Novels by C.M.

Odell’s POVPain.A dull, relentless ache pounded against my skull before I even opened my eyes. I groaned, squeezing my eyelids tighter as if that would somehow silence the hangover threatening to split my head open.“Fuck…”My throat was dry and my body felt heavy.What the hell did I drink last night?Slowly, I forced my eyes open. The room was blurry at first. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, washing everything in a pale golden glow. I blinked several times until my vision cleared, then I froze. There was someone beside me, with long dark hair spilled across the pillow. A familiar face.Nicole.“…Nicole?” My heart lurched. Why… Why was Nicole in my bed? I immediately sat upright, only for another wave of pain to slam into my head.“Damn…”The movement stirred her. Nicole frowned in her sleep before slowly opening her eyes. For a brief second, she smiled. A soft, sleepy smile. Then she noticed the panic on my face, and the smile disappeared.“What…” I swallowed hard. “What

Odell's mouth closed over my nipple, hot and wet. He didn’t just suck; he worshipped. He laved the sensitive peak with his tongue, then drew it deep into his mouth, sucking hard enough to send jolts of pure electricity straight to my core. I cried out, my head falling back, my fingers clutching at his hair. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same devoted, hungry attention, biting gently, then soothing the sting with his tongue. Pleasure, sharp and sweet, coiled tight in my belly. I was already soaking wet, my jeans feeling impossibly constricting. “Odell… please…” He understood. With a grunt, he shifted us, maneuvering me until I was lying back on the couch cushions. He knelt on the floor between my legs, his hands going to the button of my jeans. His eyes locked with mine as he popped it open and dragged the zipper down. “I need to taste all of you,” he said, and the sheer want in his voice undid me. He peeled my jeans and panties down my legs, tossing them aside. Then

Nicole’s POVI couldn’t sit still.For what felt like the hundredth time, I glanced at my phone lying on the coffee table. Nothing, no messages or calls. I bounced my leg impatiently, chewing on my thumbnail.Come on… Christian should have called by now.The masquerade party had started hours ago. By now, he must have confronted Ethan. He must have exposed everything.So why was he silent? Did the plan work? Or… Did Ethan somehow convince him to forgive him?The thought alone made my stomach twist. “No…” I muttered to myself. “There’s no way.” I stood up and began pacing around the living room. If Ethan had managed to smooth things over…If he and Odell had decided to stay together… Then everything I had done would have been for nothing. “No…”I ran a frustrated hand through my hair. “Pick up your phone…” As if the universe had heard me, my phone suddenly vibrated.Christian.My heart leaped.I answered before the second ring. “Hello?”His voice came through immediately, cold and flat.

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

A week later, the first true storm of spring lashed against the windows of Sterling Thorne’s office, rain sheeting down the panes in chaotic rivers. Inside, the atmosphere was a different kind of storm, tense, silent, and crackling with unspent fury. Melanie River stood before his desk, and she was a hurricane contained in a five-foot-two frame. A junior, nineteen, she had the compact, powerful build of a gymnast, which she was. Her auburn hair was a wild, damp mane around a face flushed with anger, her freckles standing out like copper dust across her nose. Her green eyes blazed, and her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, making the muscles in her biceps flex. Her uniform was a mess, mud splattered on the knees of her gray pants, the sleeve of her blouse torn at the shoulder. The report in Sterling’s hand was from Coach Briggs. Melanie River – Physical altercation with Sarah Li in the locker room. Sarah required two stitches above her eye. Melanie shows “no remorse.” Suspens

