LOGINI was not supposed to be here.
My best friend, Harper, had gone to pick up pizza. I was left alone in the house I’d practically grown up in, and only now, everything felt different. Or maybe i did. Maybe it was the man who had just walked in from the back porch, a towel around his waist, hair still wet from a swim. Mr. Reed. Harper’s dad. He wasn’t just hot for his age he was devastating. Forty-five, salt and pepper stubble, broad shoulders, thick forearms. There was gravity to him. A weight in the way he moved and looked at people that made my stomach tighten. We had always been friendly. He’d call me "sweetheart" in that warm voice of his, and I used to giggle and blush when I was younger. But now? Now I watched him, stared, swallowed too hard when he reached for a drink or scratched the edge of his abs under his shirt. And I was pretty sure he’d started watching back. Like today, when he walked in and caught me sunbathing in the backyard with Harper, my bikini untied. I’d felt his eyes stick. Just for a second. just long enough. And now? Now we were alone. I was wearing a loose crop top and short cotton shorts that clung when I sat down. And he was watching me again. “You two girls drinking my beer again?” he asked with a smirk. I smirked back, playful. “Maybe just one” He walked closer, that towel dangerously low on his hips. “You’re not a little girl anymore,” he said softly, stopping right in front of me. Something electric passed between us. “No,” I said, eyes locking with his. “I’m not.” His gaze dipped. I watched his jaw clench. A muscle in his neck twitched. "Your friend’s gone for what, twenty minutes?" I nodded, heartbeat racing. His eyes darkened. “I shouldn’t,” he muttered. “You already are.” Then I reached for the towel. And he didn’t stop me. It dropped to the floor. He was hard already. Thick. Heavy. And fuck, big. “Jesus,” I whispered. “Not here,” he growled. “On your knees. Mouth open.” I dropped, adrenaline flooding my veins. I gripped the backs of his thighs as he pressed the tip against my lips. “Been dreaming of this,” I said, voice shaking. “Since I was eighteen.” “You're twenty one now.” I smirked. “Old enough to know how to swallow.” He didn’t ease in. He fed me his cock like he was starving to feel my throat. My lips stretched, jaw wide, as he buried himself deep. I gagged tears pricking but I didn’t stop. I loved the sound he made when I took him all the way. “Fuck, sweetheart. Look at that mouth.” He fisted my hair, controlling the rhythm, using me. He pulled out with a wet pop and yanked me to my feet. “Bed. Now.” We didn’t make it to the guest room. He bent me over the kitchen island and shoved my shorts down. “Been wanting to taste this tight little cunt since the day you turned legal.” He spread me open. Groaned. “You're soaked.” “Because I knew you were home.” He dropped to his knees behind me. The first lick made me scream. His tongue wasn’t gentle. It was brutal. Messy. Worshipful. He sucked and fucked me with his mouth like he was making up for lost time. “You taste like sin.” “Then confess with your tongue,” I moaned, grinding back. He licked me through an orgasm so intense I saw stars. Then he stood, grabbed my hips, and thrust in no condom. No hesitation. “Fuck!” His cock stretched me wide, filling every inch. He held my wrists down, chest pressed to my back, voice in my ear. “Tell me you’ve thought about this.” “Every night.” “Tell me you touched yourself to me.” “Every time I heard your voice downstairs.” He growled. Then he slammed into me. Harder. Rougher. Like he wanted to brand me from the inside. “You like being fucked like this, little slut?” “Yes, Daddy.” His hips stuttered. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” “Then die in me.” He grabbed my throat, turned my head, and kissed me dirty, desperate. When he came, it was with a shout into my neck and a full, hot flood that made me dizzy. We stayed tangled, breathless. Then we heard the front door open. Harper’s voice: “Got the pizza!” I looked up at him, wide-eyed. He smirked, still inside me. “You’re mine now,” he whispered. “Better keep your mouth full so you don’t moan next time.”She wore black to bury her husband.Not because she loved him.Because everyone expected her to.The rain began before the service ended, soft against umbrellas and polished coffins. Mourners whispered condolences she barely heard. Flowers drowned the scent of wet earth.And through all of it, she felt his eyes on her.Father Lucien.Her late husband’s older brother.Forty-two. Reserved. Sharp faced. A man who carried silence like a second skin.He had been the one arranging everything since the accident the paperwork, the church service, the guests. Calm while everyone else unraveled.She hated him for how composed he looked.Especially because she remembered the last thing her husband had confessed before dying:“Lucien always notices you before I do.”At the time, she thought it was bitterness.Now she wasn’t so sure.The funeral ended at dusk.People slowly disappeared into black cars and candlelit homes until only family remained inside the old estate.The house was too quiet.To
