Novels by C.M.

Odell’s POVThe masquerade ball was everything I expected and nothing I was ready for.Music pulsed through the air, low and hypnotic, blending with soft laughter and the clink of glasses. Masks of every kind moved through the crowd: gold, black, feathered, jeweled, hiding identities, revealing desires.Perfect.I adjusted mine slightly, my eyes scanning the room.Then my phone buzzed.A message.Ethan Parker.I’m here. Meet me at the table by the far corner.My chest tightened.Finally.I made my way through the crowd, my heartbeat steady but heavy, like it knew something I didn’t.Then I saw him, sitting there. Waiting. Even behind the mask, I knew it was him. The way he sat, the way his fingers tapped lightly against the table, the way his presence pulled me in like gravity.I stopped in front of him.For a second, neither of us spoke. We just looked at each other and somehow… That was enough.“I missed you,” he said quietly.My throat tightened. “I missed you too.”He stood up slo

Nicole’s POVThe next day…I stood in front of Ethan's house, my heart beating steadily not from fear, but from anticipation.This was it.The beginning of the end.My fingers tightened slightly around the strap of my bag as I stared up at the building. Clean, quiet, and respectable.It suited him.Ethan Parker, the perfect professor. The kind, composed man everyone admired.I almost laughed.Let’s see how perfect you look after today.I had made sure of one thing before coming here. He wouldn’t be home, he had classes. Which meant—His fiancée, Christian would be.I stepped forward and knocked.Once.Twice.A few seconds passed. Then the door opened and there he was.His fiancée. Handsome, poised, and completely unaware.His eyes scanned me from head to toe, cautious. “Yes? Who are you?”I offered a small, polite smile. “I have some information for you.”His brows furrowed immediately. “What information?”I tilted my head slightly. “If you let me in, I can explain better.”His expres

Nicole’s POVTwo days later…The house was quiet.Too quiet.I sat in the living room, legs tucked under me, scrolling aimlessly through my phone, A knock broke the silence.I frowned slightly, getting up to open the door.A delivery guy stood there, holding out a package.“For Odell.”“I’ll take it,” I said, signing quickly.I closed the door behind me and walked back into the living room, dropping the package on the table.At first, I ignored it. Really, I tried to but my eyes kept drifting back to it. That small, innocent-looking box was sitting there like it wasn’t hiding something.Curiosity itched under my skin.Just a look.That’s all.I reached for it, turned it over. My gaze dropped to the label.His name.Still… I opened it, slowly and carefully. And then—I froze.A mask.Not just any mask, a masquerade mask. Black. Sleek. Elegant. Expensive-looking. The kind that screamed luxury and secrecy.My fingers brushed over it lightly. “A masquerade…?” I whispered.Why would he nee

Odell’s POV“What do you mean you got a job here?”The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.I’m staring at Nicole, trying to make sense of what I just heard, but her expression is already shifting—caught, slightly nervous.“I—um… I just got it today and—”“Enough.” The manager’s voice cuts through everything like a blade.“This is my place of business. I will not tolerate this kind of disturbance. All of you, outside. Now.”I barely register it, my focus is still on her. A job? Here? Why?Beside her, Alex steps forward quickly. “Sir, I’ll just go back to work—”“I said leave,” the man snaps, his tone final. “Both of you are fired. You haven’t even started, and you’re already bringing drama. I don’t need that here.”Fired.Just like that.Nicole opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.And for some reason… That annoys me even more.We step out of the café. The door shuts behind us.Silence hangs for a second.Then I grab her wrist—not harsh, but firm enough — and pull h

Nicole’s POVThe moment I shut my door, I froze. Then my breath came out fast, too fast like I had just run a marathon.“What… was that?” I whispered to myself.My heart was still racing. My mind is replaying everything that just happened with Odell Johnson. The way he looked at me, the way his voice dropped.“I don’t want you going anywhere.”“I don’t want you seeing any guy.”I pressed my back against the door, slowly sliding down until I was sitting on the floor.Confused.Completely confused.“Why would he act like that…?”I wrapped my arms around myself, thinking. Was that… jealousy? Possessiveness? Or Something else? My brows furrowed. “No… that doesn’t make sense.”He’s gay.“I haven’t even done anything yet…” I muttered.I hadn’t seduced him. Hadn’t tried anything serious. Hadn’t even properly started. So why was he acting like that?Unless—My heart skipped slightly. “Does he… like me already?”The thought sat there, heavy and dangerous because if that was true, then everyt

Odell’s POVI don’t move.I keep kissing her, my grip on her ass tightening just enough to make her gasp. Her nails rake down my back, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. I can taste her frustration, her need, and it’s overwhelming.“Say it,” I murmur against her mouth, my voice a growl. “Say you want me.”She pulls back just enough to glare at me, her eyes dark with lust, her lips swollen from my kisses. “You know I want you, you bastard.”I smirk. “Not good enough.”Her breath hitches. For a second, I think she’s going to argue. But then her expression shifts, her gaze dropping to my mouth before flicking back up. “I want you,” she says, slower this time. Deliberate. “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. Your dick—”I cut her off with another kiss, this one brutal. Possessive. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, claiming her, and she moans, her body going pliant in my arms. The counter digs into her spine, but she doesn’t complain. She kisses me back, her hands fisting