Phoebe’s eyes went wide. A soft “oh” escaped her lips. This was the first test, the leap from theory to practice. Her fingers, so steady when holding a debate trophy, fumbled at the first pearl button. It slipped free. Then the next. And the next. She kept her eyes downcast, her face aflame. When the blouse fell open, it revealed a simple, white cotton bra. She was elegant, slender, her breasts high and modest. Sterling’s gaze was clinical, appreciative. “Lovely. Now, the skirt. Unzip it and let it fall.” A whimper this time, but her hands moved. The zipper’s sound was loud in the silent room. The gray pleated skirt pooled around her ankles, leaving her in her bra, kneesocks, and plain white panties. She shivered, though the room was warm. “Come here,” he murmured, opening his arms slightly. She stepped out of the skirt-circle and took the two steps to him, stopping just inches away. He could smell her now, lavender soap and the clean scent of crisp cotton, undercut by the sharp

The following Monday afternoon, Principal Sterling Thorne sat in the quiet of his office, the memory of Nova’s defiant submission still a pleasant, humming undercurrent in his veins. He’d watched her in the hallways between classes, seen the new, secretive tilt to her smirk when their eyes met. It was a game well-played. Today, however, was a different kind of challenge. He glanced at the file open before him: Phoebe Ashford, 19, Senior. Class Valedictorian (projected). President of the Debate Team, Editor of the Literary Magazine, Lead in the Spring Musical. Her photograph showed a girl with a serene, intelligent face, honey-blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and eyes the color of calm sea glass. Flawless. Untouchable. The perfect student. And therein lay the problem, according to the note from Mrs. Gable, the senior English teacher. “Excessive perfectionism leading to visible anxiety. Refuses all suggestions to delegate or reduce workload. Concerned about a potential bre

The late afternoon sun slanted through the polished windows of Principal Sterling Thorne’s office, casting long, elegant shadows across the Persian rug. At fifty-two, Sterling carried his authority like a tailored suit, impeccable, intimidating, and quietly powerful. His silver-flecked hair was perfectly styled, his charcoal suit jacket draped over the back of his leather chair. He was reviewing disciplinary reports, but his attention kept drifting to the clock. He was expecting a visitor. A soft knock echoed through the spacious office. “Come in,” Sterling called, his voice a low, commanding baritone. The door opened, and Nova stepped inside. She was a vision of calculated rebellion, a senior, eighteen years old, with jet-black hair streaked with electric blue. It fell in messy waves around a face dominated by large, kohl-rimmed eyes and a smirk that suggested she knew secrets the world wasn’t ready for. She wore the mandatory uniform, but had transformed it: the white blouse was

The silence he left in his wake was absolute, broken only by the rising howl of the wind and the first fat drops of rain hitting the glass. Minutes ticked by. No one moved. They stared at their objects, at the storm, at their own hands. Chloe was the first to break. A soft sob escaped her. She looked at the collar, gleaming dully on the dark velvet. She saw every moment of pretended pleasure, every hungry, secret glance, every time she’d molded herself to fit a fantasy. She reached down. Her fingers closed around the cool platinum. Without ceremony, she lifted it, brought it to her throat, and fastened the clasp. It clicked shut with a final, soft snick. She let out a shaking breath. It didn’t feel like a leash. It felt like a spine. Julian watched her from the corner of his eye. He looked at the cane. He remembered the bite of it, the humiliation, and then the strange, clean clarity that followed. The freedom in surrender. He thought of his gyms, his empire built on rigid control.

Elena stood holding the phone, utterly broken. The titan was gone. In her place was a hollow woman who had just heard the true cost of her victory. She slowly placed the phone down and sank into her chair, staring at nothing. Daddy let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of her confession to settle over everyone. "The bowl is not yet empty," he said finally. "We continue. But the nature of the game shifts now. You have seen the depths. Now, we see the connections. Chloe, draw again." The game proceeded, paper after paper, drawing out more secrets, forcing more intimacies. Chloe was commanded to kiss the person she felt most jealous of (she chose Elena, a hard, desperate kiss that tasted of salt and envy). Julian was ordered to let Alistair examine his body like a specimen, narrating every scar and imperfection. Marcus had to compose a haiku using only words torn from a magazine that described his mother (the result was devastatingly bleak). Finally, the bowl held only one las