3. Millie
MILLIE
The organic chemistry textbook blurs in front of me. I've read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word.
My phone buzzes on my desk.
I grab it, grateful for the distraction. Unknown number.
This is Maxwell. Come to this address. Now.
A Manhattan location follows—Upper East Side.
My heart slams against my ribs. I stare at the screen, pulse racing. That single word—now—carries so much command, so much expectation that I'll obey without question.
I should delete it. Block the number. Tell him this stops here.
My fingers move on their own, opening a new tab, typing in the address. The building that appears makes my stomach flip. Glass and steel, modern architecture, the kind of place that screams money I can't even conceptualize.
"Hey, you okay?"
Sophie looks up from her laptop, concern on her face. My roommate has known me since freshman year—she can read my moods.
"Yeah, just..." I close my textbook. "My mom needs me to meet her in the city. Family thing."
The lie tastes bitter. Sophie nods, accepting it easily because I never lie to her.
Until now. Until I met my stepbrother.
I change out of my sweatpants into jeans and a simple cream sweater. Nothing special. My reflection shows flushed cheeks, eyes too bright. I look like exactly what I am—a girl about to do something she knows is wrong.
I'm going to my stepbrother's apartment to have sex with him.
The thought makes me dizzy. This is insane. This is so wrong.
So why can't I stop myself?
The Uber drops me in front of the building. It rises above me, all sleek lines and windows that probably cost more than my entire college tuition.
The doorman opens the door before I can reach for it.
"Ms. Carter? Mr. Graves is expecting you. Penthouse level."
Of course Maxwell called ahead. Of course he told them to expect me, confident I'd come like he commanded.
The knowledge should piss me off. Instead, heat pools low in my belly.
The elevator is private, requiring a key card the doorman provides. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls as the numbers climb. Twenty floors. Thirty. Forty.
The elevator opens directly into the penthouse apartment.
Maxwell stands there waiting.
He's wearing only black pajama pants. No shirt. His tattooed arms are on full display, ink covering both from shoulder to wrist in intricate designs I can't focus on. His torso is all muscle—defined abs, broad chest, the perfect V-shape leading down to where his pajama pants sit low on his hips.
My mouth goes completely dry.
"You came." His voice carries satisfaction.
I step out of the elevator before I can change my mind. "Did you doubt I would?"
"No."
The certainty in that single word makes my pulse spike.
I force myself to look past him, to take in the space.
Floor-to-ceiling windows span the entire wall, offering panoramic views of Manhattan lit up against the night sky.
The furniture is clearly designer—clean lines, expensive materials, arranged with precision.
The kitchen gleams with stainless steel appliances.
Artwork hangs on the walls, pieces that look like they belong in museums.
Everything screams money. Not just wealth, but the kind of obscene fortune that exists in a completely different reality from mine.
"This is my primary residence." Maxwell watches my reaction, gray eyes tracking every expression.
I turn back to him. "It's... how much does a place like this cost?"
"I paid thirty-five million for it three years ago. It's probably worth forty-five million now."
He says it like it's nothing. Like dropping tens of millions of dollars on an apartment is equivalent to buying groceries.
I shake my head. "You say that like it doesn't matter."
Maxwell moves closer. "To me, it doesn't. The view is what I bought. The space. The privacy."
He's right in front of me now, crowding my space, his bare chest so close I can feel heat radiating from his skin.
"No neighbors to hear you scream."
The words send a jolt straight through me. I lift my chin, trying to maintain some dignity. "Presumptuous. Maybe I came here to talk."
His lips curve. "Did you?"
I can't hold his gaze. "I... I should have said no. This is insane."
"You keep saying that." He takes another step. "Yet you showed up."
"We're stepsiblings. Our parents are married. This is?—"
"Taboo? Forbidden? Wrong?" He's backing me toward those massive windows. "Yes. And you're still here."
My back hits the glass. Cold seeps through my sweater. Maxwell cages me in, hands braced on either side of my head.
"Tell me to stop." His face is inches from mine. "Tell me you don't want this."
"I can't."
"Can't tell me to stop, or can't stop wanting this?"
"Both," I whisper.
His gray eyes darken to storm clouds. "Good."
His mouth crashes onto mine. The kiss is consuming, dominant, possessive—everything about Maxwell concentrated into this single point of contact. I kiss back desperately, hands sliding up his bare chest. His muscles flex under my palms, skin burning hot.
