3. Zoey
ZOEY
Two hours. Maybe three. That's all the sleep I manage before sunrise spills through my bedroom curtains and drags me back into the waking nightmare of wanting Zachary.
I stare at the ceiling, replaying every second from last night. His presence in my room, the way he caged me against the wall, his thumb circling my nipple through my tank top until I moaned like I'd never heard myself sound before. The promise in his voice when he told me I belonged to him.
My body aches with a need I don't understand.
I tried touching myself around three in the morning, desperate for relief from the constant throbbing between my legs.
But my inexperienced fingers brought nothing except frustration.
I don't know what I'm doing. Don't know how to satisfy this hunger he created.
Morning light reveals the evidence of my restless night—tangled sheets, pillows on the floor, my tank top twisted around my body. I sit up slowly, exhausted and wired simultaneously. Every nerve ending feels exposed.
I should stay away from him. Lock myself in my room until Mom and Raymond return from their weekend trip. Pretend last night never happened.
But even as I think it, I know I won't. Can't.
I want to see him again.
The realization makes shame burn through my chest. He's my stepbrother. Nearly twice my age. Dangerous in ways I'm only beginning to understand. Everything about this is wrong.
Yet I'm already imagining what he looks like this morning. Wondering if he's working, or if he's somewhere in this massive house. If he's thinking about me the way I can't stop thinking about him.
I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping hot water will clear my head. It doesn't. Just makes me remember the heat of his body when I fell into his lap by the pool, the hard length of him pressing against me.
By the time I'm dressed in fresh athletic shorts and a loose t-shirt, I've accepted the truth. I'm going to seek him out. Going to let whatever happens next happen.
The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs. Mom and Raymond won't be back until this evening—a fact that should reassure me but instead sends anticipation coiling through my stomach.
I head to the kitchen, telling myself I'm just getting breakfast. Not looking for Zachary. Definitely not.
His coffee mug sits in the sink, dark liquid still coating the bottom. When I pick it up, the ceramic is barely cool. He was here recently. The knowledge makes my pulse spike.
His cologne lingers in the air—expensive and masculine, the scent that filled my senses when he stood too close last night. My body reacts immediately, nipples hardening beneath my bra, heat pooling low in my belly.
I set the mug down with shaking hands.
A rhythmic sound echoes from deeper in the house. Thud. Pause. Thud. Like weights being set down.
My feet move before my brain catches up. I follow the sound through hallways I barely explored since moving in a month ago. Past Raymond's study, past a formal living room we never use, toward the back of the estate where Zachary's private wing begins.
The sounds grow louder. More distinct. Definitely weights.
I find the source behind a glass door I hadn't noticed before.
A home gym spreads out beyond the glass door—state-of-the-art equipment that probably costs more than my entire college tuition, mirrored walls that reflect every angle, open space that rivals the professional facilities back at school. Everything is sleek, expensive, and meticulously maintained.
And Zachary in the center of it all.
He's shirtless.
I stop breathing.
His body is ridiculous. Muscles carved like sculpture, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, abs that look hard enough to cut glass. Sweat covers every inch of exposed skin, making him gleam under the gym's bright lights.
But it's the tattoos that make me stare. I saw them yesterday, but this is the first time I'm seeing them this close.
Intricate ink covers his left pec, extending down his ribs. More detailed work decorates both arms—patterns I can't make out from here but want to trace with my fingers. The masculine art only emphasizes the raw power of his physique.
He wears only black athletic pants that sit low on his hips, revealing the deep V of muscle that disappears beneath the waistband. His beard is still neatly trimmed, framing that sharp jaw I remember from last night.
College boys suddenly seem like exactly what they are—boys. Soft and unfinished compared to the fully grown man before me.
He lifts weights with controlled precision, biceps bulging with each rep. Every movement displays raw strength held perfectly in check. I'm transfixed by the flex and release of muscle, the way sweat drips down his chest, the focused intensity on his face.
He sets the weights down and catches my eyes in the mirror.
The smirk that crosses his face tells me he knew I was watching the entire time. Performed for me. Made sure I got the full show.
