's not the point. You should have asked. You should have discussed it with me."
"Would you have agreed?"
"That's not—maybe—I don't know!"
"Exactly." He sets his cup down. "You would have overthought it, worried about what it means, argued about propriety. This way, it's simple."
"This way, you made a unilateral decision about my life."
"About our life." He approaches me, each step deliberate. "You're mine, Millie. It makes sense for you to live with me."
"We're stepsiblings?—"
"A technicality. Our parents got married two months ago. That doesn't make us actual family."
He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You know what we are. Stop hiding behind labels."
I take a breath, trying to calm the anger threatening to boil over. "Okay. Fine. We can discuss the living situation. But you should have told me first."
"There's more."
My eyes widen. "More?"
Maxwell picks up a small box from the counter, hands it to me. Inside sits a sleek black credit card with my name embossed on it in silver letters.
"What is this?"
"Your credit card. Unlimited spending limit, linked to my primary accounts."
"I don't want your credit card."
"You'll need it. For expenses, shopping, whatever you want."
"I have my own bank account?—"
"With what, a thousand dollars in it? Two thousand? That's not enough."
"It's enough for me. I'm a college student. I don't need unlimited spending."
"You're my stepsister. You're living with me. You represent me now. You need appropriate resources."
Before I can argue, he continues. "I've also paid your remaining tuition in full. All four semesters until you graduate."
The anger reignites, hotter than before. "You what?"
"Your tuition. It's handled. You don't need to worry about student loans anymore."
"We already discussed the loans—you paid those without asking. Now tuition too?"
"Education is important. I want you focused on your studies, not stressed about financing them."
"That's not your decision to make!"
Maxwell's voice hardens, loses its casual warmth. "I disagree. Everything about you is my concern now."
"You're trying to control me. Control every aspect of my life."
"I'm taking care of you. There's a difference."
"No, there isn't. You're making me dependent on you. Financially dependent."
"And?" He tilts his head, studies me with those intense gray eyes. "Is that a problem?"
His blunt admission stuns me into silence.
"You want me dependent on you," I finally manage.
"Yes. I want you tied to me in every way possible. Financially, physically, emotionally."
"That's... that's control. That's ownership."
Maxwell steps closer, crowds me against the island. "I've never hidden what I want, Millie. I want you to be mine completely. That includes depending on me."
"What if I don't want that? What if I want independence?"
"You have independence. You're free to leave anytime." His hand comes up, traces my jaw. "But why would you? I give you everything you need."
"Things. You give me things. Money."
"I give you security. Stability. A life without financial stress. Most people would kill for that."
"I'm not most people. I don't want to be bought."
Maxwell's eyes flash, something dangerous flickering in their depths. "You're not bought. You're claimed. There's a difference."
The tension between us crackles—anger and arousal mixing dangerously. I should push him away. Should maintain my argument. Instead, my breath comes faster, pulse racing.
"You want independence? Fine. Walk away. Leave right now."
I don't move.
"That's what I thought." His voice drops lower, rougher. "You don't want to leave. You want to argue about it to feel like you're maintaining autonomy, but the truth is you like what I provide."
"You're arrogant?—"
"I'm honest. You like the luxury. The sex. The way I take care of you."
"I like you. Not your money."
"They're inseparable. I am who I am because of what I've built. My wealth is part of me."
He crowds me further against the island, his body heat overwhelming. "And you're mine. Admit it."
I lift my chin defiantly. "I'm not your possession."
Maxwell's lips curve into something between a smile and a threat. "Aren't you?"
He grabs the hem of the shirt I'm wearing—his shirt—and yanks it over my head in one swift motion. I'm naked underneath, and the air conditioning raises goosebumps on my skin.
His hands grip my waist, lift me effortlessly onto the kitchen island. The marble is cold against my bare ass, making me gasp.
"Spread your legs," he commands.
I hesitate, still angry, still aroused. The combination is intoxicating.
Maxwell's hand slides up my inner thigh, fingers trailing heat. "Spread. Your. Legs."
I comply, parting my thighs. His fingers slide through my pussy lips—I'm already wet despite my anger. Or maybe because of it.
"Your body knows who it belongs to," he murmurs, pushing two fingers inside me.
"Ahh—" The penetration is sudden, stretching me.
Maxwell pumps his fingers roughly, no gentleness in the motion. "You can argue all you want, but your pussy knows the truth. You're mine."
"Fuck you—" I gasp, but my hips rock forward to meet his thrusting fingers.
He adds a third finger. The stretch is intense, almost too much.
"Oh god—" I moan, gripping the edge of the counter for support.
I hate that he's right. I hate that even when I'm angry, I want him. Need him.
Maxwell's thumb finds my clit, circles it with deliberate pressure. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"No—" The word comes out strangled as pleasure builds.
He withdraws his fingers abruptly. I whimper at the loss, body protesting.
Maxwell pushes his pajama pants down, frees his cock. It's hard, thick, demanding. He grips my hips, pulls me to the very edge of the counter.
"Last chance," he warns. "Say it, or I stop."
My pride wars with my need. The need wins.
"I'm... I'm yours."
Maxwell slams his cock inside me in one brutal thrust.
"Fuck—!" I scream, the penetration overwhelming. No preparation, no gentleness.
He doesn't give me time to adjust, sets a punishing pace immediately. The sounds are obscene—wet slapping of skin against skin, the counter creaking under the force, our combined moans echoing in the huge space.
"This is what you need," Maxwell growls, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. "Not gentle. Not asking permission. You need me to claim you."
"Yes—yes—Maxwell—" Each thrust drives my hips back against the counter, the marble cold against my skin even as heat builds inside me.
His hands grip my thighs, spread them wider. The angle lets him go deeper—his cock hits my cervix with each thrust, pleasure-pain that makes me cry out.
"Oh god—too deep?—"
"Not too deep. Perfect. Your pussy was made to take my cock."
His crude words push me closer to the edge. Everything is sensation—the stretch of him inside me, the cold marble beneath me, his fingers bruising my thighs.
"Touch yourself," he commands. "Rub your clit while I fuck you on my kitchen counter."
My hand slides between our bodies, finds my swollen clit. The added stimulation makes me cry out.
"Oh—oh fuck?—"
Maxwell's thrusts become harder, faster. "Come for me. Show me this pussy knows who owns it."
The orgasm builds impossibly fast, tension coiling tight in my core.
"Maxwell—I'm—I'm coming—!" I scream as it crashes over me.
My pussy clamps down on his cock, spasming rhythmically. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure radiating through my entire body.
"Fuck—yes—milk my cock—" Maxwell groans, his rhythm faltering.
He thrusts twice more, then stills—I feel him emptying himself deep inside me.
"Ahh—take it—take all of it?—"