Love me like a sin stepbrother

CHAPTER ONE

The male lead had just pinned the heroine to the wall when my alarm went off.

"No." I groaned, swiping at my phone. "No, not now."

Just two more paragraphs to see where this was going. My eyes raced across the page.

*His hand slid up her thigh, rough fingers catching the hem of her skirt—*

The alarm went off again. I'd hit snooze. "Oh Emery, you're like an idiot." I muttered to myself.

"Shit."

I dog-eared the page. I know, I KNOW, it's a crime against books, but desperate times y'know. I shoved the paperback into my oversized cardigan pocket. It barely fit, the pocket sagging under the weight. Whatever. I didn't have time.

Ten minutes until game time. If I didn't leave now, someone might take my usual seat at the front row.

The one I'd claimed every home game for the past six months, where Zayn Blackwood might actually notice me.

I caught my reflection in the mirror above my desk as I grabbed my bag. The freckles stared back at me—covering my nose and cheeks like they always did. My hair, which could only be described as tragic. The fact that I was sixteen and still hadn't been kissed, and probably wouldn't be until I was thirty.

I touched my face like pressing hard enough would make the freckles disappear.

But those stupid tiny things didn't.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

*"I know what you're doing, freak. Stop going to his games or everyone finds out."*

My eyes flew wide. There was a photo attached. It was me, sitting in my usual seat from last week's game, staring at Zayn.

Someone was watching me.

I should stay home, lock my door, delete every photo. But my fingers were already grabbing my bag.

Screw whoever this was. I wasn't going to live in fear.

Outside, the late afternoon sun was already fading. I could hear the buzz of students heading toward the rink. If I ran, I could actually make it.

So I ran.

I got to the rink, my lungs burning, my sneakers bouncing as I hurried down the pavement toward the entrance.

I breathed out in relief when I saw my seat empty.

"Phew," I said as I positioned myself in the seat.

I glanced around nervously. Was someone actually watching me right now? Taking another photo to prove I didn't listen?

Whatever. Let them watch.

My eyes scanned the ice, hoping I'd catch a glimpse of Zayn warming up. He'd probably be adjusting his helmet while licking candy, those broad shoulders that filled out his jersey, and the way he tapped his stick three times before every face-off.

I blushed to myself. I knew him too well.

God, how could I not, when he looked exactly like my favorite book boyfriend.

My blush turned into a big frown when I realized something.

Number seventeen. I searched the ice, the bench, everywhere. Nothing.

Are you kidding me? The only thing I showed up for, and he's not even playing?

Cold seeped through my jeans as I curled into my seat and the referee blew the whistle. The players assembled.

I made an angry hiss under my breath. Where the hell was he? I'd been having a rough week being the lonely crazy girl. This was supposed to be where I warmed up.

I pouted my lips sadly. I should leave, stand up and go back to my room, finish the book where I could fully appreciate the wall sex without an audience.

But I was in the front row. Leaving meant everyone would see. They already thought I was weird. The girl who came to every game alone and never talked to anyone. If I bailed before it even started, I'd be the weird girl who bailed. I was trapped by my own stupid decisions. As usual.

The crowd noise swelled around me, everywhere reeked of sweat. The game was about to start, so I sighed and reached into my cardigan pocket.

Whatever. I'd just read the match away.

I pulled the book out, found the page I was reading, and let myself sink back into the story.

The heroine's back was against the wall. The male lead's hand was rubbing her thigh gently, pushing her skirt higher. His mouth was on her neck, teasing her with his tongue. She gasped his name, and he growled something that made my stomach tingle.

My heart pounded as I shifted in my seat, painfully aware of the heat spreading through me. This was the good part. The part I'd been waiting for all afternoon.

Time blurred as I lost myself in the pages, the game fading into noise around me.

*His fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear, sliding into her—*

The crowd exploded.

I jolted, nearly dropping the book. Around me, everyone was on their feet, screaming. The game had ended and I hadn't even noticed.

I blinked, disoriented. The players were shaking hands on the ice. The scoreboard flashed the final score and people were already pushing toward the exits.

Standing up, I shoved the book back into my pocket. It slid in, but the corner was sticking out.

I turned toward the aisle and...

BAM. Straight into someone's solid chest.

A rough hand caught my waist before I could fall. It was so warm I could feel them through the cardigan.

"Careful."

That voice.

My head snapped up, and my brain just... stopped.

*Oh my God. Oh my God.* Those ocean eyes were staring at me. Dark hair falling past his ears. His jersey was still damp with sweat even though he hadn't played.

Zayn Blackwood was touching me. My vision of a fictional man was standing right in front of me. And his hands... damn, I couldn't breathe... his hands were on my waist.

"You okay?"

I nodded, or at least I thought I did. I wasn't sure. My body wasn't listening to me anymore.

He was too fucking close. Close enough that I could smell his sharp cologne, and if I leaned forward even an inch, I'd be pressed against his chest.

I could feel his soft breath on my neck, the heat radiating from him making sweat prickle down my arms.

My face was on fire. I knew my freckles were practically glowing against my flushed skin. I wanted to look away, do literally anything other than stand there staring at him like an idiot.

But I couldn't.

And then...

Wait.

Something's sliding out of my pocket.

*Oh no.*

The book slipped free, tumbling out of my cardigan.

My eyes followed it. Before my brain could react, it hit the ground heavily and the pages spread open, right to the dog-eared page. Where the prose had got so explicit I'd checked twice to make sure my roommate wasn't around when I'd read it.

My mouth went dry.

But that wasn't the worst part.

The photos. Three of them, each one with *Zayn & Emery* scribbled in the corner in my handwriting.

It was printed on regular paper, Zayn's pictures, from the school website. From Instagram. One I'd taken from afar on the ice.

They were on the ground. Evidence of my six-month obsession.

Oh god. The texter was right. I was a freak. And now Zayn knew it too.

My whole body went numb.

Zayn's hands dropped from my waist.

I watched, frozen, as his eyes tracked downward. To the book, then to the pictures.

His own face staring back at him from between the pages of my erotic novel.

He looked shocked.

I should have moved, grabbed the book and run as fast as I could. But my legs were trembling too hard for that mission. My whole body was locked up.

His eyes found mine and I flinched.

Then he looked back at the book.

*Don't. Please. Don't...*

My fingers were shaking so bad I thought he might notice.

Too late. He bent down, and his hand reached for it.

I stopped breathing.