Chapter one
God, it’s been four weeks. Four f*****g weeks since I started at Apex Tech, and I’m losing it. Completely losing my mind over him.
Marcus. My stepbrother. The same Marcus I used to spy on when I was sixteen, peeking through that cracked basement door, watching him f**k some girl on the old couch, his hips snapping, abs flexing, that thick c**k disappearing inside her over and over while I stood there frozen, hand already between my legs before I even realized. I came so hard that night I almost fell down the stairs. And I’ve been chasing that image ever since. Every time I touched myself for years, it was him. Always him.
I thought seeing him again in a suit, behind a desk, calling the shots would kill the fantasy. Make it awkward. Safe. It didn’t. It made everything sharper. Hotter. Wronger.
First week I could fake it. Nod in hallways. Mumble “morning” in meetings. Keep my eyes down because every time they met his, my panties got wet. Instant. Like my body remembered before my brain did.
Week two? That’s when the words started twisting. He’d say something normal...“You’re handling the pressure well”...and I’d look up at him with these heavy, starving eyes. He’d freeze. Clear his throat. Look away. Mutter “Back to work” and disappear. I’d go home, lock my door, shove two fingers inside myself and whisper his name until I came shaking, tears in my eyes because it still wasn’t enough. Never enough.
Then week three. The supply closet. I was on my toes reaching for a binder, skirt riding up my thighs, blouse pulling tight over my t**s. He walked in. “Need help?”
I didn’t even answer. He just… stepped up behind me. Chest to my back. Reached over. His c**k already hard, pressed right into the cleft of my ass through his pants. Thick. Obvious. I gasped. Arched back without thinking. He groaned low, guttural like I’d punched the air out of him.
We both pretended.
He grabbed the binder. Handed it over. Eyes anywhere but mine. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, fingers shaking.
He left. Fast.
I went home and f****d myself senseless. Three fingers. Thumb grinding my c**t. Imagining him shoving me face-first against those shelves, yanking my skirt up, slamming into me so hard the whole closet rattled. I came crying his name. Came again right after. Still wasn’t enough.
And now. Week four. Today.
I walked into his office at 8:02 with his coffee, thighs already slick. Wore the black lace again, the set that makes me feel filthy. Because lately every day feels filthy.
He looked up.
His eyes dragged over me. Slow. From the undone top button of my blouse, down my hips, to where my skirt hugged my ass. When he met my gaze again his pupils were blown. Dark. Starving.
“Morning,” he said. Voice rough. Low.
“Morning.” I bent to set the coffee down, let the blouse gape just a little. Watched his jaw clench.
We worked mostly quiet for an hour. But the air was choking. Every time I leaned over to show him the screen my breast brushed his arm. Every time he reached for something his fingers grazed mine. I felt his stare like fingers, hot on my throat, on my n*****s poking through the thin fabric, on the way my skirt clung when I stood up.
By ten I was drenched. Panties stuck to me. c**t throbbing so bad every shift in the chair made me bite my lip. I crossed my legs. He noticed.
“You’re fidgeting,” he said. Quiet. Didn’t look up.
I met his eyes shameless. “It’s… warm in here.”
His gaze flicked to my lap. Back up. “Is it?”
I swear the room went up ten degrees.
Later he stood to stretch. Shirt pulled tight. I stared... at the cut of his abs, remembering how they looked flexing that night in the basement. My p***y clenched so hard I almost moaned.
He caught me. “Something on your mind, Elena?”
I swallowed. “Just… the deck.”
His mouth twitched. “Liar.”
God... that word. Soft. Intimate. It hit me between the legs.
He walked to the shelf behind his desk. Reached up. Shirt rode up, strip of skin. I stared. Mouth dry.
He turned. Caught me staring again.
“Need something from up there?” Voice gravel.
I stood before my brain caught up. “Yeah. Investor notes.”
He stepped aside. I went on tiptoe, skirt sliding high. He moved in behind me. Close. Heat rolling off him. Then, his c**k. Hard. Pressed deliberately against my ass. Not an accident.
I gasped. Pushed back.
He groaned. Hands slammed to the shelf on either side of my head, caging me.
We froze.
His breath burned my neck. “We can’t keep doing this.”
I turned my face. Lips so close to his. “Then stop looking at me like you want to bend me over your desk and f**k me.”
His hips rocked once slow, grinding. I whimpered, couldn’t help it.
Then he jerked back. Grabbed the folder. Shoved it at me, no fingers touching.
“Here.”
Our eyes locked. Mine begging. His stormy.
He cleared his throat. “Back to work.”
I sat down, thighs shaking. p***y dripping down my legs. Had to sit so careful not to moan at the pressure on my c**t.
The morning dragged. Every sentence loaded.
“You’ve been putting in long hours,” he said once.
I looked at him heavy-lidded. “I like working late… with you.”
He swallowed. “Careful.”
By lunch I was wrecked. Wetness soaked through everything, probably staining my skirt. I mumbled excuse, ran to the bathroom. Locked the stall. Pressed my palm hard against my c**t through the fabric. Came in seconds, biting my hand bloody to stay quiet. His name on my tongue like a prayer.
Back at the desk he was waiting.
“Everything okay?”
I met his eyes, raw. Needy. No shame left.
“Just needed a minute.”
His gaze darkened. “Take all the time you need.”
But the way he looked at me said run out of time. Soon.
One more hour.
One more hour of this torture before something breaks.
I can feel it coming.
I want it to break.
God… I want him to break me.
