All Chapters of Stepbrother's Filthy Toy (An Erotica Collection): Chapter 271 - Chapter 280

“You’re late.”Rook’s voice met me the second I stepped through the unlocked door. The shop was dark except for the single light over the client chair. He stood there already hard, jeans open, cock in his hand, stroking slow while he watched me.“I almost didn’t come,” I said.“But you did.” He nodded at my clothes. “Off. All of it. I want you bare when I finish this piece.”I stripped. Cool air tightened my nipples and brushed the healing ink high on my inner thigh. He pointed to the chair. I climbed on and spread without being told. He rolled between my legs, snapped on gloves, and set the machine buzzing. The needle touched the last unfinished section of the thigh piece. Pain flared bright. At the same time his free hand slid two fingers straight into me.“Still wet the second you walk in here. Even with the threat hanging over you.”He worked the needle and his fingers in the same ruthless rhythm. Every vibration traveled straight to where he stretched me. I came fast, clenching a

Elena’s POV “Lock it now.”My hand moved before my brain caught up. The soft click of the bolt sliding home sounded final. Dangerous. I turned back around and found Julian already closing the distance.“You touched yourself out there,” he said. “I could see it on your face the second you walked back in. Your mouth was still open like you were trying not to make noise.”Heat flooded my cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”“Liar.” He stopped in front of me, close enough that the front of his trousers brushed my skirt. “You came with my name in your head. Say it.”I swallowed. “Julian.”His hand slid to my waist and turned me until my back hit the edge of his desk. Papers shifted under my palms. He pressed one thigh between mine and the hard line of his cock rubbed exactly where I was still sensitive and wet.“That’s better,” he murmured. “Now tell me how you did it. Slow or fast. Fingers or just the heel of your hand. I want every detail.”My voice came out shaky. “Two fin

Ashley’s POV “Truth or dare, Ashley. Stop pretending you are above this.”The voice cuts through the thumping bass of the loft party. I turn with a plastic cup of vodka soda already halfway to my lips. Cassian Rook stands ten feet away, dark shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the line of his throat, that same arrogant half smile he wore the day he stole the Meridian Tower project out from under me six months ago. I still remember the boardroom. His calm voice listing every weakness in my design while the partners nodded. I have hated him with clean precision ever since.“Dare,” I say, loud enough for the circle of drunk architects and clients to hear. Alcohol has burned away the last of my caution. “Kiss me.”Laughter ripples. Someone whistles. Cassian does not laugh. He sets his drink down and walks straight to me, eyes locked on mine like he has been waiting for the exact words. The crowd parts without being asked. Heat rolls off his body when he stops in front of me. I can smell

Ashley’s POV “You were laughing with her for twelve minutes and forty seconds.”Cassian’s voice is pure ice when he finds me in the empty conference room after the client mixer. The door clicks shut behind him. I do not bother pretending I was not watching the clock either. The blonde from the development team had her hand on his arm and her head tilted just so, and the black mood that settled over me was immediate and ugly.“I was being polite,” I say. “Something you might try sometime.”He crosses the room in three long strides. “Polite looked a lot like flirting from where I stood.”“And the way you glared at every man who spoke to me tonight was pure professional concern, I suppose.”The air between us is already electric. Six days of stolen moments, hallway encounters, and increasingly thin excuses have left us both raw. We still insist out loud that none of it means attraction. We call it tension. Chemistry. A temporary lapse. The words are wearing thinner every time we say the

LILA.“They’re finally out, Lila. Both of them.”Callum Draven’s voice carried low from the hallway as he stepped into the living room. I looked up from the couch where I had been folding the last of the laundry. The baby monitor on the side table glowed soft green. His six-year-old daughter and four-year-old son had fought sleep for nearly an hour before the house went quiet.I was twenty-four and had been their nanny for six months. Callum was thirty-six, a successful architect who still wore grief like a second skin after losing his wife two years earlier. He was tall, dark-haired, with the kind of broad shoulders that filled out every black t-shirt he owned. The way he looked at me lately had stopped feeling professional weeks ago.“Good,” I said, setting the folded shirt aside. “You should get some rest too.”He walked closer. The scent of his cologne mixed with the faint smell of the cedar soap he used after the kids’ baths. He stopped in front of me, looking down.“I don’t want