Romans de Sarie Writes

POV: Avery BlakeFive years later.The house smelled of old wood and coffee that had been sitting too long. Small, cramped, the kind of place graduate students rotate through, leaving behind half-forgotten mugs, crooked picture frames, and that faint, permanent scent of ambition mixed with instant ramen. I stood in the kitchen, spooning sugar into a cup I didn’t intend to drink. The ritual made my hands busy, my mind quiet—until I remembered the car that should have been here fifteen minutes ago.Grayson was in Seattle. Two years. Two years of distance that felt like a living, breathing thing. Stretch it too far, and it might snap. But it hadn’t snapped. Not yet. Not when the love between us had always been as much persistence as passion, as much patience as desire. We wrote, not often. But when we did, it mattered. The 2 a.m. confessions, the tiny victories over our own fear, the debates about everything and nothing, all held in words that needed no witness. The love that survived ac

POV: Grayson HayesThe coffee shop was new. Not Marie's, not The Grind, not any of the places they'd been before. Neutral territory, Grayson had thought, when he saw her text: Can we talk? Not at the lake. Not at school. Somewhere boring.He arrived early. Ordered black coffee, the efficiency that was also habit, also inheritance, also the control he'd learned to question. Sat at the corner table, back to the wall, the position of observation that was also becoming.She arrived at 3:15, seven minutes late, the jacket he'd seen before, the hair different—shorter, hers, the becoming visible even in this."Hey," she said, sitting across from him, maintaining distance that was also intimacy, also uncertainty, also the space between who they'd been and who they were becoming."Hey."The coffee shop noise surrounded them, other people's ordinary problems, the safety of public space that was also exposure."I got into Northwestern," she said. Not greeting. Information. The future becoming pr

POV: Avery BlakeThe letter arrived on a Tuesday. Plain envelope, no return address, the handwriting familiar—Dante's, but different. Slower, uncertain, the architect learning to build without blueprint.Avery opened it at her aunt's kitchen table. The coffee cold, the morning gray, the season turning without her permission.Plain language, it began. No code. That's the promise. The trying that might fail, but is still trying.I burned the notebook. The archive. The documentation of your becoming that was also mine. Not because I don't love you. Because I do. The not-romantic, messed-up, still-trying kind. The kind that destroys and apologizes and destroys again, but is learning—slowly, failing, learning—to want your freedom without dying from it.The burning was for me. Not for you. The need to stop observing, stop documenting, stop making your life into proof of my existence. The need to— He stopped, the page turning, the handwriting becoming messier, more honest. To just be. Withou

POV: Avery BlakeMaya Chen became real. Not by accident. The debate team, the arguments, the controlled violence that was also voice. She found Avery in the library, the corner table, the position of observation that was also becoming."You're good," Maya said. Not compliment. Assessment. "The argument. The structure. The way you see what people want and—" She stopped, found the word. "And either give it to them or take it away. That's power. That's dangerous.""That's inheritance," Avery said. The honesty that was also risk, also trust, also the beginning of friendship without blueprint. "From him. Dante. The one who taught me to watch, to wait, to build rapport like it was—" She stopped, the vocabulary surfacing. "Like it was survival. Because it was. For me. For him. For the mess we made together."Maya sat down. Not asking, just taking the space, the intimacy of strangers who might become something else. "Tell me."So Avery told her. Not everything. Not the code, the porch nights,

POV: Dante RomanoTherapy was mandatory. School policy, post-incident, the leak and the fallout and the intervention that hadn't worked. Dante sat in the chair, plastic, uncomfortable, and said nothing for the first three sessions.The therapist, Dr. Okonkwo, didn't push. Just waited, took notes, let the silence be silence. The fourth session, she asked: "What do you want to talk about?""Nothing." He said it flat, the honesty that was also defense. "I don't want to talk. I want to draw. That's how I—" He stopped, found the word. "That's how I know things. By seeing them. By making them visible. Not by saying them.""Then draw," she said. "Here. Now."He stared at her. The permission unexpected, the space offered without demand. He pulled out his sketchbook, the one that had been blank for weeks, the pencil that had failed him.Drew the room. The chair, the window, the therapist observing without observation. The lines came slow, uncertain, the translation of feeling into image that h

POV: Grayson HayesThe party was Nico's idea. End of season, the win that didn't feel like winning, the celebration that felt like obligation. Grayson went because not going would be noticed, would be commented on, would be another data point in the narrative of Grayson Hayes losing control, becoming his father, falling apart.He was falling apart. Just quietly. Privately. The way he'd learned to do everything that mattered.The party was loud, crowded, the kind of space that demanded performance. Grayson performed. The ease, the charm, the quarterback who had everything and wanted nothing. He drank enough to make it convincing, not enough to lose control. The balance he'd learned, the inheritance managed, the temper locked down.Nico found him at midnight. Behind the house, vomiting into the bushes. The body betraying what the face had hidden."She's not worth this," Nico said. The easy diagnosis, the friend who saw symptoms and missed disease.Grayson wiped his mouth. Straightened.

