All Chapters of Sinful Seduction (Exotica Collection): Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Tasha couldn’t remember the last time she wore a bra. Or the last time she left the house for anything that wasn’t his. Nolan didn’t say she couldn’t, not exactly. He never chained the door. Never locked her in. But he didn’t have to. The way he touched her, the way his eyes claimed her every time she moved through their home, every glance from across the room was a command. Every word from his mouth wound itself around her spine and pulled. And God help her, she responded.It started slowly—at first, it was just the mornings. He wanted her bare and waiting before his alarm went off. Kneeling beside the bed, her breasts heavy, nipples leaking onto her thighs, her robe discarded like an afterthought. He would stroke himself awake with one hand while drawing milk from her with the other, his lips sealing around her nipple before he even opened his eyes. He fed lazily in the mornings, groaning against her skin, holding her like a man starving but still savoring. She lived for that. For t

Cleo had never knelt for anyone in her life. Not a man, not a boss, not even a teacher in her Catholic school days when all the other girls bent down during prayer like trained dogs. She always stood taller than the room allowed, with her sharp mouth and eyes that dared you to tell her no. But tonight, in the center of a luxury hotel suite that smelled like whiskey, leather, and sin, she was kneeling on the floor, head bowed, mouth red, thighs bare, and shaking like she wanted to be ruined.Because she did.Because desperation had a scent. And hers had led her here.Her rent was three weeks overdue. Her phone bill had been cut off. She had twenty-three dollars in her account and no more favors to call in. When her friend Sasha, a high-end escort who never said the word out loud but wore it like a badge, offered her a one-night gig, Cleo said no at first. She wasn’t a whore. She didn’t know how to be one. But when Sasha leaned in, lips glossed and unapologetic, and whispered, “He doesn

Delilah hadn’t meant to watch him. It wasn’t planned, not in the way she usually planned things — like how she packed her swimsuit in the front of her bag so her mother’s best friend could see how grown up she’d become, or how she always wore lipstick that looked effortless but took ten minutes to apply. But this, standing at the upstairs guest room window of the lakeside cottage and staring at a man twice her age while he crouched over a motorcycle engine in the driveway, this wasn’t planned. This was instinct. Like breath. Like heat spreading low in her belly and dragging her hand beneath the elastic of her bikini bottoms when he leaned back on his heels and wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm.She didn’t know his name at first. All she knew was that he was staying in the guesthouse — the second, smaller structure near the back of the lot, barely visible behind the trees. Her godmother had waved it off when Delilah asked. “My son’s back from the service, staying a while. You

Delilah wasn’t supposed to be in his room.It was early, the air still crisp with morning dew. Her godmother had left for a weekend retreat with her girlfriends, trusting Delilah to lock up the house and behave. That word — behave — rang in her ears like a joke. Her body still pulsed with soreness from the night before, thighs sticky, lips chafed from how hard he’d kissed her. But she didn’t feel bad.She felt alive.She felt hungry.Which was why she was in his room, barefoot and wearing one of his old shirts, oversized and hanging low on her thighs. She shouldn’t have been there. She knew that. But she wanted something — she didn’t know what — maybe a piece of him to hold when he wasn’t inside her.She wasn’t trying to snoop. Not really. But curiosity pulled her to the bedside drawer. Her fingers paused before curling around the knob. She hesitated only a second before opening it.And there it was.A pair of panties.Hers.Still damp. Still wrinkled from the night he tore them off.

It started with a stare.Every Friday night, Celeste worked the bar at Velvet Cellar. Dark velvet walls, smoky air, faceless luxury. The kind of place where no one asked questions, and everyone paid to be unseen. She wore tight black dresses with slits up to her thighs, heels that clicked against marble, and a crimson lipstick that made men stare. All of them looked at her. Most didn’t bother hiding it.But he watched her differently.He always sat in the same booth — last on the right, half-shrouded in shadow, with a bourbon he never really drank. Black mask, black suit, black gloves. She never saw his face. But she felt his eyes.Every movement, every step, every sway of her hips, she knew he saw it.For three weeks he didn’t speak.And she hated how much it thrilled her.He was the only one who never tipped.The only one who never touched her tray when she served him.The only one who made her skin burn without a single word.So when he finally motioned for her to come over, her wh