บททั้งหมดของ Forbidden Affairs : บทที่ 41 - บทที่ 50

The moment I stepped into Professor Cole’s office, I felt it again—that heat pooling low in my belly. The door clicked shut behind me, locking me into a space that smelled like old books, leather, and something else. Something darker. Something purely him.He didn’t look up right away. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, fingers steepled beneath his jaw, eyes scanning a paper I couldn’t see. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, veined forearms. God, I was a sucker for those forearms.“Miss Lane,” he finally said, lifting his eyes to meet mine. Steel-gray, sharp, assessing. “To what do I owe this… visit?”I swallowed. My voice felt tight in my throat. “It’s about my paper.”He arched a brow. “Your paper. The one analyzing dominance and submission in Wuthering Heights, correct?”I nodded. “You gave me a B.”“I did.”He pushed the paper toward me. I didn’t move to take it.“I found it… fascinating,” he said slowly, like the words tasted good on his tongue. “

The music pulsed through the sprawling mansion like a heartbeat—slow, heavy, and sensual. Bodies moved on the makeshift dance floor, glittering with sweat and temptation under the low amber lights. But none of it mattered to Cassie. Because the only thing she could see was him.Damien Blackwood stood across the room, towering in his tailored black suit, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers like an afterthought. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his chiseled jaw tight, eyes scanning the crowd—until they locked with hers.Her breath caught.He hadn’t seen her since Christmas. Back when she was still wearing oversized sweaters and hiding curves that had now come alive under the silk of her crimson dress. She wasn’t Daddy’s little girl anymore. And she wasn’t just his goddaughter.Not tonight.Cassie moved through the crowd, her heels clicking with confidence she barely felt. Her hips swayed to the rhythm, her eyes never leaving his. And Damien—stoic, dominant Damien—brok

The second I said, “Don’t stop,” something in him broke.Markus surged forward, grabbing me by the hips, pulling me to the edge of the couch. The room was dim—only flashes of lightning lit his face, casting deep shadows beneath his cheekbones and jaw. His soaked shirt clung to him like a second skin, but his eyes… they were fire.“Do you know what you’re asking for?” he growled, his hands kneading my thighs, parting them.“I’ve never wanted anything more.”He let out a low, guttural sound—half pain, half hunger—as he dragged his hands beneath the hem of his shirt. My breath hitched when his knuckles brushed my bare skin, and his eyes widened when he realized I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.“You’re naked under this?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Jesus Christ, Lana.”“For you,” I breathed.He stood suddenly. For a terrifying second, I thought he might leave again. But instead, he tugged his wet shirt over his head and tossed it aside. His chest was broad, sculpted, all m

EvaThe lake always smelled like wet pine and old secrets after sunset. Caleb says I romanticize everything, but that’s because he doesn’t notice the way people breathe when they think no one is watching. He invited his three best friends for “a guys’ lake weekend,” and somehow it turned into a couples-not-couples long weekend because I happened to be off work and “you should come, babe, you’ll finally get to know them properly.” I knew them well enough from wedding stories and Bachelor party photos. Jace with the smile that got him out of trouble. Mason with the quiet scowl that drew women like moths. Theo who barely spoke but saw too much. What I didn’t know—what I had not prepared for—was the way all three of them would look at me once we were trapped together under one roof with liquor, late nights, and my husband’s trust stretched thin by nostalgia.Caleb was sunshine from the moment we got in Friday afternoon, racing the boat, grilling, cracking beers, telling stories about coll

I’ve read a lot of things in my ten years of teaching. Late-night essays, drunken rants passed off as “creative expression,” confessions disguised as poetry. But none of them ever made my cock hard.Until hers.Until Mira Callahan handed in her extra credit assignment.It was a short story, printed neatly in 12-point Times New Roman, double-spaced like I asked. But the first sentence hit like a punch to the gut:“He wasn’t supposed to touch her, but he wanted to. And when she leaned back on his desk and spread her legs, he forgot what ‘supposed to’ meant.”I was still at my desk. Lights low. Office quiet. Campus dead after 8 p.m.I told myself I’d skim it.Instead, I read every word.It wasn’t just erotica. It was a confession. A blueprint. A loaded gun with my name on the trigger.Because I knew exactly who the story was about.The professor was tall. Wore black. Had “cut glass eyes” and a “disdain for fools.” He drank black coffee and corrected grammar in love letters. The girl was