LOGINThis isnât a book. Itâs a betrayal. Of your vows. Of the ring on your finger. Of every rule you swore youâd never break. These arenât sweet love stories. Theyâre filthy secrets. Each page is a dangerous dare to spread wider, moan quieter, and let your husbandâs son ruin whatâs left of your good-girl life. Because once you let him in? You donât stop. You canât stop. This is where the perfect step-mummy gets devoured by the bad boy who was never supposed to touch her. Where wedding rings get hidden in drawers and kitchen counters become altars for sin. Where strict, respectable wives learn exactly how much better a younger, hungrier cock feels when itâs claiming what doesnât belong to it. Theyâre not gentle. Theyâre not patient. Theyâre not here to ask permission. They want your breath caught in your throat while your husband sleeps down the hall. Your thighs shaking as you ride the boy who calls you âMumâ in public and âmy slutâ in private. Your body betraying every promise you made at the altar. Theyâll pin you down with a smirk. Fuck your mind until guilt tastes like pleasure. Make you beg without ever raising their voice. Youâll gag on the risk. Drip from the danger. Come harder than you ever have in your married life. So keep your voice down. Keep the bedroom door locked. And baby? Be warned: youâre gonna need fresh sheets by morning. Because this book doesnât just seduce you. It makes you the other woman in your own home.
View MoreDetention After Darkđ§đŠđ
âGet your ass in here right now, Marcus.â I didnât look up from the stack of papers on my desk, but my pulse jumped the second I heard his boots in the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him. I kept my voice cold even though heat was already crawling up my neck. âYou wanted to see me, Professor?â His tone dripped with that lazy challenge. I could picture the smirk without even glancing up. I finally raised my eyes. Marcus stood there, all tall and tattooed, leather jacket hanging open over a black tee that stretched across his chest. Messy dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that always looked like they knew exactly what I was thinking. âSit down. Now.â He dropped into the chair like he owned the room, legs spread wide. âWhatâs the problem? I turned in the paper.â I slapped the printed copy down hard. Red marks everywhere. âThis isnât analysis. This is you mocking the material. Mocking me.â âCome on, Elena.â He grinned, using my first name like it was nothing. âItâs late. Office hours are over. Why drag me back here if youâre just gonna yell?â My cheeks burned. I stood up fast, walking around the desk, heels clicking against the floor. âDonât call me Elena. In this room, Iâm Professor Voss. And you are on very thin ice, Marcus. One more stunt and youâre gone. For good.â He rose slowly, towering over me. We were close. Too close. His scent, something dark and masculine, filled my head. âYou really think kicking me out fixes anything? Or are you just pissed I see through all your perfect little rules?â I should have stepped back. Instead, my hand shot out, landing on his chest. âStep back, Marcus.â âMake me.â His voice went low, rough. âTell me to leave. Say it like you mean it.â I opened my mouth but nothing came out. My fingers curled into his shirt. Damn him. âYou hate me,â he said, eyes locked on mine, âbut you keep calling me in after hours. Why is that, Professor?â âBecause someone has to save your stupid ass.â My voice cracked. I hated how weak it sounded. His hand covered mine, pressing it harder against his heartbeat. Fast. Strong. âFeel that? My heartâs pounding for you. Has been since day one.â âMarcusâŠâ I whispered, but then his mouth was on mine. Hard. Demanding. I kissed him back before I could stop myself, hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. God, he tasted like trouble and sin. He lifted me onto the desk in one smooth move. Papers flew everywhere. My skirt rode up my thighs as his hands gripped me, possessive. âBeen dreaming about this,â he growled against my neck. âAbout making strict Professor Voss fall apart.â âShut up and show me.â The words slipped out before I could think. My legs wrapped around his waist like they belonged there. He kissed down my throat, teeth grazing my skin. Buttons popped open on my blouse. Cool air hit my breasts as he tugged my bra down. His mouth closed over one nipple and I cried out, back arching hard. âYes⊠like that.â I couldnât believe the sounds coming from me. Moaning like some desperate woman instead of the composed professor everyone respected. His hand slid between my legs, pushing my panties aside. Two thick fingers plunged inside me without warning. I gasped, clenching around him. âSo wet for me already,â he muttered. âBad mummy, getting turned on by your bad boy student.â Heat flooded my face. âDonât call me that.â âWhy?â He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made my toes curl. âBecause it makes you drip even more?â I rocked against his hand, chasing the pleasure. âMarcus⊠oh fuck.â He dropped to his knees, shoved my thighs wider, and replaced his fingers with his hot mouth. His tongue flicked my clit while those fingers pumped deep. I grabbed his hair, grinding against his face, not caring how filthy this was. The phone rang. I froze. Marcus didnât stop. If anything, he sucked harder. âItâs⊠probably the department head,â I panted. âAnswer it.â His voice vibrated against me. He looked up, lips shiny, eyes dark with challenge. âOr I stop.