Submit to My Billionaire Stepbrother

"Yes."

That single word hung between us in the dim parking garage, charged with implications I wasn't entirely sure I understood. Nate's hand remained against my breast, his touch burning through the thin fabric of my blouse. I held my breath, waiting for his next move, my heart hammering so loudly I was certain he could hear it.

Then, suddenly, his expression changed. The hunger in his eyes didn't disappear, but it was joined by something calculating, something that made my stomach tighten with both anticipation and dread.

"Fine," he said, his voice low and controlled. "You can intern at my company."

I blinked, momentarily stunned by this abrupt capitulation. "Really?"

"Yes," Nate replied, finally removing his hand from my breast and taking a step back. "But on one condition."

Of course there would be a condition. With Nate, nothing was ever simple, never freely given. "What is it?"

His eyes traveled down my body in a slow, deliberate assessment that made heat pool between my legs despite my best efforts to remain composed.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "you'll wear a skirt to the office. No underwear."

The blood rushed to my face so quickly I felt dizzy. "What?"

"You heard me." His smile was cold, challenging. "If you want this internship so badly, prove it. Show me you're willing to do... anything."

He was using my own words against me, twisting them into something humiliating, degrading. This was a test—one designed to make me back down, to prove I wasn't as bold as I claimed.

I should refuse. Any self-respecting woman would. But as I stood there, caught in his icy blue gaze, I realized with a mixture of shame and exhilaration that I was going to accept. Because beneath the humiliation was the undeniable fact that he was finally seeing me—acknowledging me as a woman, not just his annoying stepsister.

"Fine," I whispered, my voice steadier than I expected. "I'll do it."

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, that I hadn't backed down. Or maybe satisfaction that his game was proceeding as planned.

"Eight o'clock sharp," he said, turning back to his car. "Don't be late."

As I watched his Aston Martin disappear up the ramp, I wondered what I'd just agreed to. And why, despite the knot of anxiety in my stomach, I felt a thrill of anticipation I couldn't deny.

* * *

The next morning, I stood in front of my closet, paralyzed with indecision. What kind of skirt did one wear when instructed to go commando by one's stepbrother? Something long enough to avoid accidental exposure, but not so conservative that it defeated the purpose of Nate's twisted challenge.

I finally settled on a knee-length black pencil skirt—professional enough for an office, tight enough to remind me constantly of my lack of underwear. Paired with a crisp white blouse and modest heels, I looked every inch the serious intern. No one would guess the secret beneath my proper exterior.

No one except Nate.

The thought sent a forbidden shiver through me as I drove to Blackwood Enterprises, a gleaming skyscraper in the heart of downtown. The building, like its owner, was imposing and coldly beautiful, all glass and steel reaching toward the sky.

I was directed to Human Resources, where I filled out paperwork and received a temporary ID badge. The HR director, a no-nonsense woman with sharp eyes, explained that I'd be assisting various departments with administrative tasks.

"Mr. Blackwood specifically requested you be given a well-rounded experience," she said, her tone suggesting she found this unusual but wasn't about to question the boss's son.

I nodded, trying to look appropriately grateful while ignoring the constant awareness of air against places that were usually covered. Every step, every movement reminded me of my vulnerability, of the power Nate held over me.

The morning passed in a blur of introductions and basic training. I kept expecting Nate to appear, to acknowledge me, to give some sign that he remembered our arrangement. But there was nothing. No summons to his office, no passing encounters in the hallway.

By lunchtime, I was beginning to wonder if this whole thing had been an elaborate joke—a way to humiliate me without having to follow through on the internship promise.

I ate alone in the company cafeteria, hyperaware of my exposed state as I carefully crossed my legs under the table. The constant tension had me on edge, my body in a perpetual state of anticipation that was both exhausting and oddly arousing.

Afternoon brought more mundane tasks—filing, data entry, coffee runs for executives who barely glanced at me. No one treated me differently than any other intern, which was both a relief and a disappointment. Part of me had expected special treatment as Nate's stepsister, while another part had feared everyone would somehow know about our inappropriate arrangement.

By four o'clock, I'd had enough. If Nate thought he could ignore me after what he'd made me do, he was mistaken. I volunteered to deliver coffee to the executive floor, ignoring the surprised look from my supervisor.

"Mr. Blackwood doesn't usually accept deliveries from interns," she warned.

"I think he'll make an exception for me," I replied, my confidence bolstered by indignation.

The executive floor was hushed, the carpet thick enough to muffle my footsteps as I approached Nate's corner office. His assistant's desk was empty—a stroke of luck I hadn't counted on.

I was about to knock when I heard voices from inside. Nate's deep baritone, and a woman's—higher, agitated.

"You can't just discard me like this," the woman was saying, her voice tight with emotion. "After everything we've shared—"

"We shared sex, Jessica, not vows," Nate replied, his tone bored, dismissive. "I was clear from the beginning about what this was."

"You bastard," the woman—Jessica—hissed. "You think you can treat people like playthings and walk away unscathed?"

"I think this conversation is over," Nate said coldly. "Please see yourself out."

I barely had time to step back before the door flew open. A stunning woman with cascading dark hair stormed out, her face contorted with rage and hurt. She collided with me, causing hot coffee to slosh over the rim of the cup and onto my hand.

"Watch it!" she snapped, then paused, her eyes narrowing as she took in my face. "Who are you?"

Before I could answer, Nate appeared in the doorway, his expression darkening as he saw me.

"Emily," he said, my name like ice on his tongue. "What are you doing here?"

Jessica's gaze darted between us, something like recognition dawning in her eyes. "Emily? The stepsister?" She let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, honey. Run while you still can."

With that cryptic warning, she strode away, leaving me alone with Nate. He stepped fully into the hallway, his tall frame blocking the light from his office. His eyes moved down my body in a slow, deliberate assessment, lingering on my skirt in a way that made it clear he was thinking about what lay beneath—or rather, what didn't.

"I brought you coffee," I said lamely, holding out the half-empty cup.

His lips curved in a cold smile. "How... thoughtful."

He made no move to take the coffee. Instead, he continued to study me, his gaze so intense I felt stripped bare despite my carefully chosen outfit.

"Have you been enjoying your first day?" he asked, his tone making it clear he didn't actually care about my answer.

"It's been... educational," I replied, struggling to maintain my composure under his scrutiny.

Something like satisfaction flickered in his eyes. "Good. I'm glad you're learning your place."

The double meaning wasn't lost on me. My cheeks burned, but I refused to look away, to show weakness.

"Is there anything specific you'd like me to do?" I asked, deliberately ambiguous.

Nate's expression hardened. "Yes. Don't appear before me unless summoned. I don't appreciate unexpected interruptions."

With that, he turned and walked back into his office, closing the door firmly behind him.

I stood there, coffee cooling in my hand, humiliation and anger burning in my chest. This was his game—to make me debase myself, then treat me as if I were nothing, invisible.

But as I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of his expression through the glass panel beside his door. He was watching me, his eyes dark with an emotion I couldn't name but recognized instinctively.

Desire.

And in that moment, I knew that despite his cold dismissal, despite his cruel games, Nate Blackwood wanted me every bit as much as I wanted him.

The realization sent a thrill of power through me, tempering my humiliation with something dangerously close to triumph.

This game was far from over.