SIN ON THE 28TH FLOOR

**Chapter 1: The Return**

Emma adjusted her blouse for the third time in the elevator mirror, smoothing out a wrinkle that wouldn’t stay gone. At twenty-six years old, she was Apex Marketing’s youngest director, which meant she lived on coffee, tight deadlines, and the nagging fear that one wrong move would send her back to the entry-level pit. Today’s presentation to the board had to be flawless. Revenue projections, new campaign visuals, the works. She couldn’t afford distractions.

The elevator door dinged open on the twenty-eighth floor. As that usual morning chaos greeted her phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the smell of burnt coffee from the break room. She just headed straight to her desk, her heels clicking against the polished floor. And her phone buzzed with a calendar reminder: *Welcome Meeting New Consultant 10 AM.*

She hadn’t paid much attention to the name. Because consultants came and went. But when she clicked into the email, her stomach dropped.

Marcus Hale.

*Fuck.*

Five years. That’s how long it had been since her mom dragged her to that awkward dinner and announced that she was marrying Richard Hale, tech millionaire and father to one arrogant son. Marcus had been twenty-eight then, fresh off some European modeling gig or whatever bullshit he told people. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that lazy smirk and dark eyes that seemed to see right through her “good girl” act. The second their eyes met across the table, something twisted low in her gut. Shameful. Wrong. Her new stepbrother, for Christ’s sake.

She had spent the last five years avoiding him as much as possible. He’d been in Europe most of the time anyway building his own agency, chasing clients and probably half the women in Paris and Milan. Occasional family holidays. Stilted conversations. He teased her about her “corporate princess” life while she pretended not to notice how his shirts stretched across his chest.

Emma shook her head, forcing the memories down. *Focus.* She had slides to finalize.

By 9:45, the conference room had started filling up. Emma took her seat near the head of the table, laptop open, notes ready. Ryan, the CEO, strode in looking sharp as always silver threading his temples, expensive suit, the kind of quiet authority that made people sit straighter. He gave her a quick nod. “Ready to kill it today, Emma?”

“Always,” she said, managing a smile.

Then the door opened again.

Marcus walked in like he owned the place. Charcoal suit tailored perfectly to his frame, hair a little longer than she remembered, that same cocky tilt to his jaw. His eyes scanned the room and landed on her immediately. The smirk appeared slow, knowing.

“Morning, everyone,” he said, voice deep and smooth. “Marcus Hale. Happy to be consulting on the European expansion push.”

A few handshakes. Polite murmurs. Emma’s pulse hammered in her ears. She forced herself to look at her screen, but she could feel him watching her as he took the empty chair directly across the table.

The meeting kicked off. Ryan ran through introductions. Emma presented her slides, voice steady even though her thighs pressed together under the table. She kept her eyes on the projector, avoiding Marcus. But halfway through, when she glanced up to gauge reactions, he was leaning back, fingers steepled, staring at her with undisguised heat.

Her nipples tightened against her bra. *Goddamn it.*

After the formal part wrapped, Ryan clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Marcus will be embedded here for the next few months. Emma, I want you two coordinating closely on the client pitches. Your teams will overlap.”

“Of course,” she said tightly.

People filtered out. Marcus lingered. When the room was nearly empty, he circled the table and stopped beside her chair. Close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne woodsy, expensive.

“Little sis,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. “All grown up and running shit around here. Cute.”

“Don’t call me that at work,” she hissed, shutting her laptop a little too hard.

He chuckled. “Why? Afraid people will find out how wet you get when I do?”

Emma’s face burned. She stood quickly, gathering her things, but he didn’t back up. His chest brushed her shoulder. “You’ve been avoiding family dinners for months. Mom noticed.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Bullshit.” His hand grazed her lower back as he reached past her for a water bottle on the table. The touch was casual to anyone watching, but his fingers pressed just enough to send heat pooling between her legs. “You’re still pretending to be the perfect little professional. But I remember how you looked at me that first night. Like you wanted me to bend you over the dinner table right there.”

Her breath caught. Memories flashed his hand accidentally brushing hers when passing dishes, the way he’d watched her across the pool during one summer visit, shirtless and dripping. She’d fingered herself that night in the guest bathroom, biting her lip to stay quiet, hating herself for it.

“Marcus, stop,” she whispered, but there was no force behind it.

He leaned in closer, lips near her ear. “Meet me in the copy room after lunch. We need to… catch up on files.”

Then he was gone, striding out like nothing happened.

Emma sank back into her chair, legs shaky. Her panties were already damp. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to ignore the ache. This was dangerous. He was family. They were at *work*. But the thought of his hands on her again after all this time made her clit throb.

The rest of the morning dragged. She fumbled through two calls, deleted an entire email by mistake, and kept checking the clock. By 1:15, she told herself she was just going to tell him off. Set boundaries. Nothing more.

The copy room was tucked away near the supply closet, rarely used since most things were digital now. She slipped inside, heart racing.

Marcus was already there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. The door clicked shut behind her.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

He stepped forward, backing her against the door. One hand braced beside her head. “But you came anyway. That’s my good little slut.”

The word hit her like a spark. She should slap him. Instead, her breath hitched.

His free hand slid down her side, over her hip, then under her skirt. Fingers brushed the edge of her panties. “Already soaked. Fuck, Emma. You’ve been thinking about this for years, haven’t you?”

She bit her lip, refusing to answer. But when he pressed two fingers against her through the fabric, rubbing slow circles, a soft whimper escaped.

“Tell me,” he growled.

“Yes,” she breathed. “God, yes.”

He kissed her then hard, demanding, nothing like the polite family facade. His tongue pushed into her mouth as his fingers slipped under her panties, stroking her slick folds. Two thick fingers sank into her pussy without warning. She gasped against his lips, hips rocking involuntarily.

“Quiet,” he warned, pumping them deeper. “Don’t want the whole office knowing what a desperate whore my stepsister is.”

The degradation should have disgusted her. Instead, it made her wetter. She rode his hand, chasing the pressure on her clit, until her thighs trembled.

He pulled his fingers out just as she was getting close, leaving her aching and empty. Smirking, he brought them to her lips. “Clean them.”

She sucked obediently, tasting herself, eyes locked on his.

“Good girl.” He stepped back, adjusting the obvious bulge in his pants. “This is just the start. Tonight, after work… we’re going to have a proper reunion.”

Emma straightened her skirt with shaky hands, face flushed. She slipped out first, praying no one noticed.

Back at her desk, she tried to focus on emails, but her mind kept replaying his touch. Her stepbrother was back. And she was already way too deep.