FORBIDDEN DESIRE

I’ve been staring at the same page of my textbook for twenty minutes, but the words refuse to stay still. They blur and shift every time my mind drifts back to the sound of his footsteps upstairs.

Adrian.

My stepbrother.

The man who has lived under the same roof as me for the past nine years and still manages to make my pulse race every single time he walks into a room.

I close the book with more force than necessary and push it away. The late afternoon light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the study, painting long golden stripes across the polished mahogany desk. Everything in this house is expensive, cold, and perfect—just like him.

I can hear him moving around in his room directly above me. The soft thud of drawers closing. The faint rush of water from his en-suite bathroom. He’s probably changing out of the tailored suit he wore to the board meeting this morning. The same suit that hugged his broad shoulders and made the veins in his forearms stand out when he rolled the sleeves up at dinner last night.

My thighs press together under the desk.

I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this. I know that. I’ve known it for years. But knowing doesn’t stop the heat that coils low in my stomach whenever he’s near. It doesn’t stop the filthy images that flood my head the moment I’m alone.

I lean back in the chair and let my eyes fall shut.

In my mind, the door to the study opens and he’s standing there, still in that white shirt, top buttons undone, dark hair slightly damp from a shower. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at me the way he sometimes does when he thinks I’m not paying attention—like he’s measuring something he doesn’t want to name.

Then he crosses the room, rounds the desk, and pulls my chair back. His hands are large and warm when they settle on my knees and slowly push them apart. I can almost feel the scrape of his calloused palms against the soft skin of my inner thighs. Almost hear the low, rough sound he would make when he realizes I’m not wearing anything underneath the thin dress I put on this morning.

“Aria.” His voice would be quiet. Controlled. The same voice he uses in meetings when he’s about to destroy someone. “You’ve been thinking about this again, haven’t you?”

I would nod, too far gone to speak.

He would sink to his knees between my legs, push the dress up to my waist, and look at me like I’m something he’s been denying himself for too long. Then his mouth would be on me—hot, deliberate, unrelenting—while his hands held my thighs open so I couldn’t close them even if I wanted to.

A soft, broken sound slips out of my real mouth before I can stop it.

My eyes snap open.

The study is empty. The only sound is the distant hum of the air conditioning and the faint click of heels somewhere deeper in the house. Probably one of the staff.

I press the heel of my hand between my legs, over the soft fabric of my dress, and the pressure makes my breath hitch. I’m already wet. Embarrassingly so. Just from imagining him.

This is getting worse.

It used to be manageable—quiet fantasies I could push down and ignore during the day. Now they’re constant. They wake me up in the middle of the night with my hand already between my thighs and his name on my lips. They follow me into every room of this massive house. They make it almost impossible to sit across from him at breakfast without wondering what it would feel like if he dragged me onto the table and took what he’s never allowed himself to take.

I stand up too quickly. The chair legs scrape against the floor. I need to move. I need air. I need to stop thinking about my stepbrother’s mouth between my legs before someone walks in and sees the state I’m in.

The hallway outside the study is cool and quiet. I walk toward the kitchen, bare feet silent on the marble. The house feels too big today. Too empty. My stepfather is still in Singapore on business. Damien—his younger brother, my step-uncle—is probably at the company offices. That leaves Adrian and me alone until evening, the way it has been more and more often these past few months.

I hate how much I like it.

In the kitchen I pour a glass of water I don’t really want and lean against the island. The surface is cold against my lower back. I drink slowly, trying to calm the restless heat under my skin.

That’s when I hear him.

Adrian’s footsteps come down the main staircase—measured, unhurried. A moment later he appears in the wide doorway, and every coherent thought in my head scatters.

He’s wearing black sweatpants that sit low on his hips and a dark gray T-shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders. His hair is still damp, pushed back from his face in a way that makes him look younger and somehow more dangerous. There’s a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He looks like he just stepped out of the shower, and the thought of water running down his body is enough to make my mouth go dry.

