All Chapters of Compilation Of Short Stories (Erotica): Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

The three marks on Wren’s inner forearm itched with a low, persistent thrum, a living tattoo of longing etched into her skin by a ritual gone beautifully, catastrophically wrong. They weren't scars, but claims waiting to be made. One for tender worship, one for rude praise, one for slow dominance. Tonight, the first of them, a silvery crescent like a wolf’s gentle bite, burned with a need that was becoming a torment.She stood in the shadowy corner of the Veil, a private club thrumming with a bassline that felt like a heartbeat. It was a place for people who understood that power and pleasure were two sides of the same coin. And she was the newest, most volatile currency in the room.He found her without seeming to look. Cormac. His presence was a shift in the atmospheric pressure, a solid, warm mass displacing the air around her. He was built like the bedrock of the city, broad-shouldered and steady, with eyes the color of aged whiskey that held no trace of mockery, only a deep, abid

The first thing Rykor noticed about his new tenant wasn’t the impossible perfection of her face or the way her dark eyes seemed to swallow the light. It was the scent. The moment Everett stepped over the threshold of his cramped two-bedroom apartment, she brought the smell of a summer night after a rainstorm, petrichor, jasmine, and something else, something warm and metallic, like ozone after a lightning strike. It clung to the air, making the ordinary space feel charged and unfamiliar.“The room is just down the hall,” Rykor said, his voice a little too rough. He was a practical man, a freelance graphic designer whose life had become a series of deadlines and quiet, lonely evenings. Renting out the spare room was a desperate move for a desperate cash flow problem. He’d expected a student, maybe another harried creative. He had not expected Everett.She moved past him, her stride a liquid glide that made his carpet seem like a royal procession. “It’s perfect,” she said, her voice a l

The silence in Orion’s private library was a living thing, thick and heavy with the scent of old paper, leather, and beeswax. