Book 1: Caught Jerking

The second I saw him standing in the kitchen doorway, my cunt clenched so hard I almost made a sound.

I hated Tyler Reed before I ever had to live under the same roof as him.

Tyler. 22. three years older than me--Same sharp jaw, same dark eyes that used to cut through me in the hallways at school, same lazy way of leaning like the whole world was beneath him. Well, Only now he was taller, broader through the shoulders, and living under the same roof because my mother had decided to marry his father.

We’d been circling each other since sophomore year—same advanced classes, same parties, same mutual disgust. He was the golden boy who never had to try. And I was the one who tried too hard and still came second. Every time our eyes met after that, the air went different.

So when Mom announced she was marrying his dad, Derek, I laughed until I realized she was serious. This is Real.

Two weeks later I was standing in the driveway of a house that suddenly had my name on the mailbox and Tyler Reed leaning against the porch railing like he owned the fucking place.

Derek. My new stepdad. And Tyler—my old rival, the guy who’d called me stuck-up little bitch more times than I could count, the one who’d smirked every time I lost a debate or a race or anything that mattered—was suddenly family.

And the worst part is he kept bragging about whose house this is now. Calling me little princess every now and then.

I hated him. So fucking hated him. hated the way my body reacted the second our eyes met. Heat flooded between my legs so fast it was humiliating. My panties were already damp and all he’d done was look at me.

“Well,” he said, voice low and amused. “Look what the new mommy dragged in.”

I didn’t answer. I just walked past him, shoulder nearly brushing his chest, and pretended the smell of his cologne didn’t make my nipples tighten.

.

.

.

That was three days ago.

Tonight the house is empty. Derek took my mother away for some overnight work thing. Left us here like it was nothing. Like we were normal stepsiblings, like we could just share a house without wanting to either murder each other or fuck each other senseless.

I stayed in my room as long as I could. Tried to read. Tried to scroll. Tried not to think about the fact that Tyler was somewhere on the other side of the wall, probably shirtless, probably still wearing that same arrogant half-smile. My hand kept drifting between my thighs. Every time I closed my eyes I saw him—those long fingers, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the bulge I’d caught myself staring at more than once and judged myself for it.

Around one in the morning I couldn’t take it anymore. My mouth was dry. I needed water. Or air. Or something that wasn’t the thick, restless heat under my skin.

I pulled on a black T-shirt that barely covered my ass and nothing else underneath. No bra. Or panties. The carpet was cool under my bare feet as I stepped into the hallway.

His door was cracked open.

Light spilled out in a thin gold line. I should have kept walking, should have gone straight to the kitchen. But Instead my feet stopped. My heart kicked hard against my ribs. I leaned in just enough to see.

Tyler was on his bed.

Back against the headboard, knees spread, grey sweatpants shoved down to his thighs. His cock was out—thick, hard, flushed dark at the head—and his fist was wrapped tight, very tight around it, stroking slow and deliberate. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the quiet room. In his other hand he held his phone. The screen lit his face from below. I couldn’t see the photo clearly, but I caught the curve of a girl’s tits, long hair, some smiling stranger he’d rather jerk off to than acknowledge I existed.

My cunt throbbed so hard it hurt. A fresh rush of wetness slicked my inner thighs. I stood frozen in the doorway, shirt hem brushing the tops of my legs, watching the way his abs tightened every time he stroked up. Precum beaded at the tip and caught the light. He swiped his thumb over it and used it to make the next stroke smoother 'n filthier. His breathing was low and controlled, like he was in no rush to finish. Like he was savoring it.

I should have left. I shifted my weight and the floorboard under my heel gave a soft, traitorous creak.

His hand stopped.

Dark eyes lifted and locked on mine. For a second neither of us moved. Then the corner of his mouth curled into that same arrogant smile I used to want to slap off his face.

“See something you like, Cynthia?.

Or should i say 'sister'”

My face burned. My pussy clenched around nothing, dripping down my thigh. I opened my mouth to say something cutting, something that would put the wall back up between us, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

He didn’t look away. He gave his cock one slow, deliberate stroke while he watched me, like he wanted me to see every inch. Then he set the phone face-down on the nightstand and crooked two fingers at me.

“Come here baby.”

I didn’t move.

He sat up straighter. The smile sharpened. “I said come here.”

My feet carried me forward before my brain caught up. The second I crossed the threshold he reached out, hooked his fingers in the front of my shirt, and yanked. I stumbled into the room. The door swung shut behind me with a soft and quiet click, in the quiet house.

His other hand caught my hip, spun me, and shoved me back against the closed door hard enough that the wood bit into my shoulder blades.

He was right there—chest bare, cock still hard and wet between us, the heat of him soaking through the thin cotton of my shirt. His mouth hovered an inch from mine.

“You’ve been staring at me for three days like you want to either slap me or sit on my face,” he murmured. “Which is it?”

I swallowed. My voice came out rough. “Fuck you.”

He laughed, low and dark, and pressed the thick head of his cock against the bare skin of my stomach. “That’s the idea.”

His hand slid under my shirt, up the inside of my thigh, and found me soaked. Two fingers dragged through my folds and I bit back a moan. He felt how wet I was—how disgracefully, shamelessly wet—and his eyes went darker.

“Jesus. You’re dripping just from watching me stroke.” He pushed one finger inside me without warning, thick and rough. “Pathetic little princess.”

I hated him. I hated the way my walls clenched around that single finger, the way my hips twitched forward for more. He added a second and curled them, rubbing that spot that made my knees threaten to buckle. His thumb found my clit and circled it once, twice, mean and precise.

“Jesus Christ.” His fingers pressed, rubbing right against my soaked clit.

“Still hate me?” he asked, voice soft against my ear.

“Yes,” I breathed, even as my cunt fluttered around his fingers.

“Good.” He pulled his hand free, brought the shiny fingers to my mouth, and pushed them past my lips. “Taste yourself. Then get on the bed. We’re not done.”

I sucked his fingers clean because my body had already decided. The second he stepped back I crossed the room on shaky legs and climbed onto his mattress. He shoved his sweatpants the rest of the way off, climbed up after me, and spread my thighs wide with his knees. His cock slapped heavy against my clit.

He didn’t ask again. He just lined up and pushed in—one long, relentless thrust that forced every thick inch inside me until his hips met mine. The stretch burned. The fullness knocked the air out of my lungs. I cried out so he clapped a hand over my mouth, eyes gleaming.

“Quiet,” he whispered. “Unless you want the whole street to know you’re getting fucked by the stepbrother you claim to hate so much.”

Then he started moving, delivering hard, deep, and short strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside me. The wet sound of my cunt taking him filled the room. My nails dug into his shoulders. He fucked me like he’d been waiting for the chance, like every old insult and every heated look had been leading to this exact moment: me on my back in his bed, legs open, pussy stretched around his huge dick while he ruined me.

I came first, it was sharp and sudden, walls clamping down so hard he groaned. He didn’t stop. He just kept pounding into me through it, hate-fucking me, chasing his own release, until he buried himself to the hilt and spilled hot filthy cum deep inside me with a low, guttural sound against my neck.

For a few seconds the only sound was our breathing.

Then he lifted his head, that same smirk back in place, and said, “Still hate me?”

I was still pulsing around him, full of his cum, thighs shaking.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He laughed, pulled out slowly so I could feel every inch leave me, and watched his release leak out of my used cunt.

“Good,” he said. “We’ve got all night.”