8. Zoey
ZOEY
I stare at the textbook open on my desk, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. Four days since Zachary took me in his car, four days since he taught me how to suck his cock, and I still can't focus on anything but him.
My phone buzzes with a text from Professor Williams asking if everything is alright.
She's noticed my distraction, the way I've been zoning out during lectures.
I type back a quick apology, promising to do better.
She's one of the tougher instructors at Ashford College, but she's always been fair with me.
I'm lucky she's cutting me some slack—I've been an exemplary student until recently.
Until Zachary Steele became my stepbrother and proceeded to claim every part of me.
I close the textbook and lean back in my chair, admitting defeat. There's no point pretending I can study when my mind keeps circling back to him. To the way he touches me, the way he looks at me, the way he makes me feel things I didn't know existed before he walked into my life.
But it's more than that now. More than just the physical intensity between us, more than the forbidden thrill of sleeping with my stepbrother.
I'm in love with him.
The realization hit me two days ago, sudden and terrifying. Not just attracted or infatuated or caught up in the taboo excitement of it all. Genuinely, desperately, completely in love with the man who took my virginity and continues to claim me whenever he wants.
I love him. And I have no idea if he loves me back.
My stomach twists with familiar anxiety. What if I'm just an obsession to him? The virgin stepsister he claimed and possessed, a trophy he won? What if this is just about control and ownership, about marking his territory and keeping what he's taken?
I want to believe it's more. I need to believe he feels something beyond possessive desire. But Zachary doesn't exactly do emotional vulnerability, and I'm terrified to ask.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Brandon, asking about our project deadline. I keep my response brief and professional, maintaining the careful distance I've established with every male in my life since Zachary made his claim clear.
Brandon got the message that day at the library when Zachary showed up and kissed me possessively in front of everyone.
He's been polite but distant ever since, and I can't blame him.
The other guys in the program don't approach me anymore either—word spread fast that I'm taken, off-limits, claimed.
I should resent how Zachary's possessiveness has isolated me. Should push back against the way he monitors my location, questions me constantly about who I'm talking to and where I'm going. By any reasonable standard, his jealousy and control are too much.
But I don't mind. Not really.
His possessiveness is proof he wants me, that I matter to him. And I love him enough to accept the control, even crave it sometimes. The way he gets territorial and jealous makes me feel desired, protected, owned in a way that turns me on despite knowing it probably shouldn't.
I hear the front door open downstairs—Mom and Raymond leaving for their dinner party with business associates. They mentioned earlier they'd be out late, probably past midnight.
Which means the house belongs to me and Zachary for the next several hours.
My pulse quickens at the thought. I change out of my jeans into comfortable shorts and a tank top, trying to settle back into studying. But within minutes I hear him moving around downstairs, and I'm drawn to the sound like a magnet.
I find him in the living room, sprawled on the couch in casual clothes—dark jeans and a black t-shirt that hugs his muscular frame. He looks relaxed, approachable in a way he rarely does when he's in business mode. His eyes find mine immediately when I appear in the doorway.
"Come here," he says, patting the couch beside him.
I cross the room and curl up next to him, tucking my legs beneath me. His arm comes around my shoulders naturally, pulling me against his side. It feels domestic, comfortable—like a real couple instead of the secret affair we actually are.
"How was school?" he asks, his thumb rubbing small circles on my shoulder.
The question surprises me. He usually interrogates me about who I talked to and where I went, but right now he sounds genuinely interested in my day.
"Distracted," I admit. "Professor Williams noticed. She's being nice about it, but I need to focus better."
"What's distracting you?" His tone suggests he already knows the answer.
I roll my eyes. "You know exactly what. Or who."
His lips curve into a satisfied smile. "Tell me about your classes. What are you working on?"
I hesitate, then start explaining my current interior design projects at Ashford. He listens attentively, asking intelligent questions about the program and my assignments. The attention warms me—he's not just monitoring me but genuinely cares about my life, what I'm learning, what matters to me.