The peace was a fragile, fucked-out haze, shattered by the escalating force of their movements. Isabella had become a conduit of pure sensation, her mind blissfully blank, reduced to the rhythmic push and pull, the slap of flesh, the guttural sounds of male pleasure. But Marcus and Julian were far from finished with their new toy. Julian’s thrusts into her ass became sharper, more demanding, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks. "She's taking it so well, Marcus," he grunted, his usually smooth voice rough with strain. "Like a perfect little anal slut." Marcus, gripping her hair to control the pace of her face-fucking, gave a dark chuckle. "She hasn't even had our cocks in her cunt at the same time yet." He pulled his length from her mouth, a thick strand of saliva clinging to her bruised lips. "Up, on your back. Now." Disoriented, weak-limbed, Isabella obeyed the barked command. Julian withdrew from her ass with a wet pop

The world dissolved into a raw, physical symphony. The slap of skin on skin, the creak of the abused desk, the guttural grunts of the men using her, and her own broken cries, which had morphed from screams into breathless, sobbing pleas. "Please... oh god, please..." But whether she was begging them to stop or never to stop, even she didn't know. Marcus held her gaze captive, his stormy eyes burning with a primal fire as he pistoned up into her, his cock stroking a deep, internal trigger with every brutal thrust. "Who do you belong to, Isabella?" he demanded, his voice ragged. "You," she gasped, the word torn from her. "Louder." "I belong to you!" she cried, the declaration sending a shockwave of shame and dark thrill through her. From behind, Julian chuckled, a dark, rich sound as he maintained his deep, grinding rhythm in her ass. "And?" he prompted, his hands moving from her hips to cup her full breasts, pinching her nipples through the lace of her bra until she yelped. "And

The command, so direct, so filthy, sent a fresh flood of wetness between her legs. She sank down, the cool rug rough against her bare knees. From this vantage point, she was eye-level with the prominent bulge in Marcus’s trousers. Julian moved behind her, his hands settling on her bare shoulders, a possessive anchor. Marcus unbuckled his belt, the clink of metal deafening. He unzipped his fly and freed his cock. It was thick, veined, and already fully erect, the head flushed a deep red. Isabella’s breath hitched. It was larger than anything she’d ever seen, let alone taken. “Look at you,” Marcus growled, fisting his length. “Our pretty little applicant, on her knees where she belongs. Show us you want this job, Isabella. Show us how badly you need it.” His words were a dark catalyst, mixing her shame with a desperate, rising need. Leaning forward, driven by a compulsion she didn’t fully understand, she extended her tongue and licked a slow, tentative stripe from the base of his sha

The luxurious penthouse apartment shimmered in the sunset, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering city skyline. Isabella, a young woman of twenty-three with wide, innocent eyes and a curvy figure she was still learning to own, nervously smoothed the silk of her little black dress. It was too tight, too short, a choice she’d made in a moment of wild rebellion against her quiet life. She was here to interview for a personal assistant position, a job that promised a salary that could lift her and her sick mother out of their cramped apartment forever. The door opened before she could knock. Two men stood in the doorway, and the air seemed to leave the corridor. They were both in their late forties, exuding an aura of power and casual wealth that was almost tangible. Marcus, on the left, had dark hair silvering at the temples, eyes like storm clouds, and a jawline that could cut glass. He wore a charcoal suit that hugged his broad shoulders. Julian, on the right, was h

The days of the Intensive Program bled into one another, a relentless, structured procession of sensory modulation, restraint, and Dr. Anderson’s meticulously applied “therapy.” The pharmacological adjuncts began on Day Two, a clear, tasteless liquid added to her water that made her skin hypersensitive and her mind pliant, blurring the edges of resistance into a soft, accepting haze. Each day introduced a new variable. Some sessions were silent, hours spent bound in intricate, restrictive positions while he observed her on the monitors, noting her physiological responses. Others were cacophonous, filled with discordant sounds, his voice layered over pre-recorded medical commands and her own previous moans played back to her. He used tools with increasing specificity: a vibrating, pronged device that clamped onto her clitoris for “oscillatory desensitization,” a warmed, weighted plug inserted for hours to “promote pelvic floor memory.” Through it all, the through-line was his contr

The transition from outpatient to inpatient was seamless, a logical escalation in a protocol that had long since ceased to have any pretense of medical legitimacy. On Monday at 9 AM, Alexa presented herself not at the West Wing suite, but at a private, unmarked entrance to a part of the hospital she’d never seen. Dr. Anderson met her there, his demeanor one of brisk, focused efficiency. “Leave your phone, your bag, any personal items here,” he instructed, taking a small lockbox from a shelf. “For the duration of the program, you are under my direct care. Your sole focus is healing.” She handed over her lifeline to the outside world without a word. The act felt symbolic, a final severing. He led her down a sterile, quiet hallway to a private room. It wasn’t a standard hospital room. It was a larger space, sparsely furnished. A wide, medical-grade bed with adjustable rails dominated the center. There were monitors against one wall, their screens dark. A rolling cart held an array of d