Submit to My Billionaire Stepbrother

I never meant to fall in love with my stepbrother. But there I was, standing outside Nate Blackwood's bedroom door, my heart hammering against my ribs as the sounds coming from inside tore me apart.

Moans. A woman's voice, high and desperate to please. And then Nate's deep, commanding tone.

"Don't stop."

My fingers trembled against the doorframe. I should walk away. I knew I should. But like a moth to flame, I leaned forward, peering through the crack in the door.

The sight stole my breath. A naked woman on her knees before him, her head bobbing rhythmically as Nate's strong hand gripped her hair. His face—God, his face—was a mask of controlled pleasure, those sharp features I'd memorized over years of stolen glances now taut with dominance.

"Faster," he commanded, and the woman complied instantly.

Something hot and painful twisted in my chest. I'd dreamed of being the one on my knees before him, of earning that look of satisfaction. Ever since that day in high school when I'd accidentally glimpsed him pleasuring himself, I'd been hopelessly, pathetically obsessed.

I must have made a sound—a gasp or whimper—because suddenly Nate's ice-blue eyes snapped up, locking with mine through the crack in the door.

My blood froze. I should run. Hide. Die of embarrassment.

But Nate didn't stop. He didn't call out or push the woman away. Instead, his lips curved into the faintest smirk as he maintained eye contact with me, his hand pressing more firmly on the woman's head, guiding her movements with increased intensity.

The message was clear: Watch. See what you'll never have.

I stumbled backward, my cheeks burning, and fled to my room. The sanctuary of my childhood felt suddenly claustrophobic as I collapsed onto my bed, clutching a book I couldn't focus on. My mind replayed the scene in vivid detail—the woman's eagerness, Nate's control, the way he'd looked directly at me while another woman pleasured him.

It shouldn't turn me on. It should disgust me. He was my stepbrother, for God's sake. But the ache between my legs didn't care about social taboos or family dynamics.

I'd been living with this secret since I was fifteen, when Mom married Richard Blackwood and thrust us into this mansion of cold marble and colder emotions. Nate had made it clear from day one that I was unwelcome—the awkward, undeveloped girl who didn't belong in his pristine world.

His bullying had been subtle but relentless. A comment about my clothes here, a dismissive glance there. And yet, like some psychological anomaly, his cruelty only intensified my attraction. I'd constructed elaborate fantasies where his coldness melted into passion, where he confessed that his meanness was just a cover for forbidden desire.

Pathetic. I was pathetic.

I tried to focus on my book, but the words blurred. Minutes passed—or maybe hours—before my bedroom door suddenly swung open without a knock.

I bolted upright, the book falling from my hands.

Nate stood in my doorway, fresh from the shower, a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, catching the light like tiny diamonds. His dark hair was damp, slicked back from that arrogant face that haunted my dreams.

"Ever heard of knocking?" I managed, my voice embarrassingly weak.

His eyes, cold as winter seas, swept over me dismissively. "Getting bolder, aren't you, little Carter? Spying on people now?"

"I wasn't—"

"Save it." He leaned against my doorframe, seemingly unconcerned about his near-nakedness. "You're becoming quite the nuisance in this house. Dad might tolerate you and your mother, but don't forget you're just baggage that came with the deal."

Each word was a precise cut, designed to wound. And they did. But beneath my hurt flared something defiant.

"You don't know anything about me," I said, standing up. "You never bothered to try."

"Why would I?" His smile was cruel. "Look at you. A college girl with a schoolgirl crush, thinking she belongs in a world she was never meant for."

"You think I don't see how you look at those women? How you use them and discard them?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "At least I know what I want. What I feel."

Nate's expression shifted subtly, his eyes narrowing. "And what exactly do you feel, Emily?"

The way he said my name—like it was something distasteful on his tongue—should have deterred me. But I was beyond reason, beyond self-preservation.

"I want you," I whispered, then louder: "I've always wanted you. Even when you're cruel. Even when you parade those women through the house like trophies."

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or disgust. Or something else entirely.

Before I could analyze it, before I could talk myself out of the most reckless impulse of my life, I stepped forward, rose onto my tiptoes, and pressed my lips against his.

For one breathless moment, the world stopped. His lips were soft, contradicting everything hard about him. And for that fraction of a second, he didn't pull away.

Then his hands were on my shoulders, pushing me back firmly. His expression was unreadable, a complex mixture of emotions I couldn't decipher.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice was low, controlled, but with an undercurrent I'd never heard before.

"Showing you how I feel," I said, my courage somehow holding despite the rejection. "I'm not a child anymore, Nate. And I'm tired of pretending."

He stared at me as if seeing me for the first time, his jaw tight. "You have no idea what you're playing with, little girl."

"I'm not playing." I held his gaze, refusing to back down despite the trembling in my knees. "And I'm not a little girl."

The tension between us was a living thing, electric and dangerous. For a moment—just a moment—I thought I saw something crack in his perfect mask, a glimpse of the man beneath the monster he pretended to be.

Then it was gone, replaced by that familiar cold disdain.

"Stay out of my way, Emily," he said, turning to leave. "And stay out of my bedroom. Next time, I won't be so forgiving."

He walked out, leaving me standing alone, my lips still burning from the kiss, my heart racing with equal parts humiliation and defiance.

I'd crossed a line tonight. There was no going back.

And despite everything—his rejection, his cruelty, the impossibility of it all—I couldn't bring myself to regret it.