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“Fucking sluts! Fuck’em both!” I cursed as I headed for my room. I had just gotten back from my boyfriends house. I caught him in bed fucking my best friend in the most erotically appealing position. Something he’d ‘never’ try with me. What did I do wrong anyway? I stormed into the living room and slammed the door right behind me. I couldn’t contain the anger and level of betrayal. He told me he loved me. He told me that he cared for me and that he would cherish me for as long as I live. But he still did it anyway. He cheated, and he didn’t seem the slightest bit remorseful about it. I stopped by the kitchen to get some water, I was fuming, I needed something to keep me grounded, something to stop the fire flaring under my skin from eating me up from the inside. I needed to breathe. “Oh for fuck's sake,” I cursed under my breath. It was my sex crazed Mom and her *new man* Saying it aloud like that made me want to puke. My ‘stepdad’ so they’d call it. I mean he’s hot, assertive and mom’s like always horny but that’s not a good enough reason to constantly make out like I don’t exist ? It was their clothes. They were scattered everywhere—socks, jeans, a bra, t-shirt, loitering the stairs, living room and everywhere. Like some sex crazed teenager. I was headed to my room and just as I was about to get on the stairs “Oh yes, Dante—fuck” the plea tore out of my mother’s throat, ragged and needy. I hated that they were loud. I hate that he’s my stepdad. And I definitely hated them together, too, but I didn’t care. I just headed up to my room. “Jesus! Mom! Dante?” I screamed, throwing my hands up in the air in total disbelief. “At least have the decency to close the damn door, will you?” They always do this, forget to close the door. Forget that I’m also a person and I need some quiet too. My mom jerked immediately. “I’m sorry, Emily,” she said. "We didn’t know you’d be back this early.” She looked flushed, almost embarrassed, but her eyes and cheeks still burned with desire, brazen. With need. Dante slipped out of her ass as he headed for the draw. My jaw almost dropped at the length. Now, I completely understood why my Mom was always screaming. He walked to get the door and winked at me, my eyes dropped to his cock before I could stop it and I felt my breath catch in my throat. For a moment, I didn’t know whether to curse at him or just— “Urghh...I hate him!” I muttered to myself as I headed for my own room. I mean he’s one fine ass man and definitely good in bed too, definitely better than my ex-boyfriend but, who cares? I definitely do not?— I paused midway, surprised by the thoughts that began to crawl into my head. “Oh, hell—Definit—absolutely not!” I went to my room and changed into something casual—tight fitted short and a tank top. I went downstairs an hour later. I went straight to the kitchen counter. My mom strode down the stairs, luggage in hand, all packed, ready to leave. Again! “Honey! I’m going to miss you,” My said, as she headed over the counter to place a kiss on my temple. Uhm—no she’s not. The only person she seems to miss and care about these days is Dante. “Wait, Mom where are you going?” I asked. “Oh baby, I’m going on a short business trip, I’ll be back in three days,” “But mom, it’s December 22nd and you know it’s that time of the year again.” I whined, “Do you really have to go?” “Three days? And I’ll be back before you know it, okay?” she said, her voice softer now. “Okay, Mom.” I said, my burrow furrowed into something that seemed like sadness. “But I can’t get the house ready alone. It’s a big house and decorating it in five days is—” “Which is exactly why you have Dante.” She cut me mid-sentence. I have Dante? No tf I don’t? But I didn’t say. Matter of fact, I didn’t want to have anything to do with him. I don’t like the way he looks at me. His corny, cocky ass attitude, the way he talks, walks. God!— The way he exists around me! I hate it all. And the worst part is, for a man I find this annoying, he looks way too handsome for me to dislike him this much. At least he makes my Mom happy so I guess I’ll tolerate him. “Okay,” I nodded in agreement not wanting to argue. The thought of being alone with Dante made my stomach twist with relief and disgust at the same time. At least, the house gets to not be, look and sound like a sex dungeon for three days. But he’d be watching every single move I make and teasing me like he always does. Three solid days. Three days of peace and tranquillity. So I guess I’m good, but— Why couldn’t he just go with her ? “Bye honey and be good to your stepdad okay?” My mom said, snapping me out of my sea of thoughts. “Oh, and your Stepdads best friend is joining us this year too. Do well to make his room nicer and cleaner than it should be.” She cooed. “It’s been two years.” “Okay, Mom bye,” I said, trying to maintain the tiniest bit of composure I had left in me. Dante saw my mom off and came back to the kitchen. I stared at him, he had that mischievous smirk I most particularly hated, dancing along his lips again. I