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