This is the part where I admit I knew better.Not because it was wrong.But because it was inconvenient.His name is Adrian Vale. Thirty-six. Architect. The kind of man who notices structure in everything buildings, conversations, people.We met at a gallery opening.I was there for the wine.He was there because he designed the building.He corrected me when I called a floating staircase “minimalist.”“It’s not minimal,” he said, stepping beside me. “It’s deliberate.”I glanced at him. “That sounds pretentious.”“It’s precise.”That was the first spark.Not attraction.Friction.We ended up talking for two hours.About design. About cities. About why ambition makes some people magnetic and others unbearable.He wasn’t trying to impress me.He wasn’t trying to charm me.He was assessing me.And I liked that.When the gallery began to empty, he asked, “Do you always argue with strangers?”“Only the ones who can handle it.”A pause.“I can handle it.”There was something steady about hi
Ada lived in quiet routines. Married for five years, she had learned the rhythm of her life: work, dinner, phone call to her husband Tunde at the hospital, sleep. Silence was comfortable or at least predictable. Until Kunle moved in next door.He wasn’t loud or brash. He was friendly, observant, unnervingly aware. He noticed the subtle things: how she hummed while baking, how her ring caught the light, how she lingered over her coffee as if savoring more than just the taste.That Sunday evening, he knocked.“I’m sorry,” he said, holding a small measuring cup. “I ran out of sugar. Could I borrow some?”She should have said no. She should have closed the door. But curiosity and something unnameable made her step aside.The kitchen light was soft, warm. Flour dusted the counter, a tray of cookies cooling nearby. He lingered, casual but deliberate, as she reached for the sugar. Their fingers brushed. The pause between them was electric, filled with a tension that neither could or wan
THE CONFESSION She didn’t plan to say it out loud. It slipped out the way truths sometimes do quiet, unguarded, irreversible. “I don’t feel wanted anymore.” The words hung between them, fragile and naked. Dr. Elias Moreau didn’t react the way men usually did when a woman admitted loneliness. He didn’t rush to reassure. Didn’t soften his voice into pity. Didn’t lean back like he was uncomfortable with intimacy. He leaned forward. Not close. Just enough. Enough to let her feel that her words had landed somewhere real. “How long have you felt that way?” he asked. His voice was low, steady, practice but something in it made her chest tighten. It wasn’t warmth. It was attention. She stared at her clasped hands. Her wedding ring felt heavier than usual. “Since before the wedding,” she admitted. That was the real confession. Elias made a note but his eyes stayed on her, not the page. He watched the way her shoulders curved inward, the way she shrank when she spoke
He noticed her restraint before he noticed her beauty.She didn’t sit fully back in the chair. Most people did collapsed into it, surrendered to the safety of upholstery and permission. She perched instead, spine straight, ankles crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap like she was afraid of spilling something if she relaxed too much.Her wedding ring caught the light when she moved.“I don’t know how to say this without sounding ungrateful,” she said.Her voice was soft but deliberate. Not timid. Controlled.He inclined his head, pen hovering above his notebook, posture open but professionally neutral.“You can say it however it comes,” he replied.She drew in a slow breath, eyes lowering.“My husband is kind,” she began. “He’s responsible. He never forgets anniversaries. He never yells. He provides.”A pause followed heavy, expectant.“And yet,” she continued, lifting her gaze, “I feel invisible in my own marriage.”The sentence landed with a quiet finality. She seemed surprised by
They never asked if she wanted it.The envelope waited on her kitchen table when she came home, black against the pale wood like a bruise. No stamp. No seam. Just her name pressed into it embossed, not written as if the paper had been taught to remember her.Inside lay the key.It was larger than she expected, old-fashioned, its teeth asymmetrical, almost organic. When she lifted it, warmth bled into her skin, spreading slowly up her arm. The metal carried a faint scent iron, skin, something intimate and closed.She wrapped it in a cloth and placed it in a drawer.That night, she dreamed of mouths opening where doors should have been.At first, nothing happened.Then came the awareness.Not of the key itself, but of him the man she worked with, the one whose presence had always felt carefully neutral. They had shared elevators, meetings, nods of professional courtesy. A man who never leaned too close. Never let his eyes linger.Until they did.It was small. A hesitation before he look
The city of Virelin was a neon-tinted paradise at night, a place where secrets wore heels and desire slipped behind masks. The annual Masquerade of Shadows wasn’t just a party it was an invitation into fantasy. A place where hidden kinks found form and voices of restraint were muted by the pounding
The old boarding house on Maple Lane was known for its rickety steps, leaky ceilings, and an unspoken rule: what happened within its walls stayed there.Alina moved in at the start of summer, a fresh graduate with big city dreams and very little money. The house was owned by Mrs. Madrigal, a woman
Sera knew better.She’d been raised on hymns and sermons, clothed in purity and praise. Her father was the town’s most respected preacher, and she, the perfect daughter, was expected to reflect that image in every breath she took.But perfection never excited her.It was a sin that stirred her bloo
Liana wasn’t used to being told no.Not by staff, not by teachers, and certainly not by men.At twenty-one, she was the only daughter of a powerful senator, raised in privilege and shielded from consequences.Until the scandal.Until the threat.Until her father brought in Cassian Stone, a bodyguar