didn’t give him the satisfaction he wanted. I just rolled my eyes. “Emily,” he said. “Don’t do that.” I paused, took a long hard breath out and slowly looked up from my phone. “Don’t do what, Dante?” “Do not roll your eyes at me?” “And if I refuse?” he was looking at now, his expression dark and more serious than it needed to be. “What are you gonna do about it?” He didn’t answer, he just leaned in a little onto the counter. “You are one bratty girl.” “Wouldn’t be a first now would it, Dante?” I snapped. “Talking back now, are we.” He asked, his left brow furrowing into something that necessarily didn’t seem like chastisement. He was enjoying this. His eyes sparkled with amusement and I didn’t like that he always teased me like this. “I’m not talking back, Dante.” I said. “Just stating the obvious.” I said, my attention completely glued to my phone. “Just call me Daddy, you’ll live,” he cooed. “It’s not that difficult, you know.” “You’re not! My father, Dante.” “Exactly, I’m your stepdad,” he added. “Which is why I prefer you call me daddy.” “I won’t,” I snapped. “Now please, leave me alone.” He didn’t tease me anymore. “Brat.” He spat, as he headed for the stairs “Dick,” I murmured under my breath. He paused. “What did you just call me?” he spun around, eyes darker now, his expression locked with a seriousness that made my stomach flip in fear. And for a moment, I thought he would really yell at me or even hit me. He walked back to me, his feet slapping hard against the cold, white tile. In three long strides, he was now beside me. He spun the high bar kitchen chair with a force so hard, my phone almost slipped out of my hands. He was in front of me now, his eyes pierced directly into mine, all dark and intent. I swallowed. Hard. Feeling the movement of the liquid trail down my throat. “I asked you a question Emily.” He said, his voice clipped. “What the hell did you just call me.” I parted my lips to speak, to defend myself, but words decided to abandon me. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. He was close—Too close. More close than he needed to be. More close than I supposed to allow, to tolerate. But I didn’t push him away. Not yet. Instead, I found myself staring at him. And for a moment, his scent hit me. Hard and dangerous. I took my time, drinking him in. His facial features. His brows were thick, dark and properly carved. His eyes....As much as I hated looking at them and the way they looked at me, they were beautiful, they always have been. Beautiful. Dark. Mischievous. For a moment, I began to falter in my hate for him. My eyes trailed down to his neckline and God!— They looked solid, toned. He worked out a lot so there’s no surprise as to how muscular and defined every single muscle in his body were. But still, I couldn’t stop looking at him. My eyes trailed lower now and I took a really hard view of his stomach. How many abs! My eyes moved from right to left, in an attempt to count them. And Lord!—This man was perfect. He had eight solid abs. My eyes went even lower, down. And then, I saw it. That God-crafted Adonis belt. It looked so properly carved, the way the muscle laid so effortlessly, slightly vertical at both sides of his oblique, at the lower base of his torso , dipping down to his— Fuck! What is wrong with me? He’s my stepdad! I cursed at myself before I lose myself staring too much at the visible bulge behind his zipper. “Emily,” he stepped forward, his hands gripping the open space of the chair just between my leg as he pulled the chair forward. Hard and fast. My stomach flipped and my heart slammed so hard behind my chest and I swear he could hear. “Look at me.” He was in-between my legs now. Closer than before and instinct hit me again— the need to draw him closer and kiss him stupid. “You’re going to get punished for this.” He cooed. I wasn’t even listening, I couldn’t. I was looking at him but I wasn’t pay attention. The only thing I could hear were my own dirty thoughts prickling in my ears. But I stop myself before the thoughts take root. Or at least, I try. “I’ll punish you myself,” he murmured, his breath warm against my face and something snapped inside of me—hot and reckless. Something I wasn’t prepared to admit yet.His grip iron, his hips never slowing. I was trapped beneath him, stretched around him, and I loved it-loved the helplessness, loved the violence of it, loved that it was him reducing me to this gasping, writhing thing.“Look at me,” he commanded. “Look at me while I fuck you, Thessaly. Look at me and know you lost.”I forced my eyes open, glaring up at him even as my body betrayed me, my hips rising to meet his thrusts, my inner muscles fluttering around his cock. “You-fuck-you haven’t made me cum yet. That’s not winning.”His smile was feral. “Yet.”He shifted his angle, grinding his pelvis against my clit with every thrust, and I cried out, my head falling back despite myself, my wrists straining against his grip. “You-god-you asshole-““Say it,” he panted, his own control fraying, sweat beading on his forehead, his chest heaving. “Say you’re going to cum on my cock. Say it like you hate me.”“I hate you,” I sobbed, the pressure building, coiling, ready to snap. “I hate you I hate