The tattoos are vivid this close. I want to trace every line, understand every design, but his hands grip my hips and lift.
I wrap my legs around his waist automatically.
He carries me away from the windows, down a hallway. I barely register the enormous bedroom—my focus narrows to Maxwell's mouth, his hands, the hard length of his cock pressing against me through his pajama pants.
The bed is huge. He lays me on it, follows me down. His weight over me is overwhelming in the best way—solid muscle, absolute control, presence that dominates every sense.
"I've thought about this constantly," he growls against my mouth, his words vibrating through me.
"Every fucking day since you walked into my house.
About having you in my bed, watching you fall apart underneath me.
About making you come over and over until you can't remember any name but mine, until the only word you know is my name on your lips. "
"Maxwell—" His name comes out broken, needy, desperate.
He pulls back slightly, gray eyes boring into mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "I think I told you to call me Max."
My mind blanks for a second. Heat floods my cheeks even as arousal pulses between my thighs. "I can't—that feels too?—"
"Too what?" His thumb traces my bottom lip, the gesture possessive and deliberate.
"Too familiar," I whisper.
His mouth curves into something dark and pleased. "We're about to get a lot more familiar than that, Millie. Say it."
I should refuse. Should maintain that distance, that barrier. But the command in his voice, the promise in his eyes, the hard evidence of his desire pressed against me—it all combines to shatter my resistance.
"Max," I breathe.
The sound of his name—the shortened version, intimate and personal—seems to flip a switch inside him. His pupils dilate until only a ring of gray remains. "Fuck, that sounds good coming from your mouth."
He sits back abruptly, kneeling between my spread thighs. His hands grab the hem of my sweater with clear intent. "Off. Now."
I lift my arms without thinking, without hesitation. He pulls the sweater over my head in one smooth motion, tosses it aside without even glancing where it lands. His focus is entirely on me, sprawled beneath him on his massive bed.
His eyes rake over me, taking in every detail.
"These innocent bras you wear drive me insane." His voice is rough. He reaches behind me, unhooks it with practiced ease.
My breasts spill free. Nipples harden in the cool air.
"So perfect," he murmurs.
His large hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples. The touch sends sparks through my nervous system. He lowers his head, mouth closing over one nipple.
"Ahh—" The sound tears from my throat as he sucks, licks, teeth grazing sensitive flesh.
He lavishes attention on one breast, then the other. Gentle touches alternate with rough ones—I can't predict what comes next, can't prepare. His teeth close harder on my nipple and sharp pleasure makes me cry out.
"Oh—oh god—" I arch into him, fingers threading through his black hair.
He creates suction, pulling hard, and the sensation shoots straight to my pussy. I'm so wet already, throbbing with need.
"Your tits are fucking perfect." He moves to the other breast, hand replacing his mouth on the first. "I could spend hours just playing with them."
He pinches and rolls one nipple while sucking the other. I writhe beneath him, desperate for more friction, more contact, more of everything.
"Max—please?—"
He releases my nipple with a wet sound. "Please what, stepsister? Tell me what you need."
The word makes me flush. I can't say it explicitly, can't voice what my body is screaming for.
His hand slides down my stomach to the button of my jeans. "Need me to touch your pussy?"
I nod frantically.
He strips my jeans off, then hooks his fingers in my simple cotton panties and drags them down my legs. I'm completely naked beneath him while he's still wearing those pajama pants.
Maxwell spreads my thighs wide, settles between them.
I tense. I know what he's about to do. The library was rushed, interrupted. This time there's no chance of discovery. No reason for him to stop.
"Have you ever had someone's mouth on your pussy?" He asks even though he clearly knows the answer.
I shake my head, embarrassed. "No. You're my first... everything."
His eyes flash with possessive satisfaction. "Good. I'm going to make you come with my mouth, Millie. I'm going to eat this sweet pussy until you're screaming."
Before I can respond, his mouth is on me.
"Oh—oh fuck?—!"
The sensation overwhelms everything. Wet heat, his tongue sliding through my pussy lips, exploring every fold. Maxwell groans against me, the vibration adding another layer of pleasure.
"You taste incredible."
His tongue finds my clit, circles it slowly. Testing. Learning what makes me react.
"Ahh—ahh—" My hips lift toward his mouth, seeking more pressure.