Semua Bab Deep Inside (Erotica short story collections): Bab 151 - Bab 160

The barracks smelled of sweat, boot polish, and the faint bite of gun oil. Private Henry Warner leaned back against his bunk, head tilted, eyes closed, pretending to rest. His muscles ached from the day’s drills, his palms still raw from crawling over gravel. But his chest burned for a different reason altogether.Because of her.Colette Johnberg.Sergeant Johnberg’s daughter. Blonde hair that gleamed like captured sunlight, lips that curved into sharp little smirks when she caught him watching her. She was a temptation Henry had no business entertaining. A commanding officer’s daughter was off limits, stricter than the law itself.Yet she was there almost every evening, carrying food to her father, lingering too long by the mess tent, her eyes scanning the soldiers until they landed on him. She never looked away quickly enough.And Henry was a fool for not doing the same.That evening, dusk painted the camp in bruised violets and fading golds. Henry ducked into the supply tent, taske

The tent was still dark when Henry stirred, his body heavy with exhaustion yet alert the moment his senses registered the warmth beside him. Colette lay draped across his chest, her breathing steady, hair tangled in messy curls that spilled across his skin. For a fleeting moment, Henry allowed himself to pretend, pretend that he wasn’t just a soldier who had stolen his sergeant’s daughter for the night, that she wasn’t forbidden, that this wasn’t a dangerous affair that could end his career and destroy her father’s trust.But the way her fingers curled lightly against his ribs, the way her thigh brushed his hip even in sleep, it tore at him. Last night had not been enough. Not nearly.“Colette,” he whispered into her hair, pressing a kiss against the crown of her head.She stirred, stretching against him like a cat before opening her eyes. That mischievous glint was already there, soft but knowing.“Morning, soldier,” she murmured, voice husky from sleep.His throat tightened. “You s

The war had ended, but for Henry Warner, the battles never truly left. He woke some nights drenched in sweat, the phantom echoes of gunfire and screams clinging to his skin. Yet, when his eyes adjusted to the quiet glow of dawn, when his hand brushed against soft golden hair and the warm curve of Colette’s hip beneath the sheet, the world steadied again.She was his ceasefire, his home.The small farmhouse they lived in stood far from barracks and marching drills. Colette had insisted on the countryside, a place where her father could visit but not loom, and where Henry could finally shed the uniform that had clung to his skin like shackles.This morning, though, he wore nothing but loose trousers, the drawstring hanging untied as he leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching Colette fuss with a basket of eggs she’d just brought in.She was barefoot, her hair tumbling down her back in soft waves, the thin white dress she wore nearly sheer in the sunlight. He caught himself staring

The glass walls of the Deckard mansion glittered against the city skyline like a fortress of untouchable wealth. Inside, crystal chandeliers dripped light across polished marble, every surface gleaming as if begging to reflect its owners’ perfection.And there she was, Elara, the maid.She’d been hired only two weeks ago. Nineteen years old when she applied, but twenty-one today, her first birthday spent in the billionaire household, scrubbing surfaces so pristine they hardly needed cleaning. Her black uniform clung to her curves, the starched white apron only making her look more fragile, more innocent. She had never touched a man. Not once.The Deckard brothers noticed.Cowin, the eldest, was thirty-one and ruthless, his empire built on cold decisions and brutal takeovers. His jaw was always clenched, his black suit sharp enough to cut. He saw Elara’s downcast eyes when he passed her in the halls, and every night he found himself replaying the soft tremble of her lips.Damien, the s

The halls of the East Wing stretched in hushed elegance, the kind of silence reserved for power and secrets. Donan Temp walked with Frida’s hand captured in his own, his stride purposeful, his grip unyielding. The Oval Chamber’s lingering heat clung to them both, but here, away from the polished desks and official portraits, his hunger sharpened.The presidential residence loomed ahead, guarded by towering doors of carved oak. Two agents nodded as he passed, neither daring to question why the President was leading his assistant down a corridor meant only for family.Inside, the rooms softened from marble austerity into velvet warmth. A fire flickered in the hearth, shadows dancing over bookshelves and leather chairs. Donan turned, pressing Frida against the door before it even latched shut.Her gasp met his mouth. He devoured it. His kiss was rough, desperate—less the measured dominance of a commander and more the naked craving of a man stripped of restraint. His hands roamed her body