His eyes find me immediately.

“You’re home early,” he says. His voice is low, calm, the same tone he uses for everything.

“Lecture got cancelled.” I set the glass down carefully so it doesn’t betray the slight tremor in my hand. “I was studying.”

He walks farther into the kitchen, heading for the refrigerator. As he passes me, I catch the clean scent of his body wash—something expensive and subtle, with a hint of cedar. It’s the same scent that clings to his pillows. I know because I’ve pressed my face into them more than once when the house is empty and the need gets too sharp to ignore.

He opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of water, and leans against the counter opposite me. The distance between us is maybe six feet. It feels like nothing.

“You looked distracted at dinner last night,” he says after a moment.

My pulse jumps. “Did I?”

“You barely ate.” His gaze stays on my face, steady and unreadable. “Something on your mind?”

Yes. Your hands. Your mouth. The way you would sound if you finally stopped holding back and fucked me the way I dream about every night.

I force a small shrug. “Just school. Midterms are coming up.”

Adrian doesn’t look away. He never does when he’s trying to read someone. It’s one of the things that makes him so effective in business—and one of the things that makes being around him so dangerous for me. He notices too much.

I look down at my glass, tracing a drop of condensation with my fingertip. “You were quiet too.”

“Long day.” He takes a slow drink of water. The movement draws my eyes to his throat, the way it moves when he swallows. “The Singapore deal is getting complicated.”

I nod like I understand the details, even though most of what I know about the family company comes from overheard conversations and the occasional article. Adrian has been taking on more responsibility since my stepfather started stepping back. He’s twenty-eight, already being called the next head of the Rosenhall Group in certain circles. People respect him. People fear him a little. I just want him.

The silence stretches. I can feel his eyes on me still.

“Aria.”

I look up.

Something shifts in his expression—too fast for me to name. Then it’s gone, replaced by the usual controlled calm.

“You’re still not eating enough,” he says. “I can have the chef prepare something light if you want.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” The words are quiet, but there’s an edge under them. “You’ve lost weight.”

I don’t know what to do with the concern in his voice. It makes the ache in my chest worse. It makes the ache between my legs worse too.

“I’ll eat later,” I say.

He studies me for another long moment, then pushes off the counter. For a second I think he’s going to walk out and leave me alone with the tension still thick in the air. Instead he crosses the space between us.

He stops close enough that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of gold in the dark brown of his irises. Close enough that if I leaned forward even a little, my chest would brush his.

My breath catches.

Adrian reaches past me, opens one of the upper cabinets, and takes down a small plate. His arm nearly brushes my shoulder. The heat of his body sinks into my skin even through the space that remains.

He sets the plate on the island, then moves to the fruit bowl and selects a few strawberries and a ripe peach. He rinses them, slices the peach with the kind of precise, efficient movements he uses for everything, and arranges the fruit on the plate.

Then he slides it toward me.

“Eat.”

It’s not a suggestion.

I pick up a strawberry because the alternative is continuing to stand here staring at him like I’m starving for something that isn’t food. The sweetness bursts on my tongue. I force myself to chew and swallow.

Adrian watches me the entire time.

When I reach for a second piece, his hand covers mine on the edge of the plate. The contact is brief—just long enough for me to feel the warmth of his palm and the faint roughness of his skin—but it sends a jolt straight through me.

“Slowly,” he says.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He lets go and steps back, putting a safer distance between us again. The loss of his nearness feels physical.

“I have calls until seven,” he says. “If you need anything, text me.”

“Okay.”

He turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway. For a moment I think he might say something else. Something that would finally break the careful distance he always keeps.

Instead he only glances back once, expression unreadable, and disappears down the hall.

I stand there long after his footsteps fade, the taste of strawberry still on my tongue and the phantom pressure of his hand still burning against my skin.

My secret is getting harder to carry.

And I’m not sure how much longer I can keep pretending I don’t want him to find out.