MY MAFIA STEPBROTHER'S DIRTY OBSESSION

Rielle’s POV

My stepbrother had his hand around my throat the first time he called me a whore to my face.

Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough that I felt the exact shape of every finger, the heat of his palm, the controlled strength that could have crushed my windpipe if he wanted to. 

His eyes dropped to my bare thighs, then climbed slowly back to my face with open, deliberate disgust. 

“Like mother, like daughter,” he said, voice low and cold. “I can smell it on you.”

My mother had spent twenty years selling her body so we could survive. Now she wore a diamond the size of a grape and slept in a bed bigger than our old apartment, and her daughter still carried the shame. 

I should have shoved him off. 

I should have screamed. 

Instead I stood there with his hand on my throat and my pulse hammering against his thumb, and the worst part—the part that made my stomach twist with something that wasn’t fear—was how wet I already was. I could feel the dampness starting between my legs, shameful and immediate.

I shoved at his chest hard. “Take your hand off me.”

His mouth curved into something cruel. He didn’t move. 

“Or what? You’ll cry to my father? Tell him his new stepdaughter walks around my house half-naked, legs out, hoping to find someone to pay for a taste of your pussy?”

The words should have cut. They did. 

But underneath the sting was a darker heat, the same heat that had kept me awake every night since I moved in, listening for his footsteps in the hall. 

I hated that my body answered him. 

I hated that the pressure of his hand made my thighs press together. 

I hated that when he looked at me like that—like I was already beneath him and not worth the effort—I still felt chosen instead of degraded.

I shoved again, harder this time. “I said get your fucking hand off me.”

He leaned in until his mouth was almost against my ear. The gold chain at his throat brushed my collarbone. He smelled like smoke and gun oil and money. Expensive. Dangerous. 

“You think you belong here?” he murmured, voice dripping with contempt. “You walk around this house like you’re something special. You’re not. You’re the free sample that came with the whore my father decided to keep.”

“Don’t talk about my mother like that.” My voice came out sharper than I expected. “You don’t know a damn thing about her.”

“I’ll talk about whatever the fuck I want.” His fingers flexed on my throat, not tighter, just enough to remind me who held the power and how little he cared if it hurt. “This is my house. You’re nothing but a reminder of how low my father sank. You’re nothing special. Just a convenient hole just like your mother.”

I turned my head so our mouths nearly touched. I could feel his breath. My pulse was racing, but I didn’t look away. 

“Then why are you still touching me? If I’m so disgusting, why is your hand on my throat and your cock hard against my hip?”

Something ugly and satisfied flickered across his face. His grip on my throat stayed firm while his other hand came up and traced the edge of my shorts, not quite sliding under, just pressing hard enough against the soft skin of my hip that I felt the threat of it. 

His fingers were warm. Rough. He dragged the pad of his thumb along the seam of the fabric, right where the shorts rode high on my thigh, and I felt my breath catch.

I tried to twist away. He didn’t let me.

“Because I can,” he said, soft and vicious. “Because you’re in my hallway, half-dressed, and I decide what happens in this house. Because it amuses me to see how wet you get when I treat you exactly like what you are.” He pressed a little harder, enough that the tip of his finger slipped just under the edge of the shorts, not far, just enough to feel how warm my skin was. 

“And because for some reason I can’t stop looking at the one thing in this place that disgusts me the most.”

The confession landed harder than the insult. My breath stuttered. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then lower, lingering on the stretch of bare skin between my top and the waistband of my shorts with pure, open disdain. The air between us felt thick, charged, like the second before a gun goes off. 

I could feel how hard he was against my hip. Thick. Heavy. He made no effort to hide it. He wanted me to know. He wanted me to feel it.

“You’re soaking these little shorts, aren’t you?” he said, almost conversational. “I can feel the heat coming off you. Does it make you wet when I call you a whore and degrade you, or is it the hand on your throat? Or maybe both. Maybe you just like being treated like the trash you are.”

I glared up at him, jaw tight. “You’re a bastard.”

He laughed under his breath. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Fuck you.”

He laughed again, quiet and mean. “Not yet. But keep walking around like this and maybe I’ll change my mind. Maybe I’ll bend you over the nearest surface and make use of any of your holes.” 

His finger traced higher, still under the edge of the shorts, still not quite where I needed it. “Would you fight me? Or would you spread your legs and take it like the little whore you are?”