SINFUL DESIRES
Twenty-two stories. Twenty-two chances to lose yourself.
From storm-stranded islands to tattoo parlors after dark, this collection takes you places you’ve never been with people you’ll never forget. A marine cartographer discovers that the most thrilling territory to explore isn’t on any map. A pastry chef learns that the sweetest pleasure comes with a sting. A mafia fixer breaks his one unbreakable rule. A firefighter finds heat that has nothing to do with flames.
These aren’t your typical romance stories. Here, a museum archivist rediscovers her wild side. An insomniac musician becomes a sleep researcher’s favorite subject. Twin vocal coaches teach an opera singer to find her voice again. A tattoo artist and a widow bond over grief and ink. Each tale is different: different bodies, different desires, different ways of coming undone.
Some encounters are tender. Others are raw. A few will make you blush in public. All of them will leave you breathless.
Whether it’s the tension of waiting, the trust required to surrender, or the electricity of a first touch, each story explores what happens when two people finally give in to what they’ve been craving.
Diverse. Bold. Unapologetically sensual.
Your next obsession starts here.
Baca
Chapter: STORY 3: THE FIXERChapter One: The WitnessThe blood was still wet on the pavement when Poesy turned the corner.She stopped. Her heels clicked once, twice on the concrete, then went silent. The man on the ground wasn’t moving. The other man standing over him held a gun, barrel still smoking in the streetlight.Their eyes met.Poesy’s heart slammed against her ribs. She should run. Scream. Do something other than stand there like an idiot.The man with the gun pulled out his phone.She ran.Her apartment was four blocks away. She made it three before a black car pulled up beside her. The back door opened.“Get in.” The voice was calm. Cold.Poesy kept walking.The car crawled along next to her. “You can get in the car, or I can make you get in the car. Your choice.”She looked. The man in the back seat wasn’t the shooter. This one wore an expensive suit, dark hair slicked back, face carved from stone. She knew who he was. Everyone who worked for the organization knew Dmitri Castellane.The fixer.“I di
Terakhir Diperbarui: 2026-02-01
Chapter: STORY 2: AFTER HOURS AT VERMILLIONChapter 1: The Kitchen WindowThe kitchen smelled like burnt sugar and vanilla. Cosima wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of chocolate. Midnight, and she was still here, trying to get the ganache right. Too thick. Again.Through the window, she could see the tattoo parlor next door. Still lit up. Rev was in there, bent over someone’s back, dark hair falling across her face.Cosima had been watching her for four months. Couldn’t help it. Every time she glanced out the window, there Rev was. Laughing with clients. Sketching designs. Moving with that easy confidence Cosima wished she had.Sometimes Rev would look up. Their eyes would meet through the glass. Rev would smile, slow and knowing, and Cosima would look away too fast, her face hot.Tonight, Rev caught her staring again. Raised an eyebrow. Mouthed something that looked like “still working?”Cosima nodded, embarrassed.Rev grinned and went back to her client.Cosima forced herself to focus. The ganache
Terakhir Diperbarui: 2026-02-01
Chapter: STORY 1: CLAIMEDChapter 1: The Small BoatThe boat smelled like salt, diesel, and this faint sweet thing Isa couldn’t quite place, maybe old fruit, or engine oil mixed with something floral from the mainland. She’d been on research boats before, sure, but never anything this tiny. Never one where the walls were so thin she could literally hear the other person breathing just two feet away on the other side.Zamir was in there now. She could hear the shuffle of his camera equipment, the soft curse when something clattered to the floor.Isa spread her charts across the narrow galley table, weighted down the corners with coffee mugs. Her hands moved in practiced strokes, pencil scratching across paper. The archipelago took shape slowly. Patience was her skill. Precision.“You still use paper?”She hadn’t heard him come out. His voice was low, accent soft around the edges. Nigerian, she’d guessed, though she hadn’t asked.“Digital fails,” she said without looking up. “Paper doesn’t.”He leaned against th
Terakhir Diperbarui: 2026-02-01
Masuk
