Claim Me, Alpha StepBrothers

My Stepbrother Is The Problem

So that’s how my mom found out I was moaning my stepbrother’s name.

Did she give me a lecture? Hell yeah she did. Sat on the edge of my bed at two in the morning of her own wedding night in her cream silk and then very calmly informed me it should never happen again.

~The Next Morning~

“Okay.” Out loud. To the ceiling. We are talking out loud now, we have committed to the bit. “Okay. Olive. We are acting like it. We are getting up. We are going downstairs. We are drinking coffee like a normal girl on a normal Sunday and we are not, under any circumstances, looking at either of them in the eye.”

That is the plan.

It is a bad plan. It is, factually, the worst plan I have ever made. But it is a plan and I am committed.

I sit down at the little desk by the window because if I go downstairs without a plan I am going to die. I pull a sheet of paper from the drawer. I uncap a pen.

NEW PLAN.

I get exactly two lines in. Step one: act normal. Step two: do not look at Crew Hayes in the.

The pen runs out of ink.

Are you kidding me. Are you kidding me. Of course this is happening. Of course the universe waits until step two of my whole entire life to test me with a Bic. I shake the pen. I scribble. I shake it again. Dead. Magnificent.

Fine.

There is a stationery cabinet down the hall. I saw it yesterday. It has, like, forty pens in it. I will borrow one. It is fine. People borrow pens. This is a normal activity that normal people do in normal houses.

I fold the NEW PLAN into thirds. I tuck it into the front pocket of the butter-yellow sundress. I take a breath.

I open the door.

I take three steps.

I bump straight into a chest.

“Oof. Sorry, I..”

“Mm.”

Oh no.

Oh no oh no oh no oh no.

I do not even have to look up. I know the chest. I know the soap. I know the small swooping feeling that just happened in my stomach the way you know the route home from school in the dark, and I look up anyway because I am a masochist apparently, and there he is. Crew Hayes.

Standing in the middle of my hallway in joggers and a clean white t-shirt and bare feet, six-foot-three of what now, one big stupid hand braced on the wall above my head, the other one holding two mugs.

Two mugs.

Two coffee mugs.

The traitor brought coffee.

“Going somewhere, kitten?”

“Crew.”

“Olive.” His voice drops, all lazy and warm, like he’s tasting my name. “You look cute when you’re plotting.”

“I am not…” I start, but he’s already leaning in, one arm braced on the wall above my head, caging me without even touching. The hallway shrinks. My sundress suddenly feels too short, too butter-yellow, too noticeable. “Move.”

“Mm. No.” He tilts his head, eyes dragging slow down my body and back up, not even pretending to be subtle. “Nice dress, by the way. Makes you look like a little ray of sunshine I want to ruin.”

My stomach flips so hard I almost drop the nothing I’m holding. Heat floods my face. “Crew Hayes, I swear to God..”

“Swear what, kitten?” He steps closer, close enough that I catch the clean soap smell and the faint trace of his cologne that always messes with my brain. “You gonna moan my name again? Louder this time so the whole house hears?”

I choke on air. “That was..I was sleeping!”

“Mhm. And dreaming about me.” His smirk deepens, eyes glittering. “Tell me, sweetheart, in this dream… was I being nice? Or was I pinning you down and f**k you”

“I am literally trying to get a pen,” I hiss, ducking under his arm. Or trying to. He shifts, blocking me again, effortless, like this is his favorite Sunday activity.

“A pen.” He chuckles low, the sound rolling through me. “At nine-eighteen on a Sunday morning. In that dress. With a folded-up secret in your pocket.” His free hand reaches out, one finger hooking lightly on the edge of my pocket where the NEW PLAN is peeking out like a traitor. He doesn’t pull it—just tugs the fabric a tiny bit, enough to make my breath hitch. “What’s this, Olive? Your evil master plan to avoid me? Spoiler: it’s not working.”

“It’s a grocery list,” I lie, swatting his hand away. My fingers brush his and electricity zaps straight down my spine. “I’m rebranding my groceries. Melons. Very important melon agenda.”

He laughs outright, soft and warm and unfairly sexy, head tipping back just enough for me to see the line of his throat. “Melons. Sure. And the top of this very serious produce list says… NEW PLAN?” He leans in closer, breath brushing my ear. “You’re adorable when you’re terrible at lying, kitten. Makes me want to keep you flustered all day.”

I shove past him—or try. The hallway has apparently decided to cosplay as a clown car. I step left, he mirrors. Right, same. On the third attempt I actually duck under his arm like some ridiculous limbo contestant at a quinceañera, coffee sloshing dangerously in the mug he made me because apparently he’s trying to kill me with kindness and filth at the same time.

