Crave: A Collection Of Wicked Desires のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 31 - チャプター 40

At The Library The library was closing up, the kind of quiet that pressed into your skin and made every breath feel heavy, loaded with anticipation. Emma was alone, except for the low hum of the heating system and the occasional creak of old floorboards under her feet. She adjusted her glasses, but the thin frames did nothing to mask the way her pulse hammered against her temples.Her phone buzzed—Lily’s name flashing on the screen with a single message: Dad’s stopping by. Heads up.Emma’s stomach clenched, heat pooling low and sharp. Mark—her best friend’s dad—was everything she wasn’t supposed to want. Older, rougher, with a body carved like a goddamn statue and eyes that could burn through steel. He smelled like leather and whiskey, the kind of scent that made her toes curl and her panties damp before he’d even set foot inside.The bell above the door jingled, and Emma’s breath hitched. Mark stepped in, slow and deliberate, every inch the predator. His dark eyes flicked to hers, a

I’ve modeled for painters, photographers, and bored housewives with too much wine and too little shame. But sculptors? They’re a different breed. Cold hands. Hungry eyes. And always, always too quiet while they stare at you like you’re already stripped. This one was no exception. His message was vague as fuck. “Nude modeling. Studio downtown. 2 hours. Cash.” I replied with a picture of my abs and a simple, What are you sculpting? His answer? > “You.” So I showed up. He was barefoot when he opened the door. Shirtless. Jeans low on his hips, streaked with dried clay. He looked like sin after a long day of wrecking things—and I was in the mood to be wrecked. “Strip,” he said, already turning away. “No hi? No name? I’m Noah, by the way.” I teased, stepping inside. “You’re not here to talk.” “True.” I unzipped my jacket. “But if I was. I’d ask what you’re planning to do with that block of clay and a man like me.” He looked at me for the first time. Long stare. Like

They always say don’t joke about the thing under the bed.Like if you talk about it too much, it’ll crawl out.But I’ve never been the kind of girl who listens.Especially not with my legs spread and my fingers soaked, whispering, "If you're real, come out and fuck me already."It started as a joke. The kind of thing I’d say after too much wine and not enough dick. Some dumb fantasy about a monster under the bed—big, rough, inhuman. Something that didn’t care about manners or consent or dinner dates.Something that would just take.And tonight, for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a joke anymore.The air is heavy.Like the room’s holding its breath.I’m sprawled across my sheets, naked, aching. I’ve been touching myself for what feels like hours—grinding slow and hard against my hand, chasing a high that won’t come. It’s like my body knows I’m not alone. Like it’s waiting for something more.I glance at the shadow under the bed.It looks darker than usual.Deeper.Almost like some

The motel reeked of mildew and cheap cleaner, the neon “Vacancy” sign buzzing like it had a secret. She parked two spaces down from Room 7 like always, hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles ached. Her husband thought she was at yoga.She wore a soft pink sweater and jeans that hugged her hips, wedding ring still on. The wife look. Safe, sweet, dependable. No one would guess she was about to get her mouth fucked until her lipstick smeared, or that the man waiting behind that motel door would leave her thighs sticky and trembling.He didn’t text. Didn’t need to. Every Tuesday, same time, same room. And she always came back.She knocked twice—sharp, then soft. The door swung open, and there he was: grease-slick hands, oil-stained shirt clinging to muscle, stubble rough and jaw locked. He didn’t say a word. Just stepped back and let her in.The room was hot, windows shut tight. Smelled like sex and sweat and faint cologne. His boots thudded behind her as she stepped inside.

She was still bent over, thighs quivering, his cum leaking down her leg when her phone buzzed on the nightstand.She didn’t reach for it.He did.He picked it up, glanced at the name, and grinned dark. “It’s him.”Her heart slammed in her chest. “Don’t—”He answered.“Hey, babe,” he said, voice low and casual, like he wasn’t wrist-deep in another man’s wife. “She’s a little tied up right now.”She gasped, scrambling up, but he pressed a hand to her back, keeping her pinned to the mattress. She could still feel him inside her, softening but not leaving.The line crackled. Her husband’s voice filtered through, confused. “Who the hell is this?”“She’s at the shop,” the mechanic said smoothly, dragging his cock out slow. “Getting her tires rotated. Among other things.”“Put her on the phone.”He handed it to her.She took it with shaking fingers, trying to find her voice. “H-hi, baby.”“Where the hell are you?” her husband snapped. “You said yoga and groceries. That was hours ago.”“I—I r