Semua Bab Forbidden Affairs : Bab 311 - Bab 320

The storm came without warning.Rain hammered against the roof in heavy sheets, thunder cracked like an explosion in the distance, and somewhere down the line a transformer groaned under the pressure. The lights in the station flickered once, twice, then everything went black. For a few seconds, the only sound was the storm pounding outside and the low, nervous creak of the building breathing in the dark.“Shit,” someone muttered from the bunk room. “Power’s out.”Emergency lights flicked on after a moment, weak red strips lining the hallways like veins glowing in the dark. The storm had turned the station into something quieter, something sharper. Every sound echoed. Every movement felt closer.She slipped down the hall barefoot, the old floor cool under her feet. She hadn’t been able to sleep anyway, not with the heat still clinging to the night and the storm’s endless growl. She pulled her damp hair into a knot and pushed open the door to the gear room. The heavy scent of leather,

The warehouse was nothing but a skeleton now.The fire had finally died, leaving behind a blackened frame and a sky choked with smoke. Dawn crept in slow and gray, bleeding weak light over the ash-covered ground. The air still smelled like burned wood, melted plastic, and something heavier — the weight of exhaustion after everything had burned.The trucks sat idling, their engines a low, steady hum against the quiet. Water still dripped from the hoses, pooling on the pavement in dark streaks. Firefighters moved through the remains like ghosts, helmets tilted low, voices muted. They’d fought hard tonight. They’d contained the blaze. No casualties. A win on paper. But wins like this never felt clean.She leaned against the back of the engine, helmet on the ground, gloves shoved into her belt. Her hair stuck to her neck, streaked with soot, sweat sliding down the hollow of her throat. Her body ached. Her lungs still tasted like smoke. Her pulse, though, was still wild — not just from the

Alex woke to the sound of charcoal on paper. The scratch came through the wall in slow, deliberate strokes, like a heartbeat. She lay still, sheets twisted around her ankles, the silk robe discarded on the floor. Her skin still carried the memory of last night’s exposure: the cool chair, Jordan’s eyes, the way her nipples had tightened under the weight of his stare. She pressed her thighs together and felt the slick evidence of dreams she refused to name.The note was already waiting, slipped under her door sometime before dawn. Thick paper, midnight ink.Dare #6: Blindfold yourself at 11 p.m. Knock twice on my door. Do not speak.She folded it into a square small enough to hide in her fist and went to shower. The water ran scalding; she let it punish her shoulders while she tried to think of anything else. Her advisor’s email about lab hours. The grant proposal due Friday. The way Jordan’s throat had worked when he swallowed, watching her across the table.By ten-thirty the apartment

The scarf became a leash.Jordan looped it through the headboard slats and knotted it tight around Alex’s wrists, the silk biting just enough to remind her who held the power. She lay spread-eagle on his mattress, ankles bound with his paint-stained belts, the leather warmed from his hips. Morning light filtered through the blinds in dusty bars across her skin, catching on the faint bruises blooming along her collarbone, her inner thighs, the soft underside of one breast. Marks he had left with teeth and suction and the flat of his palm.He stood at the foot of the bed, naked, cock jutting heavy and flushed. A bead of pre-come pearled at the tip; he smeared it down the shaft with a lazy stroke, eyes never leaving her. In his other hand he held the note she had written at dawn, the ink already smudged from his grip.**Dare #9: Make me beg. Don’t let me come until I do.**He had laughed when he read it, low and rough, the sound curling heat low in her belly. Now he set the paper aside a

The studio was almost empty, the last of the corps de ballet already gone. Only the low work-lights remained, throwing long shadows across the sprung floor and turning the wall of mirrors into a dark, endless corridor of reflections. Elena stood alone at the barre, one hand resting on the wood still warm from a hundred other palms, watching the door. She had dismissed everyone else an hour ago. Everyone except the one she had asked to stay.Valeria walked in without knocking, the door clicking shut behind her like the closing of a trap. She wore the regulation black leotard and pale pink tights, but the fabric looked different on her body, stretched too tight across full breasts, clinging to the flare of her hips, the long sweep of her thighs. Her hair was twisted up in a careless knot, damp wisps already escaping at her nape. She carried nothing. No bag, no water bottle, no pretense of innocence.Elena did not speak at first. She let the silence stretch until Valeria’s pulse was visi