Heat floods my cheeks, but I can't look away.
He turns to face me directly, then beckons with one finger. A clear command. Come here.
I should leave. Should run back to my room and lock the door.
My hand pushes the gym door open. My feet carry me inside.
The smell of him hits immediately—sweat and cologne mixed together, overwhelmingly male. The scent makes my head swim.
He grabs a towel and drags it across his face, down his neck, over his chest. Each movement deliberate and slow. Then he walks toward me with that predatory confidence that makes my stomach flip.
He stops directly in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. His height makes me feel tiny, but not threatened. Protected.
"Morning, little stepsister." His deep voice sends shivers down my spine. The word "stepsister" sounds possessive rather than familial. "Sleep well?"
"I—yes. Fine." The lie comes out breathy and unconvincing.
"Liar." He studies my face, seeing through me instantly. "You look exhausted. Shadows under those pretty blue eyes. Bet you didn't sleep at all after I left your room last night."
My cheeks burn hotter.
"Did you think about what I said?" He steps closer, eliminating the last inch of space between us. "About me being your first everything?"
I manage a slight nod, unable to form words.
"Good girl." The praise makes something clench inside me. "So what brings you to my gym this morning? Just exploring the house?"
"I heard sounds," I stammer. "Didn't realize you had a home gym. It's really nice. You must work out a lot to maintain—" I gesture vaguely at his body, immediately regretting it.
His smirk deepens. "Maintain what? Say it."
"Your physique," I whisper.
"You can look all you want." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The casual touch makes me shiver. "In fact, I want you to look. Want you to know exactly what you're getting."
"Last night was wrong," I try, voice lacking any conviction. "We should forget it happened. Maintain appropriate boundaries. You're my?—"
"Stepbrother," he cuts me off, backing me against the mirrored wall. His hands come up to bracket my head, caging me in. "And you came looking for me this morning despite those protests. Seeking me out. Why?"
Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because I need to see you. Because my body is screaming for something I don't understand.
I don't say any of it. Can't admit the truth out loud.
"Do you want your first kiss?" he asks directly, gray eyes locked on mine. "Here, now, in my gym?"
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "No. We shouldn't. Someone might come home early?—"
"Our parents won't be back until this evening. We both know it." He leans closer, mouth hovering above mine. "Tell me to stop if you mean it. Say no and I'll back off."
The word won't come. I open my mouth, but nothing emerges except shallow breaths.
"That's what I thought." His face descends slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I don't move.
His mouth closes over mine.
Stars explode behind my closed eyelids. His lips are firm and warm, claiming mine with confident pressure. My first kiss. From my stepbrother. The wrongness amplifies every sensation until I'm drowning in it.
I freeze, uncertain what to do with my hands, my mouth, my body. Nothing in my limited experience prepared me for this overwhelming intensity.
His tongue traces my bottom lip, demanding entry. I gasp in surprise—and he takes advantage immediately. His tongue slides into my mouth, claiming me completely.
He controls every aspect of the kiss. Shows me how to open for him, how to respond, how to let his tongue stroke mine until I'm following his lead. Teaching me through action what I've never done before.
This is my first kiss. My very first kiss. Something I'm supposed to treasure, remember forever. And it's being taken by my stepbrother in his home gym. Taken because I sought him out, because I wanted this despite knowing I shouldn't.
Instinct takes over where experience fails. I start kissing him back tentatively, learning his rhythm. My tongue meets his shyly at first, then with growing confidence as pleasure floods through me.
He groans into my mouth—approval and arousal wrapped in that deep sound. The vibration travels through my entire body.
His hand slides into my hair, gripping firmly and angling my head for better access. The kiss becomes consuming. His tongue strokes every part of my mouth, learning me, claiming me, owning me.
I can taste coffee and mint and something uniquely him that makes me want more.
"Mmm—" The whimper escapes before I can stop it.
My body melts against his of its own accord. I feel his hard muscles, his heat, his sweat-slicked skin pressed against me. My hands grip his shoulders desperately, holding on while my legs threaten to give out.