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125: Locked Doors, Unlocked Instincts
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2025-11-11 14:03:01The elevator opened with the hush of a velvet guillotine.
Air rushed past Mia’s calves—chilled, scent-stripped, almost painful after the hallway perfume of lower floors.She adjusted the thin arms of her glasses, trying to hide the way her breath startled in the lenses, then stepped onto a corridor so polished it mirrored her stockings back at her.Her dress felt too bold now: midnight-black crepe, cinched high at the waist, the fabric flaring into a soft bell that kissed mid-thigh whenever she moved. The skirt made no sound, but every swing tickled the backs of her knees like a promise.The square neckline framed the hollow of her throat; cap sleeves hugged her shoulders. Even the slim belt gleamed—subtle gold, matching the hairpins that pinned her ponytail sleek and strict.Professional, yes, but she felt the hemline every heartbeat, felt the way it might lift if a breeze dared to exist in this vacuum.Jonas stepped out behi
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(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 131: Snare
Lavielle’s coupe glided into her Greystone villa’s underground bay at 01:13. She cut the engine, but didn’t move.The interior smelled like Mia.She sat in the dark, hands loose on the wheel, head tilted back. The leather seat was soaked in citrus and cream and something deeper—submission, maybe. Slick. Her slick. Lavielle let it wrap around her like smoke. She let her heart slow.Then she moved.The door creaked open. Bare feet met polished concrete, and the garage shutters closed behind her with a soft, metallic purr.The villa greeted her in silence. No lights turned on. Scent shields flickered green. Engaged. The air was cool, sterile, undisturbed.Lavielle walked like she owned the dark.Her coat slipped off her shoulders halfway down the hall. She didn’t stop. Her tie came undone with a tug. The top buttons of her shirt were already gone. Her belt hung open. The fabric whispered against her skin with every step, bu
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 130: Cleanup
The bathroom on the executive floor of the Marrowen Group felt more like a luxury spa than a workplace. Sleek black tile, backlit mirrors, marble counters, and a rainfall shower that hissed like summer rain. Mia stood under it now, water cascading over her shoulders as she braced her palms against the tile, heart still galloping in her chest. Her thighs ached in the best, most scandalous way. And somewhere inside her...too deep to name Lavielle still lingered.She could feel it.Her scent.Her heat.Her knot.Not physically anymore, Lavielle had washed up first, casually rinsing herself off at the basin like she hadn’t just upended Mia’s entire professional existence. She’d pressed a kiss to Mia’s temple, muttered, “Take your time, wifey,” and left the room shirtless, cock clean, hard again, and completely unbothered.The door had clicked shut behind her, and Mia had stared at her reflection, steam curling aro
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 129: Stay Awhile
Mia’s thighs still trembled.Her back rested flush to Lavielle’s chest, breath snagging every few seconds, skin glowing where late-sun stripes cut across the couch. Her dress remained a wrinkled sash at her waist; one shoe dangled from a toe. Lavielle’s arms were a living brace around her—one under Mia’s breasts, the other draped low enough that her thumb kept drawing absent, devastating circles over Mia’s clit.Inside, Lavielle’s knot sat locked and swollen, pulsing every minute or two, each throb pushing a slow, heat, dizzy rush of slick deeper into Mia until it spilled and soaked the cushions. Every pulse made Mia arch; every arch made Lavielle hum like a cat tasting cream.“There she is,” Lavielle whispered, feeling another tremor ripple through her Omega.Mia mumbled something between a gasp and a curse.“Still alive back there?” Lavielle murmured, nosing into Mia’s hair. “Or did I finally wreck your brain?”“Stop talking,” Mia groaned. “You narrate like a horny audiobook.”Lavi
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 128: Cigarette Break
Lavielle struck a match with lazy precision. The sulphur bloom cut through the thick perfume of sweat and orchid already drowning her office. One drag, and smoke wound around her like a silk leash. She tasted Mia on the back of her tongue, sweet citrus, salt, adrenaline and her pulse kicked again, hungry.Across the desk, Mia tried to catch her breath. Dress pushed to her ribs, glasses sliding down a flushed nose, panties a damp ribbon on one thigh. She looked wrecked and reluctant, which only sharpened Lavielle’s grin.“Couch,” the Alpha said.“I can walk.”“I know.” Lavielle hooked two fingers in Mia’s wrist, tugging her forward regardless. “Indulge me.”They crossed the room as the skyline shifted to copper, windows spilling molten light across polished stone. Lavielle dropped onto the deep‑green couch, legs apart, shirt hanging open. She crushed the cigarette in a tray, then tapped her thigh. “Sit.”Mia ro
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 127: Mated?
The elevator’s hush hadn’t faded before tension thickened outside Lavielle Marrowen’s office like rolling storm clouds.Jonas Reed braced both palms on the polished marble opposite the carved doors. Sweat dotted his temples—part nerves, part vicarious embarrassment. “That tiger is about to remodel the furniture—using Mia.”Arlo Keene, unbothered as ever, scrolled his tablet without lifting his eyes. “Desk is obsidian-core with carbon-steel struts. We’ll hear the screws beg for mercy before it snaps. Director’s thorough.”Jonas threw him a sideways look. “That’s your comfort statement?”“Alternative is popcorn. Figured you were cutting carbs.”Jonas opened his mouth, shut it. A muffled thud leaked through the double doors—soft, rhythmic, offending every HR policy in fifty kilometers.Jonas winced. “That her glasses?”“Paperweight,” Arlo replied, tilting his head toward the mirrored sconce that gave distorted glimpses of m
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 126: The Scent Hits Back
The silence in Lavielle Marrowen’s office wasn’t calm. It was a held breath. Electric. Waiting to snap.Mia Anderson sat frozen in its grip.Jonas cracked first. “We’ll, uh… need the rest by end-of-day.”His voice dropped like a clumsy shoe. Unwelcome. Unnecessary.From across the room, Arlo didn’t even glance up. “Already sent,” he said, scrolling his tablet one-handed.Jonas’s eyes flicked to Mia—and stuck. She hadn’t moved, but something had shifted. Her jaw too tight. Her nostrils too wide. Her skin flushed, neck glowing the same shade as her legal highlighter.He leaned in. “You’re spiking,” he whispered.Mia didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Her breath came shallow. Her thighs had pressed together without asking. Her scent normally neat and citric had thickened, ripened. Milkier now. Warmer.Across polished stone, Lavielle continued to watch her.With regal patience. Pure silence. Just reclined, feli
