All Chapters of Shared Desires: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The night didn’t end there.We hadn’t even touched the bed when his hands lit me up again. We were on the living room floor, the rug beneath my bare legs, his mouth on my neck, and that way he kissed—slow at first, like he wanted to taste me, then hungry—completely undid me.His lips moved down slowly, leaving a hot, wet trail across my collarbone. My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just a little, guiding him where I needed him. He knew. Every moan that escaped my lips pushed him further, made him more ravenous.Our bodies moved in sync, as if we had known each other forever, as if our skins spoke a language of their own.His tongue traced my stomach, and I arched against him involuntarily. Every touch of his was a fire. Every kiss, a dare.He looked up from below. His eyes glinted—dark, locked on mine. His mouth curved in that arrogant, confident smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. And he loved watching me lose control.“You look beautiful like this,” he murmured, hi

I thought silence would follow. Exhaustion. Sweet rest. But no. John wasn’t done with me. And I wasn’t done with him. I could still feel him, hard against my leg, his breath on my neck, his hands moving over me with dangerous slowness. “Again?” I asked, breathless, a broken smile on my lips. “I haven’t finished tasting you,” he whispered, biting my shoulder. “I want to see you lose control one more time. Or two. Or all of them.” He flipped me over with measured violence—not aggressive, but with brutal need. He was burning, eyes bloodshot with desire, lips swollen, skin feverish. So was I. My body no longer answered to reason. Only to instinct. Only to him. He positioned himself above me but didn’t kiss me right away. He stared. Scanned me. His hands parted my legs without asking, and his fingers slid down, finding my center—already wet, swollen, trembling—and stroked it with precision. “Look at you…” he whispered, almost reverently. “It’s beautiful.” “John…” “Shhh,” he said

The restaurant hovered over the river like a jewel of glass and steel. Floor-to-ceiling windows, waiters dressed like they were heading to the opera, fine glasses, spaced-out tables, and that constant sense of *this isn’t for just anyone.* But John moved like the place was his second home. Or his property.We walked in, and the silence was subtle—but real.Heads turned.Not because of me. Because of him.Custom navy-blue suit, white shirt unbuttoned to the second one, no tie. A watch that screamed money, but never shouted. His walk was relaxed, owning every step, every glance. And he knew the effect.And worst of all… he enjoyed it.He walked behind me, a hand at the small of my back, guiding me gently, like he couldn’t help touching me. My dress clung to every curve. My heels echoed on the marble. Other women stared. At me, with curiosity. At him, like they wanted to lick him.And, of course, he smiled.The hostess—young blonde, plump lips, unnecessary cleavage—held his gaze with a s

The city sparkles as if part of the show. The black limo glides down the avenues like it owns them. Beside it, John radiates a magnetism that feels impossible to ignore. He doesn’t even try. He knows they’re looking. He expects it. He enjoys it.When we step out in front of the restaurant, the air shifts.Everyone knows who he is.The doorman greets him with a subtle bow. The manager appears instantly to guide us to a private terrace table. But before we sit, I see him.Heads turning.Eyes chaining onto him.Women — young, old, coupled, alone — devour him with their gaze. And he, with that charming shark smile, lets them stare.He’s fucking beautiful.And doesn’t hide it.“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I say as our bodies settle into velvet chairs.“Enjoying what?” he asks.“Being the most desired man in the place.”He shrugs. Feigns modesty. But his eyes glint with soft danger.“It’s not my fault they look.”“And you like it?”He leans toward me. Under the table, his hand brushe

John Blackwood’s suite is a provocation with a panoramic view.Everything smells of power: leather, dark wood, expensive liquor, and that scent of his that’s haunted me since we met. I walk on marble as if my legs aren’t shaking—but I can’t fool anyone. Not even myself.Demon enters behind me, whistling, like this showroom suite doesn’t intimidate him in the slightest. He flops into an armchair, legs spread with abandon, master of the space… or the world.“Make yourselves comfortable,” says John, in that voice that already knows me stripped bare. “Tonight, no clocks.”I watch him walk toward the bar. He pours whiskey with the precision of a man who doesn’t let anything spill beyond what’s planned.“Whiskey or did you go vegan?” Demon jokes, raising the bottle.“I only gave up cigarettes. Whiskey’s still my religion,” he responds, and his smile ignites my back.I sit beside John, not too close. There’s something electric in the air—something that wasn’t here a moment ago.“How long has