â I glared but reached for the phone with a shaking hand. âHello? Professor Voss speaking.â Marcus dove back in, tongue working me mercilessly. âYes⊠Iâm finishing some grading.â My voice wavered. I bit my lip hard. âNo, everythingâs fine. Just a difficult student.â I could barely hold it together. His fingers curled again. I was right there, teetering on the edge. âGoodnight.â I slammed the phone down and yanked him up by the hair, kissing him fiercely. I could taste myself on his tongue. It only made me hotter. âYouâre going to get us both in so much trouble,â I whispered, hands already fumbling with his belt. âGood.â He freed himself. Thick, hard, and pressing right against my soaked entrance. âNow be a good mummy and take what youâve been wanting.â I wrapped my hand around his cock, stroking him. âBig boy. Think you can handle me?â He pushed forward, the head stretching me open. I moaned into his mouth, ready to finally feel all of him. A loud knock sounded on the office door. âElena? You still in there? I saw the light on. Need to talk about the midterm grades.â My eyes flew open in panic. Marcus was right there, thick cock nudging inside me, one thrust from burying deep. My heart hammered against my ribs. My body screamed for him to keep going even as terror flooded me. We stared at each other, frozen, his tip barely inside my pulsing heat. What the hell do we do now?Power Out, Storm Inđ§đ«ŠđHe had me against the rough pine wall of the cabin, one hand under my thigh, the other braced beside my head, fucking me with deep, steady strokes that made the old bedframe across the room seem irrelevant.âStill so tight,â Cole muttered against my mouth, breath hot, the storm hammering the windows behind him. âCity woman lasts two days alone up here before sheâs taking dick from the caretaker like she ordered it with the firewood.âI moaned, fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. The power had been out for three hours. The only light came from the wood stove and a single battery lantern on the floor. My sweater was shoved up under my arms. My leggings were tangled around one ankle. Coleâs flannel was open, the dense black ink across his chest and stomach slick with sweat even in the cold. Twenty-five. Hired by the rental company to check the properties after storms. Ex-con. Hands that knew how to fix a generator and how to hold a woman open.
Nine A.M. and the Restricted DoorđŠđ«ŠThe message sat on my phone like a second pulse.Unknown: Nice cleanup with Hale. Professional. But he wasnât the only recipient. The files are already with someone who doesnât need cameras to hurt you. Check your grant portal in the morning. The first clip goes live at 9 a.m. unless the co-curation agreement you rejected last year is signed and returned by then.I did not sleep. Roman stayed until nearly three, checking the fire-exit logs and the emergency-mic schedule one more time before I made him leave through the staff door so the cameras would show ordinary after-hours departure. After he was gone I sat in my office with the co-curation agreement open on the screen and the hard reality of the deadline sitting in the corner of the monitor.The foundation was called the Lang Heritage Trust. On paper, it was a model donor, climate-controlled storage gifts, digitization grants, polite letters. Behind the paper was Richard Lang, my late husbandâ
Loading Bay and Open LogsđŠđ«ŠThe audio clip stayed on my phone through the entire grant meeting.I sat at the long polished table on the fifth floor while the board discussed climate-control upgrades and donor plaques, and all I could hear was my own muffled moan and Romanâs voice telling me I was going to come before the night guard hit the floor. I deleted the message twice during the meeting. Both times I recovered it before the session ended. By the time I walked back down to Special Collections, my pulse was still wrong and the place between my legs still ached with the memory of the metal shelving against my back.Roman was already at the processing table when I entered the main reading room, sleeves rolled, dark hair falling forward as he checked condition reports on the new municipal boxes. He looked up once. The glance lasted less than a second. It was enough. Heat slid down my spine like a physical touch.Service, if you could call the quiet traffic of researchers service,
After Hours in the ArchiveđđŠđ§He had me pinned against the metal shelving in the restricted stacks, one hand over my mouth, the other shoving my skirt up around my hips.âQuiet,â Roman muttered against my ear, driving into me with deep, controlled strokes that made the old rolling shelves creak. âNight guard does a sweep every forty minutes. Youâre going to come before he hits this floor.âI moaned into his palm, fingers scrabbling at the cool metal behind me. The only light came from the emergency strip along the floor and the exit sign at the end of the long aisle. My blouse was open. My bra was shoved up. Romanâs dark uniform shirt, Archives Assistant, temporary clearance, was still half-buttoned, exposing the ink that ran across his collarbones. Twenty-five. Hired three months ago through a re-entry program. Forged documents in a previous life. Steady hands. Eyes that never looked away first.âHarder,â I ordered, the word muffled against his skin.He gave it to me harder. The s


















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