Possessive Stepbrother – Steamy Shorts Read Online Lena Little

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Kink Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 13239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 66(@200wpm)___ 53(@250wpm)___ 44(@300wpm)

I don’t give a flying f*ck if my absentee father got married and acquired a new daughter.
But it’s an entirely different matter when he dumps her on my front door a day before Halloween. Because I’d rather have someone who wears a hockey mask and carries a machete for a roommate.
I don’t get much choice because she’s already here, so I just have to suffer in her presence for one night. Just one. Then, I’ll go send her to another apartment complex and never have to see her ever again.
At least, that’s the plan before I see her.
When I get home, Raven sits on the stairs, head down and shoulders slumped.
The girl looks up, and the vision rips the soul clean off my body.
Is she for real? How can someone look this beautiful? Are my eyes playing tricks on me? There’s no way. There’s just no way.
But she is. And whatever fiery anger I initially felt quickly morphs into something else—something darker, deeper, and more intense. OBSESSION.
It’s more than just a potent desire to have her. I get this primal need to protect her and keep her safe.
Whoever touches or hurts her is a dead man.
If anyone wants to test that, there’s only one thing they can do…
F*ck around and find out.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



“His victims are young ladies who are home alone. While there have been reports of him grabbing them from the street, most of the crime occurred inside residences, leaving the authorities…”

Fucking lunatics. Pieces of shit who don’t deserve the air they breathe.

I shake my head and shove my hands in my pockets, the TV volume way too loud for my liking. But can’t do anything about it. The couple who live downstairs—Mr. and Mrs. Petrov—are more than 80 years old and can barely hear even when someone yells in their faces. Nice people, though.

Passing by their window, I notice flecks of paint on the ground and mentally add it to my to-do checklist for this week. Maintenance takes a huge chunk of my time—fixing roofs and leaks, replacing broken tiles, attaching new doors, repairing drywalls. I can have one of my men do it, sure, but I enjoy the mindless work.

I’ve been working as a handyman since I was fifteen, and if I have to choose one thing I cannot live without, it’s my toolbox. Everything I need is there. Flat tire? I got you. Door off its hinges? Easy. Removing stuck wallpaper? No problem.

“The police are asking anyone with information to come forward…”

I walk by the second of three apartments on the ground floor when I realize everyone’s listening to the same news. Damn. The streets are no longer safe, haven’t been for a while. But a killer on the loose? Shit. This is why I invest in thousands of dollars worth of security cameras.

Can’t be too safe. Besides, it’s easier to track these degenerates when they have a face.

Home is the entire second floor, and this day has been way too long—started at 4 AM and I’m just getting back at almost 9 PM. Most people think my life’s easy because I went from being a regular handyman to owning a construction company and a couple of apartment complexes.

But no. I still work my ass off.

Right now, though, I’m questioning my inability to sit back and relax for once. I’m always restless and never sleep for more than two to three hours every time. I usually doze off and then wake up. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I just wanna take a shower and hit the sack. If I wasn’t bathing in my own sweat, I’d sleep with my work clothes on.

Something stops me in my tracks, putting me on high alert. It’s as if time slows down and whatever noise I hear fades into the background.

I smell her before I see her, and I wrinkle my nose because she smells familiar. Her scent is familiar.

“What the–”

A small girl with short, Chestnut brown hair is squatting by my front door. She’s wearing denim shorts and a gray t-shirt, her head resting on her crossed arms. A pink duffle bag sits beside her, its glitter and unicorn print hurting my eyes.

I look around, frowning and wondering whose kid this is because I don’t remember seeing her before.

“Hey, kid. You lost?”

She looks up and it feels like someone shoved me hard, rocking me to the soles of my feet. My jaw flexes like it might snap, and a groan ripples in my throat. My body reacts to her before my mind can catch up.

Something clicks in my head, like that feeling when I figure out a solution just by looking at the big picture.

Jesus. Who are you?

I don’t realize I’ve spoken that question out loud. Not until her emerald eyes fringed in long, black lashes widen and she hangs her head low, covers her face with her small hands, and groans. “Oh god, Mom. What have you gotten me into?”

“Excuse me?”

She stands up to her full height, all five feet and maybe two inches of her, squares her shoulders, and crosses her arms. I swallow back my laughter when she huffs and points an accusing finger at me. “Listen, Mr. Rowan Ross. It’s clear you don’t want me here, and I promise you, I never wanted to come in the first place. She won’t believe me, so can you give me one tiny favor? Call my mom and say you found me another place to stay.”

My stomach drops, feeling the ground disappear from underneath me. What the fuck? “You’re Raven?”

Something crosses her face, but she bites her bottom lip and nods. For some reason, my eyes zero in on her plump, pillowy lip, resisting the urge to tug it down and bite it myself.

Fucking universe playing its dirty tricks on me. The first woman who ever made me feel this way is her, and of course, she’s not some random stranger. She has to be my stepsister. That revelation shouldn’t feel like a sharp blade slicing my chest.

Raven picks up her bag and slings it over her shoulder. Her eyes glisten, and she blinks rapidly. Seeing her struggle not to cry makes a surge of protectiveness rise in me. I don’t know where it comes from, but I realize there’s a primal beast roaring through my chest, demanding to be let out.