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Chapter 39 : Still Wanting More

作者: Déesse
last update 公開日: 2026-03-06 00:58:35

Liam

The nightlight casts a trembling golden glow on the walls, like a slow breath. It dances along the curve of Mona’s hips, the hollow of her arched back, the beads of sweat sliding between her shoulder blades. I’m there, kneeling between her spread thighs, my fingers already buried in her damp heat, and I feel her body tighten like a drawn bow beneath my palm. She moans , a rough sound that cracks in her throat , and her fingers dig into the rumpled sheets, twisting them into clenched fists.
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  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 75 : THE ICY ASCENT

    DianeThe shower is a space of cold, impersonal marble. The water is too hot, almost scalding, but it can't pierce the cold that has settled within me. It runs over my skin like over porcelain, without penetrating. I soap myself mechanically, erasing the last traces of the hotel room, of its sheets, of that endless night. I wash my hair, the neutral shampoo scent replacing the heady scent of the places of my defeat.I dry myself with a thick, rough towel. I put on the clothes left for me on a bench: a soft wool trouser suit, anthracite, an ivory silk blouse, simple cotton underwear. Undeniably quality clothes that don't belong to me. Each piece is another layer of the uniform he assigns me.When I emerge, my hair still damp tied in a strict chignon, he waits for me in the private lounge. He looks up from his laptop. His gaze, as efficient as a scanner, travels over me from head to toe, checking the outfit, the bearing, the attitude.—

  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 74: THE ICE FACTORY

    DianeThe night stretches on, a desert of salty tears and cold sheets. I cry until exhaustion, until my eyes are burning and dry, until my throat is a raw wound. I cry for Liam. I cry for my father, somewhere, knowing nothing. I cry for the woman I was before being brought here, a woman whose face is beginning to blur in my memory.Dawn finally filters through the heavy curtains, gray and weak. I'm lying on my side, eyes open, staring at the wall. Fatigue is a lead weight in every bone, every muscle. A dull torpor has replaced the storm. I have no more tears. Only a residue remains, an emotional limescale weighing on my eyelids.The bedroom door opens without a sound.I don't move. I don't even turn my head. I hear his muffled steps on the carpet, approaching the bed.He stops beside me. I feel his gaze on my back, on the nape of my neck I offer him, a passive target.— Get up.His voice is neutral, morning-like. T

  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 73: THE PREDATOR'S INSTINCT 2

    DianeWith a fluid movement and a strength that takes my breath away, he rises from his armchair, pulling me with him. He forces me to stand, then, with a dry twist of my wrists, spins me around and presses my back against his chest, my arms still twisted behind me. His chest is a wall against my back. His breath is warm against my ear.— The impulse is understandable, he whispers, his voice a dangerous velvet. After the night you've had. But it was stupid. You're not a killer. You're an angry little girl with a toy.The contempt in his voice is worse than a blow. He peels the knife from my numb fingers. I hear it clink as he tosses it carelessly onto the low table.— You see? he continues. Even asleep, I'm stronger than you. Even unarmed, I control you. You couldn't win. You will never win.He suddenly releases one of my hands, but only to wrap his arm around my waist, trapping me against him. His other hand keeps my righ

  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 72 : THE PREDATOR'S INSTINCT 1

    DianeDawn is a betrayal. It doesn't bring light, only shades of gray, detailing with cruel precision the scene of my imprisonment: the cold gilding, the luxurious fabrics that smother, the slumbering silhouette of the monster in his armchair. His breathing is steady, deep. A light snore, almost human, escapes his lips. This normalcy is the worst insult.My body is still lying on the bed, motionless as a tomb effigy. But inside, everything is frantic movement, a silent whirlwind stirring Liam's ashes and forging them into a single blade, into an irrepressible, primal need. Haste, suddenly, is everything. The idea of waiting one more day, one more hour, in this bubble where his scent, his breath, his very existence pollute the air, is unbearable.The plan isn't one. It's an impulse. A crack in the wall of ice I just built. The vengeance-creator is briefly overwhelmed by the wounded animal that wants to bite, right now, even if it means getting crush

  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 71: THE SILENCE OF THE DEAD 2

    DianeBut it's not fatigue or horror that strikes me. It's the expression. Or rather, the absence of expression. The face is smooth, as if sculpted from alabaster. The eyes, though immense, reflect nothing. They look, they absorb, but they give nothing back. It's the gaze of a predator who has seen its own reflection in blood.I run the water in the solid gold basin. It's scalding. I soak a fine linen cloth and begin to scrub. I scrub my knee first, with methodical energy, until the skin is red and irritated, until the last trace of him has disappeared. Then I clean my shoulder, the bite. The pain is sharp, precise. I feel it as a demarcation. Here, is Volkov's wound. Here, was Liam's blood. I separate them. I catalog them.I don't take a bath. Immersion would be too intimate, too close to forgiveness. I wash with a cloth, standing up, like a soldier after a battle. Each movement is rational, necessary.When I emerge, wrapped in a white silk robe of obsce

  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 70 : THE SILENCE OF THE DEAD 1

    DianeThe silence after the gunshot is a living entity. It settles, dense, heavy, replacing the very air. It absorbs the last echo of my own broken voice, the guards' grunts, Volkov's breathing. It clings to the padded walls, the silk drapes, making everything deaf, muffled, unreal.My knees are embedded in the implacable cold of the marble. The sensation, sharp and clear, is the only real thing. It anchors me to this moment, prevents me from tipping into the void where my mind wants to flee. Before me, Liam's form. I don't look at him. I can't. If I look, it will be true. So I stare at the join between two tiles, a fine line of gray mortar.The blood, however, doesn't ask permission. It advances, slow, inexorable, tracing a sinuous path in the white veins of the marble. A dark, shiny ribbon seeking its way into the void. Soon, its edge touches my skin. A viscous, intimate warmth spreads against my knee. The contact is an electrocution. Reality str

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