My Stepbrother's Obsession

Chapter 3: Crossing the Line

I don't sleep.

How can I, knowing three cameras are watching? I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, hyperaware of the air vent in the corner, the bookshelf against the wall, the bathroom light fixture I've walked under a thousand times.

He's seen everything. Every vulnerable moment. Every private second.

The photograph sits on my nightstand, face down. "You can't run, Sloane."

My phone buzzes at 2 AM. Unknown number.

"I know you're awake. I can see you."

My blood runs cold. Another text.

"You're scared. But you're also curious. That's why you haven't told anyone yet."

I should block the number. Should call the police.

Instead: "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to stop pretending you didn't feel it too. That kiss wasn't one-sided, Sloane."

My face burns. "You're sick."

"Yes. And you kissed me anyway."

I throw my phone across the room, but it keeps buzzing. I can feel him watching through those hidden lenses, cataloging my reaction.

Something reckless unfurls in my chest.

If he's going to watch, I'll give him something to see.

I get out of bed slowly, deliberately. Walk to my dresser feeling the weight of his gaze. Pull out a tank top, tighter than the last. Change facing the bookshelf camera, letting the fabric slide over my skin.

My phone explodes with messages. I retrieve it.

"What are you doing?"

"Sloane."

"Stop."

"You don't know what you're starting."

Power surges through me. For two years, Crew held all the cards. But now I know. And knowledge is leverage.

"I thought you liked watching?"

A full minute of silence. Then: "My apartment. Now."

"No."

"Sloane, I'm barely holding on. Don't push me."

"Or what?" I'm playing with fire. "You've already seen everything, Crew. What's left?"

"You have no idea what's left."

My heart hammers. "Then show me."

"Tomorrow. Midnight."

I don't answer. Just climb back into bed, knowing he's watching.

Knowing I'm performing now.

The next day crawls by. Mom chatters over breakfast while Crew's eyes burn into me from across the table. First time he's shown up for breakfast in months.

"You look tired, honey," Mom says.

"Didn't sleep well."

Crew's coffee mug pauses. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat before I look away.

Campus is a blur. Maya talks about boys while I think about ice-blue eyes and a room wallpapered with my stolen life. By evening, I've convinced myself I won't go tonight.

By 11:55 PM, I'm crossing the yard.

The door opens before I knock.

Crew stands backlit, dark jeans and a henley, sleeves pushed up. He looks like he hasn't slept either.

"You came."

"I shouldn't have."

"No. You shouldn't have." He steps aside.

"The cameras. Did you remove them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you didn't want me to." He closes the door, the lock clicking too loud. "You wanted me watching when you changed tonight. When you put on that tight tank top facing the bookshelf."

Heat floods my face. "You're delusional."

"Am I? Then why are you here at midnight when you should be calling the police?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do." He closes the distance between us. "You felt invisible your whole life, and I see you. Really see you. And as f****d up as it is, you like it."

"I don't…"

"Stop lying." His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I've watched you for years. I know when you're lying."

I should pull away. Instead, I lean into his touch, eyes drifting closed.

"This is wrong," I whisper.

"I know."

"We're going to destroy everything."

"I know." His forehead rests against mine.

"But you don't hate me. And that terrifies you more than what I've done."

When he kisses me, it's different from that first time in his hidden room. That was discovery, shock, adrenaline. This is deliberate. Chosen.

Dangerous.

His mouth moves against mine with a hunger that steals my breath. I kiss him back just as desperately, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He groans against my lips, and the sound does something to me. Makes heat pool low in my stomach.

"Sloane." My name is a prayer and a curse.

His hands slide under my sweater, palms hot against my skin. "Tell me to stop."

"No." I pull his shirt up, needing to feel him.

My hands explore the planes of his chest, the muscles that flex under my touch.

He backs me toward the couch, never breaking the kiss. When my legs hit the cushions, I fall backward and he follows, covering my body with his. The weight of him, the heat, it's overwhelming in the best way.

His mouth leaves mine to trail down my neck.

I arch into him, a small sound escaping my throat that makes him grip my hips harder. He kisses along my collarbone while his hands work my sweater up and over my head.

"You're so beautiful." His voice is rough, reverent. "I've watched you for so long, but this..." His lips brush the swell of my breast above my bra. "This is better than anything I imagined."

I should feel violated by that admission.

Instead, I'm pulling at his henley, needing it gone. He helps me, tossing it aside before his mouth returns to my skin. He kisses down my sternum, my ribs, my stomach. Each touch of his lips makes me tremble.

His fingers find the button of my jeans. He looks up at me, eyes dark with want. "Say yes."

"Yes." I lift my hips and he slides the denim down my legs, his hands caressing every inch of newly exposed skin. When he kisses the inside of my thigh, I gasp.

"Crew… "

"I've dreamed about this." His breath is hot against my skin. "About tasting you. Making you fall apart."

When his mouth finds me through the thin fabric of my underwear, I cry out. He groans like he's the one being pleasured, and maybe he is. Maybe we both are, finally crossing this line we've been dancing around.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband, pulls the last barrier away. Then his mouth is on me, no barriers, and coherent thought abandons me. I thread my fingers through his hair, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away because it's too much, too intense.

"Please," I beg, not sure what I'm asking for.

He knows anyway. Works me higher with his tongue, his fingers, until I'm trembling on the edge. When I shatter, he doesn't stop, drawing it out until I'm boneless and gasping.

He kisses his way back up my body, and I can taste myself on his lips when he kisses me. It should be wrong but it's not. Nothing about this feels wrong anymore.

I reach between us, feeling how hard he is through his jeans. He hisses, hips jerking into my touch.

"I need you," I whisper against his mouth.

"Now."

He stands long enough to shed his jeans and boxer briefs, and the sight of him, fully naked and wanting me, makes my breath catch. He's beautiful. Perfect. Mine.

"Wait." He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a condom. I watch him roll it on, mesmerized by his hands, the same hands that held cameras and took photos and built this obsession.

Then he's back, settling between my thighs.

The blunt pressure of him makes my eyes flutter closed.

"Look at me," he commands softly. "I want to see you when I make you mine."

When he pushes inside, we both groan. He fills me completely, stretching me in a way that's pleasure and pressure combined. He stills, giving me time to adjust.

"Move," I pleaded.

He does. Sets a rhythm that builds and builds until I'm clinging to him, nails raking down his back. He buries his face in my neck, breathing hard.

"You feel incredible," he groans. "Better than every fantasy."

I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle, and we both curse. The couch creaks beneath us as he moves faster, harder, chasing something we both need desperately.

When I come again, it's his name on my lips.

He follows moments later, his whole body shuddering as he spills inside the condom.

We stay tangled together in the aftermath, both breathing hard. Reality sets in slowly.

I just slept with my stepbrother. And it was everything.

"What are we doing?" I ask quietly.

"Something we can't take back." His fingers trace patterns on my shoulder. "Something that will ruin us if anyone finds out."

"Then we stop. This never happens again."

"Okay." But neither of us moves.

I leave at 3 AM. My room feels different. The cameras aren't violations anymore. They're witnesses.

That's when I notice my laptop is open. I didn't leave it that way.

One document on

the screen. A list of dates and times from the past two years. Next to each, notes about what I was doing.

The last entry: "3:17 AM. She left my apartment. She'll be back."

Below it: "They all come back.”