He lets me pass this time, but not before his hand grazes the small of my back, light and possessive, sending sparks everywhere. “By the way,” he calls after me, voice low enough to feel dirty, “that new plan? f*****g adorable. Almost as adorable as the way your ass looks in that sundress when you’re running away from me.”

I spin around before my brain can catch up, sundress flaring around my thighs

“Stop looking at my ass!” I hiss, marching back toward him even though every sane cell in my body is screaming run, Olive, run. “Is your girlfriend not around or something? Go ogle her instead of— of harassing me with your eyes!”

Crew doesn’t move. He’s still leaning against the wall like a smug Greek statue, one eyebrow raised, that smirk deepening into something darker, hungrier. The joggers are doing illegal things to his hips. The t-shirt is clinging in all the wrong (right) places. He takes a slow sip of his own coffee, eyes never leaving mine.

“Vanessa is gone,” he says simply, voice dropping into that rough register that makes my knees want to give out. “And I actually don’t care.”

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “You— what?”

“I don’t care, kitten,” he repeats, softer now, but filthy. “She’s not here. And even if she was… I love your ass.” His gaze drags down deliberately, slow and shameless, lingering on the hem of my butter-yellow sundress. “Love how it moves in that little thing. Love how it fits in my hands. Love thinking about bending you over and— ”

“Crew!” I squeak, cutting him off before he can finish whatever depraved sentence was about to come out of his mouth. My thighs clench together on their own. The folded NEW PLAN in my pocket feels like it’s burning a hole through the fabric. I am going to combust. Right here. In the hallway.

He chuckles, low and warm, stepping even closer so I have to tilt my head way back to glare at him.

“What? Too honest? You asked, sweetheart. I’m just telling the truth. That ass has been driving me crazy since the day you moved in. And after last night?”.

“Hearing you whimper my name in your sleep? f**k, Olive. I’m not pretending anymore.”

I should run. I should grab that stupid pen and lock myself in my room and rewrite the NEW PLAN until it says do not let Crew Hayes ruin you in the hallway.

Instead, I tilt my chin up, heart slamming, and whisper the dumbest, bravest thing I’ve ever said in my life.

“What do you wanna do, Crew?” My voice comes out breathy, teasing, like I’m not the one who’s about to melt. “Tell me. Right now. Be honest.”

His jaw flexes. He sets his coffee mug down on the narrow hall table beside us then reaches for mine. I let him take it. My hands are shaking anyway. He puts it next to his, freeing both those big hands, and suddenly there’s nothing between us but three inches of charged air and my rapidly dissolving sanity.

“You really want me to tell you, kitten?” He steps in, crowding me back until my shoulders hit the wall. One arm braces above my head again, the other drops slow between us. “I wanna shove that pretty yellow dress up, rip those panties to the side, and feel how wet you are for me.”

My breath catches. “Crew—”

“Shh.” His fingers skim down my side, over the curve of my hip, then lower. The hem of my sundress lifts easy under his palm. Cool air hits my thighs. “You asked, sweetheart. So I’m telling you.”. “I wanna slide my hand right here…”

Two thick fingers press against the front of my panties, right over my p***y, and I nearly whimper out loud. The fabric is already soaked—traitor. He rubs circles, pressing the damp cotton against my swollen c**t, teasing the seam where I’m aching for more.

“f**k, Olive,” he groans low, forehead dropping to mine. “You’re dripping. All this from a little hallway teasing? My dirty little kitten.”

I bite my lip hard, hips twitching forward against his hand before I can stop myself.

The pressure is perfect and not enough, his fingers stroking through the thin material, spreading my wetness, circling that throbbing bundle of nerves until my knees start to shake.

“Crew— someone could—” I gasp, but my hand is fisting his t-shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing away.

“Tell me to stop if you want me to. Or…” He pushes one thick finger inside me, knuckle-deep, and curls it perfectly against that spot that makes my toes curl. “Or admit how much you love this. How soaked you get just from me teasing you like the needy little princess you are.”

“f**k, Olive… your p***y is gripping me so tight,” he groans quietly, lips brushing my temple. “Been dreaming about this. About sliding my fingers into you every time you prance around in these tiny dresses, pretending you hate me. You don’t hate me, do you, sweetheart? You hate how badly you want me to bend you over and f**k this pretty cunt until you’re screaming my name for real.”

My hips chase his hand on their own, greedy and shameless.

“Crew— oh god—”

“Shh. Good girl. Just take it.” He thrusts his fingers faster, curling, scissoring, owning every whimper I try to swallow. “That’s it. Ride my hand like you’ve been dying to. Bet you’re already imagining it’s my c**k instead, knotting you deep, breeding this tight little p***y”

“What are you two doing?”

Fuck.