Caelan pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, his body heavy between my thighs, and I arched up against him, hating how good it felt, hating that I wanted more.“Say it again,” he demanded, his free hand dragging my sweater up, exposing my stomach, my ribs, the black lace of my bra.“Fuck you.”He dipped his head, mouth hot against my collarbone, teeth grazing the tendon in my neck. “You first.”I struggled against his grip, not to get free but to feel the restraint, the delicious helplessness of being held down by someone who knew exactly how much I wanted to fight. He laughed against my skin, the sound dark and pleased, and then his mouth was on my breast through the lace, sucking hard, and I cried out, my hips bucking upward.“Sensitive,” he murmured, moving to the other side, leaving the first wet and aching. “Good to know.”“Don’t act like you’ve thought about this,” I panted, even though we both knew he had. We both had. Every argument, every cutting remark, every time ou
The first time I met Caelan Voss, he was vomiting into a potted fern at my cousin’s wedding.I was sixteen. He was seventeen, the son of one of my uncle’s business partners, all sharp cheekbones and sharper arrogance. Even green around the gills, he’d looked me up and down like I was a disappointing appetizer and said, “You clean up decent for a Holt.”I’d dumped my sparkling cider on his shoes.That should have been the end of it. Two families who ran in overlapping circles, a summer wedding collision, nothing more. But fate has a sick sense of humour. My father-Theodore Holt of Holt & Associates Architecture-decided Caelan’s father, the equally insufferable Magnus Voss, would make an excellent mentor. Caelan spent the next two summers interning at my father’s firm. I spent those summers watching him weasel his way into my father’s good graces, watching him absorb praise that should have been mine, watching him smirk across conference tables while I fetched coffee I hadn’t offered to
They cleaned up separately, embarrassed and giddy, and when they reconvened on the couch, they didn’t finish the movie. They just talked, their fingers intertwined, about how good it had felt, about how they wanted to do it again, about all the things they wanted to try.That night, Jerry went home and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his body still humming. He thought about Jane’s face when she’d cum, the way she’d looked at him like he was the only person in the world. He thought about the heat of her, the friction, the perfect pressure. And he thought about what might come next.They met again the next evening. Jane’s parents were still away, and the house felt like theirs alone. They ordered Thai food and ate it in her bedroom, sitting cross-legged on her bed, the air thick with anticipation.“I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” Jane admitted, pushing her noodles around with a fork. “About you. About how it felt.”“Me neither,” Jerry said. “I kept replaying it in my head.”“I w
Jerry had lived next door to the empty house for sixteen years before anyone finally moved in. The Victorian on the corner of Maple and Third had sat dormant through his entire childhood, a boarded-up relic that neighbourhood kids swore was haunted. By the time he turned nineteen-a sophomore at the local community college, still living at home to save money, working weekends at his uncle’s hardware store-he’d stopped noticing the FOR SALE sign that had faded in the front yard.Then, one humid August afternoon, a U-Haul rattled down the street.Jerry was on his porch, nursing a lemonade and trying to make sense of an organic chemistry textbook, when the truck backed into the driveway. He watched without much interest as a middle-aged couple climbed out, followed by a girl about his age. She was wearing cut-off denim shorts and an oversized band t-shirt, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose. She carried a cardboard box labelled BO
Leander Crowe had spent the last eight months thinking about his boss’s hands more than was strictly professional. Not just the hands themselves, though they were hard to ignore. Long fingers, strong knuckles, always clean, always steady. It was what they stood for. Control. Certainty. The same hands that signed contracts worth millions and quietly dismantled competitors without ever raising their voice. The hands of Silas Varrick, CEO of Varrick Technologies, forty-two years old, six-foot-two, and built like someone who had never once been told no in his entire life.Leander was twenty-four, six months out of graduate school, still half-convinced someone would realize they’d hired him by mistake. He told himself the tight feeling in his chest whenever Silas walked into a room was just nerves. He told himself the way his gaze kept catching on the breadth of Silas’s shoulders, the way tailored fabric sat across his chest and the hard line of his thighs, was simple admiration. Respect f







