Masuk“Daddy, I’ve made my hole tighter for you. I want you fully immersed inside me.” His voice came out soft, reverberating through my ears as he released his tiny legs around my waist, opening them wider. “Since you’ve saved me, it couldn’t stop twitching for you. And I don’t know how long it will keep pulsing for you to be buried inside.” He whispered into my right ear, his breath sending a jolt of hotness down my spine. “Fuck,” I growled, rolling my eyes. His fingers grazed my chin. I moaned. He pulled my head lower, and my gaze landed on the prettiest, reddish, tight hole I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life. My Wolf groaned, stirring as heat consumed me. I slid lower, my face almost in between his legs. “Yes, Daddy Alpha. I want you.” He winced, his nails digging into my biceps. I dragged my tongue across my lower lip. I inhaled deeply, his scent filling my nostrils, and I tightened my tights, feeling a hard bulge between them. “Daddy, devour me already.” His hand grabbed my head, lowered it, pressing my tongue against his clenching hole. ~~~~~ Behind closed doors, rules shatter and hearts unravel. SINFUL AFFAIRS invites you into a world where desire whispers in the dark and every sin feels like salvation. Here, men ache for what they shouldn’t touch. They love too hard, crave too deeply, and sin too beautifully. Every story is a confession of hunger, heartbreak, and need. And once you step inside… you’ll never want to leave. So, you’re welcome to join the kind of sin you’ll beg to repeat. Now, if you dare, enter their world and let’s see if you can handle the heat.
Lihat lebih banyakIlse knocked at the seventh hour, two days after the deep-ward chamber, while I was standing at the map room window pretending to look at the volcano and actually thinking about something else entirely. Two knocks, a half-beat, one more. I said come in before she finished. She set the Council notice on the table without making me reach for it. “The Council has formally requested a report. Two days.” I picked it up and read it, which was mostly a ceremony. The language was official and cold and said what it meant: account for yourself, account for the Vael sorcerer who has been living in our Citadel for six weeks without formal sanction, account for the nature and scope of the arrangement we have heard about secondhand, and do not appreciate learning secondhand. “How hostile is the room going to be,” I said. “Marev is neutral. Dresh is not.” She paused. “The others will follow whoever presents better.” This was Ilse’s way of saying: this is winnable if you do it right, and I am
Somewhere in the fourth week, I noticed I had stopped dreading the end of the sessions. This is how I knew I was in trouble. I am a man who tracks things by nature, not compulsion. I track them because large systems fail quietly, because the difference between a stable ward and a failing one is often years of small readings that nobody thought to compare. I had been tracking the sessions the same way, marking them in the back of my mind as progress points, evidence of work advancing. Then one evening Soren closed the last of the resonance charts and said goodnight and I stood in the study room after he’d gone and realized the feeling in my chest was not satisfaction at work completed. It was the specific flatness of something ending that you didn’t want to end. I was forty-one years old. I had run this office through two crises, a Wardenship political restructuring, and a winter where the Citadel’s warmth-stones dropped below safe threshold for six consecutive weeks. I knew the di
The twin moons were burning low tonight. Rath and Ruthe hung where they always hung, red as forge-iron against a starless sky, but something in their light felt wrong. Too thin, too stretched, like fabric pulled over a frame too large for it. I had lived in this tower for eleven years. I knew the way moonlight settled on the back of my hand, and tonight it was lying differently. The Ember Star at my throat pulsed once. A slow, deep contraction, like a second heartbeat deciding to make itself known. I pressed two fingers there, the old instinct. The gift had never spoken in words, not in eleven years of keeping it. It spoke in pressure, in warmth, in the occasional stubbornness of knowing before I did. Tonight it was certain about something I hadn’t caught up to yet. I turned back to my desk. The census of ward failures along the southern Ashfields was spread across the whole surface, annotated in three colors, waiting for me to find the pattern I suspected was there. My tea had go
He showed up at eleven with coffee. Not just any coffee, mine specifically, from the place on Dearborn that requires walking two blocks past a closer and perfectly adequate coffee shop. He was standing in my doorway holding both cups and wearing the expression of someone who had spent the morning rehearsing something and was no longer confident in any of it. I stepped back and let him in without saying anything. We went to the kitchen table. I don’t know why it’s always the kitchen table with us, but it is. The rules happened here. The check-ins happened here. Every conversation that mattered seemed to find its way to this table eventually, like water finding a drain. I sat across from him and he set the cups down and wrapped his hands around his, and for a moment neither of us said anything. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to start,” he said. “You don’t have to find the right version. Just say it.” He looked at me. Then he looked at his coffee. Then he looked at me again,






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