Novels by Lihanmac

Three nights after the gala, 3:17 a.m.The penthouse was a cathedral of shadows and city neon bleeding through floor-to-ceiling glass. Raven woke to a heavy hand clamped over her mouth and 220 pounds of pure muscle pinning her face-down to the mattress. Saint’s knees forced her thighs apart; his cock—already naked, scalding, leaking—dragged along the cleft of her ass like a threat she’d been waiting for.“Shh,” he growled against her ear, teeth scraping the shell. “Don’t scream, little sister. Just open that greedy cunt and take every inch of your stepbrother’s cock like the perfect whore you were born to be.”He had stripped her in her sleep. She was spread-eagle, wrists cuffed to the headboard with butter-soft black leather restraints, ankles locked wide to the bedposts with padded cuffs. Cool air kissed her bare skin, her cunt already dripping onto the Egyptian cotton from whatever dream she’d been having about him.Saint shifted his hips. The fat, swollen head of his cock nudged h

Saturday night. The Winter Gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.The Temple of Dendur glowed under amber spotlights, ancient stone bathed in golden light while champagne flutes clinked and society whispers drifted like smoke. Saint Valenti moved through the crowd like he owned the room, because he did. Charcoal Tom Ford tuxedo tailored to perfection, black silk shirt open at the collar, platinum cufflinks glinting like tiny blades.His hand never left the small of Raven’s back, thumb tracing slow, possessive circles over the bare skin where the dress dipped dangerously low.The dress he’d chosen was pure weapon: black silk so thin it clung like liquid shadow, backless to the dimples above her ass, slit to the hip so every step flashed the lace tops of her thigh-high stockings. No bra. No panties. Just the platinum choker locked around her throat—wide enough to be a collar, with a discreet O-ring at the front. The key dangled between his shirt buttons, warm against his chest.“Behave

The WillRaven Sinclair sat with her combat-booted feet planted wide, black fingernails digging crescents into her palms. Nineteen years old, dyed-black hair with fresh crimson roots, a torn Siouxsie and the Banshees shirt under a studded leather jacket.Across the polished mahogany table sat Saint Valenti, twenty-three, heir-apparent to the Valenti Mafia family, immaculate in a charcoal Tom Ford suit cut so sharp it could have drawn blood. His cufflinks were platinum skulls. His eyes were winter.Their parents, Raven’s mother and Saint’s father had perished three weeks earlier when their Gulfstream plunged into the Mediterranean. Today the combined will was read.The lawyer, a nervous ferret of a man named Hirsch, adjusted his glasses six times before beginning.“To Raven Amelia Sinclair, my daughter, I bequeath my personal jewelry collection and a trust fund in the amount of two million U.S. dollars, to be released on her twenty-fifth birthday or upon marriage, whichever occurs firs

The Child of Eternal Desire.Nine months later. Easter Sunday eve, midnight.The old manor house on the outskirts of the village stood wrapped in moonlight, windows shuttered against the world. Inside the master bedroom, a single beeswax candle flickered on the nightstand, its golden flame dancing across tangled silk sheets soaked in sweat and desire. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, rosewater, and raw, unending sex.Father Elias Moreau—no longer bound by any title but forever transformed by his surrender—knelt naked at the foot of the massive four-poster bed, wrists bound behind him with the soft silk sash from Delphine’s robe. His body had changed in these months of constant, consuming passion: leaner, harder, every muscle sculpted from nights spent buried inside her, days spent aching for her touch. His cock stood rigid against his belly, flushed dark and leaking steadily, untouched for weeks by her teasing command. The denial only made him hungrier.Delphine lay proppe

The Crypt of the Damned. At Midnight, two nights later.Father Elias descended the narrow stone stairs beneath the sacristy carrying only a single beeswax candle. The flame trembled in his fist the way his soul now trembled constantly. He had not worn the cassock since the altar. Tonight he was naked beneath a long black coat, cock already aching, leaking steadily into the wool lining. Delphine waited at the bottom. She stood in the center of the ancient crypt, surrounded by the stoned coffin of long-dead bishops and nuns. Iron candle holders had been lit; their guttering flames painted the walls with shadows that writhed like demons.She wore a blood-red velvet cloak and nothing else. The hood was thrown back, hair loose and wild, lips painted black. Between her breasts hung an inverted crucifix on a chain of human finger bones she had told him earlier it belonged to a 14th-century heretic bishop. On one hand she held a riding crop. “You’re late, Father,” she purred. “I’ve been

The Altar of Broken Vows The following night the church was colder, has the silence became heavier. Father Elias had spent the day in a haze of guilt and hunger. He heard every confession through a fog, gave absolution in a voice that cracked, and twice dropped the Host while his mind replayed the slick heat of Delphine’s cunt clenching around his fingers. At 11:30 p.m. he locked the main doors, turned the key with shaking hands, and left the side entrance to the sacristy unlocked. He had obeyed her. Beneath the black cassock he was naked, cock already half-hard from the mere brush of wool against his skin. He had not cum since the previous night, had not dared touch himself, so the head of his dick was swollen, slick with hours of denied pre-cum. He waited in the sanctuary, candlelight flickering across the marble altar. The crucifix above looked down in silent judgment. Footsteps. Soft and deliberate. The click of a woman’s heels on a stone. Delphine appeared at the top of