**Chapter 1: Under the Table Tease**
I’m John, and let me be clear: I despise my stepbrother Aaron. He’s the unwanted baggage that came with my stepmom, a constant thorn in my side with his smug grin and infuriatingly perfect jawline. But hate doesn’t mean I don’t want him. Quite the opposite. Almost every damn day, we’re tangled up in each other, fucking like it’s a war we’re both determined to win. We hide it from our parents, our classmates—hell, the whole world. Two stepbrothers getting it on? Yeah, that’s a scandal waiting to blow up. But I don’t care. I love pushing his buttons, watching him squirm. And today, I’m playing dirty.
We’re sitting across from each other at the dining table, pretending to be civil while our parents chatter about some mundane crap. Aaron’s got that fake-ass polite smile plastered on, but I know he’s seething. Good. I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs under the table, and let my foot find its target. I press down, slow and deliberate, right against his crotch. His eyes snap to mine, narrowing with a mix of shock and fury, but I just smirk.
“What the hell are you doing, John?” he hisses under his breath, trying to keep his voice low so Mom and Dad don’t catch on.
“Eating dinner,” I reply coolly, taking a bite of mashed potatoes while my foot rubs harder, feeling him tense under the pressure. “What’s your problem, bro? You look... uncomfortable.”
His jaw clenches, and I can see the heat rising in his cheeks. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” he mutters, shifting in his seat but not pulling away. Oh, he’s pissed, but he’s also getting hard under my touch. I can feel it, and it’s making my own blood rush south.
“Takes one to know one,” I shoot back, my voice dripping with mockery. “Come on, Aaron, don’t pretend you hate this. You’re practically begging for more.”
“Fuck you,” he growls, but there’s a crack in his armor, a flicker of raw need in his eyes that tells me I’ve got him right where I want him. My foot moves with purpose now, teasing and pressing, and I watch him grip his fork so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t snap.
“Later,” I whisper, loud enough for only him to hear, my smirk widening. “If you can keep it together until dessert.”
He glares at me, but I know he’s already imagining it—me pinning him down, his cock throbbing in my grip, both of us sweating and panting as we tear into each other. I’m getting horny just thinking about it, my own jeans tightening uncomfortably. I can’t wait to see him lose control, to feel him hard and desperate under me, his breath hot against my skin as we cross every forbidden line.
Dinner drags on, but the tension between us is electric, a live wire ready to spark. The second our parents turn their backs, I know we’ll be at it—rough, messy, and unapologetic. I catch his eye again, and this time, he doesn’t look away. Game on, brother.
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