บททั้งหมดของ Dirtiest Desires (Steamiest Short Stories): บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

My mind flashes back to six months ago… the wedding. My mother was glowing more than usual, finally married to a man with enough money to keep her in silk for a lifetime. I was standing by the bar in a dress that was definitely too short and too tight for a "family" event. I’ve always been that girl—the one who wears her sensuality like a second skin, unapologetic and bold. Then I saw Max. He was standing in the corner, a glass of bourbon in his hand, looking like he wanted to burn the whole reception hall down. Our eyes met, and that was it. He saw exactly who I was behind the lace and the smiles. Three months later, the contract was signed. Three months of these Tuesdays and Thursdays that have become the only time I feel truly alive. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, even though it’s a ticking time bomb. If Mom or my stepfather ever found out I was spending my evenings being disciplined by uncle Max… and now disciplining him… the scandal would destroy everything

"What is this?" I whisper, my hands flying to my mouth.He flips his laptop open one more time and shows me a still image of the deepfake. Me. Wearing the exact same outfit."Proof," he replies, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Proof that we’ve been wanting to fuck you."I stand in the center of Daniel’s room, my brain spinning in circles. The silence of the house feels heavy now that our parents are gone. Is he gaslighting me? Is my mother—the woman who raised me—actually capable of something so twisted?The worst part isn't the shock. It’s the heat pooling between my legs. Why does this turn me on so much when it’s so crazy?"You mean my own mother wants to have a threesome with me and her stepson?" My voice is barely a whisper, trembling with a mix of fear and curiosity."More like voyeurism," Daniel says, his voice smooth and unapologetic. "You know what that means, right?"Of course I do. I’ve read enough stories to know. "So she just wants to... watch?""Yes," he r

I look into the camera, my eyes blown wide. My heart is hammering—half in terror that someone might actually see and half in desperate, exhibitionist thrill that they might.I let the lens see everything: my flushed face, my messy hair, and the way I’m splayed out on the table like a feast.Click.The flash blinds me for a second. He isn’t streaming. He just took a photo... a permanent record of my submission.“There,” he whispers, dropping the phone. “Now I have proof of how well my maid performs.”I should be horrified. I should be screaming for him to delete it. But instead, my back arches, and I find myself wanting to give him more to record. I want to be the girl in his private gallery.“Now,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Time for the real deal.”He doesn’t give me the chance to breathe. He grabs my ankles and turns me so that I’m folded over the table, spreading my legs so wide I feel completely exposed.He steps behind me, his thick, hard length brushing against my a

~ Frank ~The air in Arthur Sterling’s penthouse office is always too thin.Today, it feels like it’s pressing against my lungs.It smells of floor wax, leather, and the kind of money that doesn’t care who it crushes.I stand by the window, my hands clasped behind my back. I know exactly how I look. My navy suit is tailored to perfection. My hair is gelled into a style that doesn't move, even in a gale.I am Frank Miller, the man who brings projects in under budget and ahead of schedule. I build things that last."You’re staring at the horizon again, Frank," a voice purrs from the sofa. "Are you looking for your personality, or just checking if the clouds are aligned in a perfect grid?"My jaw tightens. I feel the muscle near my ear twitch—a tiny betrayal of my composure. I don't turn around. I don't give him the satisfaction."I’m looking at the site of the Metropolitan Project, Julian," I say, my voice as flat as a spirit level. "The site you’re currently trying to ruin with those..

I need a drink.It’s the only thought echoing in my head as I stare at the massive mahogany bed upstairs. One bed. One set of heavy, down-filled blankets.One space where the air will be thick with the scent of Julian’s cologne and the sound of his breathing.I turn on my heel and march toward the kitchen. My shoes thud against the hardwood floors, a lonely sound in the middle of a blizzard. I find the bar cabinet tucked in the corner.My hands are shaking slightly as I pull it open.Rows of amber liquid stare back at me. Expensive scotch. Bourbon. Gin. I grab a bottle of dark, aged scotch and a crystal tumbler.I don't care about the price or that it belongs to Arthur; I just need something to burn away the image of Julian lying next to me.The glass clinks as I pour. I take a sip, and the liquid fire slides down my throat, warming me from the inside out.I close my eyes, trying to visualize a blueprint. A bridge. A skyscraper. Anything that isn't the man currently leaning against th