"Ashford has one of the best interior design programs on the East Coast," I explain. "It's really competitive to get in. Only accepts like fifteen students per year."
"And you were one of them." Pride colors his voice. "Smart and talented."
Heat rises to my cheeks. "I love it. Creating spaces that feel like home, not just look good in magazines. Making rooms reflect the people who live there."
"What do you want to do after graduation?" he asks.
I pause. We've never talked about the future before—it felt too risky, too much like assuming this thing between us would last. But something about tonight feels different, more open.
"I want to launch my own interior design firm eventually," I admit. "Specialize in luxury residential design. Not work for someone else's vision but create my own."
"That's ambitious." His eyes study my face. "Why residential specifically?"
"Because homes are personal. They're where people really live, where they're most themselves. I want to create spaces that feel like sanctuary, that reflect who someone really is." I'm surprised by how passionate I sound. "It probably sounds impossible?—"
"It doesn't." He cuts me off. "You know what I actually do for work?"
I blink. "Real estate investments?"
"Development," he corrects. "I build luxury residential properties from the ground up. High-end homes, estates, upscale properties. My focus is almost entirely residential."
Understanding dawns slowly. "So you build the houses..."
"And you could design the interiors." His gray eyes lock onto mine. "We could work together after you graduate. You'd build your portfolio on my properties, establish your reputation. Eventually I'd help you launch your own firm, back you financially until you're established."
My heart pounds. "That's over a year away. Why would you want to tie yourself to me that long?"
"Because I'm planning a future that includes you." His hand cups my face. "Professionally and personally. You think I'm not thinking years ahead?"
"I'm still in college," I whisper. "You're an established mogul with an empire. The age gap?—"
"Doesn't matter." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "You're what I want, Zoey. Now and for the future. You're not a virgin anymore—not since I claimed that from you. But young or not, inexperienced or not, you're it for me."
Tears prick my eyes. This is more than possession, more than control. He's talking about years from now, about building something real together.
"I never expected this," I whisper. "Never expected to feel this way about my stepbrother."
"I never expected you either." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Didn't want a stepsister, resented the whole situation. But you became my obsession. Changed everything about what I wanted."
The emotional intimacy shifts into something physical. He pulls me onto his lap, and I straddle him naturally—a position that's become familiar since that first day at the pool. But everything's different now. I know exactly what this position means, what it leads to, and I want it desperately.
We kiss deeply, slowly, passionately. Not the rushed, frantic claiming he usually does but something tender underneath the heat. I can feel everything he's not saying in the way his mouth moves against mine, the way his hands hold me close.
I love him completely in this moment. Love the man behind the dominance, the possessiveness, the control.
He carries me upstairs to his bedroom, my legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck. This bed where he took my virginity has become our space—familiar territory that belongs to both of us now.
He undresses me slowly, deliberately, savoring every reveal. I'm less shy than I used to be after weeks of intimacy between us. I let him look, enjoying the hunger in his eyes as he removes each piece of clothing. I'm beginning to see myself the way he sees me—beautiful, desirable, worth claiming.
I help remove his clothes, more confident now about touching him. My hands run over hard muscle and trace the tattoos on his chest and arms as I reveal his skin. Learning his body the way he's learned mine.
He lays me on his bed gently, then settles between my spread legs. The position is familiar, but tonight feels different—more meaningful, more connected.
He enters me slowly, carefully. There's no pain anymore, just perfect fullness as my body accepts him easily. But the focus has shifted. Instead of hard, possessive claiming, his movements are slow and sensual.
He holds my gaze as he moves inside me, intense gray eyes pinning me in place. I can't look away, drowning in his stare. It's more intimate than any touch—feeling seen and known completely.
"Zach—" The nickname slips out naturally, shortened and personal.
He groans, the sound rough with pleasure. "Say it again."
"Zach—" I breathe his name like a prayer as pleasure builds steadily.