The cool night air hit my skin like a shock, but it did nothing to dampen the heat radiating from between my legs. I hadn't bothered with a bra or underwear; I had simply slipped into a sheer, silk slip that clung to my curves and left nothing to the imagination. Every step I took felt the slick slide of Richard’s cum leaking from my pussy, a warm, sticky reminder of the audit I’d just endured. The thought of Ethan finding out—or better yet, tasting the evidence of my father's claim—made my clit throb with a renewed, desperate hunger.I slipped through the French doors and into the moonlit garden. The scent of blooming jasmine and damp earth filled the air, mixing with the musk of my own arousal. I saw him leaning against the stone wall of the gazebo, a cigarette between his fingers, his eyes scanning the darkness. When he spotted me, his gaze darkened, traveling slowly from my bare toes up to the thin straps of the slip."You're not wearing the dress," Ethan noted, his voice a low, d

The dinner had been a masterclass in tension, a choreographed dance of hidden touches and suffocating secrets. By the time the last of the wine was poured and the house had settled into a heavy, expectant silence, the air in the hallways felt thick enough to choke on. I had played the part of the innocent daughter and sister perfectly, but my body was screaming, still humming from the echoes of Jake’s claim and the predatory gaze of my father, Richard.I retreated to my bedroom, the click of the lock providing a momentary, false sense of security. I stripped off my dress, letting it pool at my ankles, and stood naked before the full-length mirror. I looked like a map of my own depravity. The faint red handprints on my thighs from Jake’s grip were fading, but the memory of his cock filling me in the laundry room was still a warm, pulsing weight in my gut. I reached down, sliding two fingers into my dripping pussy, swirling them through the remnants of the day's filth. I moaned, my head

The evening sun dipped low as I prepared for dinner, the scent of roasting lamb filling the house. Richard and Jake would be home any minute, their voices already echoing in my mind—deep, commanding, full of that possessive hunger that made my core throb. But beneath my apron, Harlan's cum still lingered inside me, a sticky secret from this afternoon's romp. I'd showered, sure, but the faint ache in my pussy reminded me of his thick shaft stretching me wide, his grunts as he pumped me full. It turned me on, this double life, fucking them both while plotting more.I set the table, smoothing my skirt—a modest floral number that hid the fact I wore nothing underneath. No panties to soak through, just my bare lips brushing fabric with every step. The doorbell rang; it was Aunt Lydia, Richard's sister, arriving early for our monthly family meal. She was sharp-eyed, always probing, but tonight she'd be useful. Maybe I'd tease her husband, Uncle Tom, that balding accountant with wandering ha

The morning after our intense night, sunlight filtered through the curtains, warming my skin as I stretched languidly in the tangled sheets. Richard and Jake had left early for work, their goodbye kisses lingering on my lips and neck, a reminder of how thoroughly they'd claimed me. My body ached in the best way—sore pussy and ass from their cocks, bruises blooming on my hips from their grips. But the satisfaction was fleeting; my mind already raced to the next thrill. The neighbor, Mr. Harlan, that rugged widower next door with his salt-and-pepper hair and broad shoulders—he'd been eyeing me for weeks, mowing his lawn shirtless, his gaze flicking over whenever I sunbathed by the pool. Today, I'd make my move.I slipped into a skimpy sundress, no bra or knickers, the thin fabric clinging to my curves and barely covering my thighs. A quick glance in the mirror showed my hair tousled just right, lips plump from last night's sucking. Perfect innocent bait. I grabbed a plate of fresh-baked

I lay sprawled across the massive king-sized bed in the master suite, the silk sheets cool against my heated skin. The room smelled of sandalwood and anticipation, the dim lamp casting golden shadows over my naked body. Richard, my stepfather, stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes dark with hunger as he uncapped the bottle of massage oil. Jake, my stepbrother, knelt beside me, his broad hands already tracing the curve of my thigh. They both wore nothing but their desire, cocks hard and twitching in the air between us."Look at you, Delilah," Richard murmured, his voice low and commanding, pouring the warm oil into his palm. "Our perfect little slut, ready to be worshipped." He started at my shoulders, his strong fingers kneading the oil into my skin, slick and shiny as it trailed down my collarbone, over the swell of my breasts. My nipples hardened instantly under his touch, and I arched my back, a soft moan escaping my lips.Jake joined in, his hands gliding over my hips, spreading

Dinner dragged under the chandelier's glow, silverware clinking like accusations. I sat between Jake and Richard, my fork pushing peas around the plate, thighs still sticky from the laundry fuck. Jake's foot nudged mine under the table, a silent reminder of his cum drying inside me. Richard poured wine, his gaze lingering on the faint red marks peeking from my collar—Jake's handprints from earlier spanks, or maybe Marcus's grip. They didn't ask, but the air hummed with unspoken jealousy."Uni keeping you busy?" Richard probed, voice smooth as he refilled my glass."Exams looming," I lied, sipping deep, the alcohol warming my belly. My phone vibrated in my pocket—Ethan: Alley. Now. Can't wait to bury my cock in that tight throat. Heat flushed my cheeks. Jake noticed, eyebrow arching."Everything alright, princess?""Just a friend," I murmured, excusing myself to the powder room. In the mirror, I fixed my lipstick, smeared from Jake's rough kisses, and texted back: On my way. Bring frie