LOGIN"Choke on my dick, baby girl," Daddy growled, fisting my hair as he shoved his cock down my throat. "This what you wanted?" he growled. "Your uncle's cock inside you? Fucking you while your parents sleep upstairs?" • She’s young, dripping wet, and utterly fucked the moment they lay eyes on her. In YOURS, DADDIES, one insatiable woman gets claimed hard and without mercy by older, dominant men who know exactly how to break her open and make her beg. These aren’t gentle lovers—they’re rough, experienced daddies who growl “Mine” while pinning her down, stretching her tight holes with thick cocks, and filling her until she’s leaking their cum and screaming their names. From the ruthless CEO who bends her over his desk, spanking her ass red before fucking her throat raw and calling her his perfect little slut… to the tattooed brothers who take turns pounding her in every position, double-penetrating her until she’s a trembling, cum-drenched mess, sobbing “Yes, Daddy, harder.” Every story is packed with filthy daddy kink: choking grips on her throat, praise mixed with degradation (“Such a good girl taking two cocks like a whore”), rough breeding fantasies, light bondage, and group scenes where multiple alphas use her body like their personal toy—edging her, denying her orgasms, then ruining her with explosive releases. No vanilla bullshit here. Just raw, sweat-soaked, pussy-pounding obsession. She gets marked, owned, and ruined in the dirtiest ways possible—left gaping, bruised, and addicted to being their fucktoy. If you can’t handle getting soaked just reading the warnings… walk away now. But if you crave being utterly destroyed by possessive daddies who won’t stop until you’re theirs forever—open wide, baby girl. They’re coming for every hole.
View MoreNot hard. Not the way I expected from him — not fast or hungry or any of the things his energy had promised. He kissed me soft and slow and deliberate, like he was making a point, like he wanted me to feel every single millimeter of it. His lips moved against mine carefully, learning the shape of them, his thumb still at my jaw holding me right where he wanted me.My hands found his chest.I meant to push. I know that's what I meant. My palms landed against him and my fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and I absolutely meant to push — but his mouth moved and every coherent thought I'd been holding onto went quiet. He kissed me like he had something to prove and all the time in the world to prove it, deep and slow and so thorough that my knees actually softened.I felt him smile against my mouth.He knew. Of course he knew.His hands moved to my waist — both of them, firm and warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.
SLOANE I want to tell you I kept my composure at dinner.I want to tell you I sat across from both of them, ate my food, made polite conversation, and felt absolutely nothing. That the morning had been an accident and I'd filed it away neatly and moved on like a functional adult human being.But I'd be lying.Because the truth is I spent the entire day in my room replaying it. The steam. The mirror. His eyes finding mine before either of us was ready. The way my name sounded in his mouth like something he hadn't meant to say out loud. I'd made three separate attempts to read the same chapter of the same book and retained nothing. I'd stared at my ceiling for an embarrassing amount of time doing absolutely nothing except thinking about water tracking down collarbones and a towel hanging catastrophically low.And then Reid in the hallway. That slow curl of a smile. You're very red, Sloane.By the time dinner came around I was already wound tight as a watch spring.That was my first mis
"Close the door."I closed the door.From the outside. Which meant I was in the hallway. Which was the correct outcome. This was good. This was the right result.I stood there with my back against the wall and my heart trying to exit my chest and my brain doing something useless and unhelpful — replaying it. The water on his collarbones. The way he'd looked at me. The way he'd said my name like it was a warning he hadn't quite decided to give yet.Wrong bathroom.Wrong bathroom" like the only thing wrong about any of it was geography."Interesting morning?"I spun around.Reid was leaning in his bedroom doorway six feet down the hall. Arms crossed, hair disheveled, wearing a grey t-shirt and sweats, looking at me with that expression he had — the one that said he found the world faintly amusing and was in no hurry to pretend otherwise.He looked at my face. At the closed bathroom door. Back at my face.The corner of his mouth pulled up slow."Callum's bathroom is the one on the east e
SLOANELet me tell you something about the kind of girl I am.I'm not reckless. I'm not the type who goes looking for trouble or mistakes or things that will keep her up at night with her thighs pressed together and her conscience screaming. I make lists. I think before I speak. I have never in my twenty years of life done something I couldn't explain in the morning.So I need you to understand that what happened was an accident.I need you to understand that before I tell you the rest.Because the rest does not make me look good.*I'd been in the house six days.Six days of learning which floorboards creaked, which light switches did nothing, which hallways led where. Six days of careful smiles at dinner and even more careful silences everywhere else. Six days of pretending I didn't notice the way Callum looked through me like I was furniture. Like I was a mildly inconvenient piece of décor his father had brought home and he was still deciding where to put.Six days of pretending I












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