ANMELDENThe basement air was thick with cigarette smoke, spilled gin, and the sharp bite of illegal whiskey. Red velvet curtains muffled the chaos of the main room while the jazz band upstairs pounded out a syncopated rhythm that vibrated through the floorboards. The speakeasy known only as The Red Rose was packed tonight, but the real action always happened in the back rooms.Elizabeth Monroe slipped through the heavy curtain wearing a shimmering silver silk dress that clung to every curve like liquid moonlight. The hem stopped scandalously high on her thighs, and long strands of pearls swung between her small breasts with every step. Her dark bob was pinned with diamond clips, lips painted a dangerous crimson. She looked every inch the carefree flapper, but her eyes scanned the room with sharp purpose.She was here for one reason: information on the man who had her brother killed.Instead, she found him.Dominic “Nico” Vale leaned against the polished mahogany bar like he owned the place, b
The weekend after the mixer felt like stepping into another world. Damien had texted her Friday afternoon with a simple message. Pack a bag. We are leaving campus for two days. Kenzie had smiled so wide her cheeks hurt. She packed light: one sundress, comfortable clothes, and nothing else. She knew she would not need much.He picked her up in his black SUV just after sunset. The city lights faded behind them as they drove north toward a quiet cabin he had rented on the edge of the lake. When they arrived, the cabin was perfect. Wooden beams, a huge stone fireplace, and a king bed that faced wide glass doors overlooking the water. Damien carried her bag inside, then pulled her into his arms the moment the door clicked shut.“No more games tonight,” he said, voice low. “I want all of you, Kenzie. Not just the brat who makes me jealous.”She melted against him. “Good. Because I am tired of pretending this is only sex.”They started slow for the first time. He undressed her piece by pie
Kenzie smoothed down the front of her little black dress in the elevator mirror. The hem barely reached mid-thigh. The neckline dipped low enough to show the faint hickey Damien had left just above her breast two nights ago. She had not covered it. Let them look. Only one man would know exactly how she got it.The annual Literature Department mixer was in full swing on the rooftop terrace when she stepped out. String lights glowed soft gold against the evening sky. Professors in sport coats chatted with grad students holding plastic cups of cheap wine. Laughter floated on the breeze. Somewhere a speaker played low jazz.Damien stood near the bar talking to the department chair. He wore a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing those strong forearms that had pinned her wrists to his mattress. His eyes found her instantly across the crowd. Heat flared in them before he masked it with a polite nod.Kenzie smiled sweetly and headed straight for the drink table. She felt
Kenzie stood outside Damien’s brownstone at eight pm, heart hammering harder than it had in the conference room that morning. She had changed after the seminar into a soft oversized cream sweater that slipped off one shoulder and a tiny black skirt with nothing underneath. In her tote bag: her latest Brontë paper, a bottle of expensive red, and zero intention of actually discussing literature until he had fucked the thoughts out of her head.She knocked. The door opened almost immediately.Damien wore dark gray sweatpants slung low on his hips and a black Henley that clung to his chest and shoulders. His hair was still damp from a shower. He looked edible.“Miss Hale,” he drawled, stepping aside. “Prompt. I like that in a student.”Kenzie brushed past him, letting her shoulder graze his chest. “Thought you might dock points for tardiness, Professor.”He closed the door, locked it, and before she could set her bag down he had her pressed against the wall in the narrow hallway. His mout
Kenzie woke up sore in the best possible way.Her thighs ached. Her ass still carried faint handprints from where Damien had gripped her like he owned her. Between her legs she felt swollen and sticky, his cum had dried on her skin after he’d fucked her a second time on the office couch, slower and deeper, whispering filthy praise against her throat until she came so hard she saw stars.She stood in front of her mirror in nothing but a tiny black thong, turning to admire the marks. A dark hickey just below her collarbone. Fingerprint bruises on her hips. She pressed two fingers against her tender pussy and hissed at the spark of overstimulation… then smiled.Game on, Professor.The next morning’s graduate seminar on “Desire and the Gothic” was held in the small, wood-paneled conference room on the third floor. Only twelve students. Intimate and Impossible to hide in.Kenzie arrived early, wearing a short charcoal pencil skirt that barely reached mid-thigh and a soft cream blouse with
The lecture hall smelled like old wood, chalk dust, and the faint metallic tang of anticipation. Two hundred students sat in tiered silence while Dr. Damien Blackwood paced the front like a panther in tailored charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt rolled to his forearms. At forty-one, he was the kind of professor who made coeds forget their notes and straight male students question their life choices. Arrogant? Absolutely. Brilliant? Undeniably.“And that,” he said, voice low and cutting, “is why Austen’s so-called restraint is nothing more than repressed Victorian horniness dressed up in polite dialogue. Any questions?”Kenzie’s hand shot up before her brain could file a formal complaint.She was twenty-six, top of the PhD cohort, and the only student who never blinked when he eviscerated an answer. Today she wore a fitted black turtleneck that hugged her small breasts and a deep green plaid skirt that stopped mid-thigh, professional enough for academia, short enough to make him no
Emma has never missed a Sunday mass in her life.She was raised to believe modesty was next to godliness. Skirts below the knee, no makeup beyond a faint gloss, no boys. Her parents still checked her phone every week. The only thing she ever hid was the way her body had started waking up, her nippl
Weeks turned into months, and the secret held.Every afternoon at 3:00 p.m., Emma slipped into the church like a shadow. Sometimes it was the sacristy table. Sometimes the choir loft behind the organ pipes. Sometimes the small side chapel with the Virgin statue watching. Always the same rit
Emma returned the next afternoon at exactly 3:00 p.m.She had barely slept. All night she had replayed the way Father Michael’s cock had stretched her open, the way his cum had felt flooding her until it overflowed, the way he had whispered that God wanted her filled. She had come three times before
The Lesbian Demon and the NunChapter 1: The Meeting with the DemonFor nine years I’ve kept my body sealed. No one’s hands but mine in those weak moments when I couldn’t sleep and my fingers slipped under the nightshift before guilt yanked them away. No mouth except the cold rim of the chalice a







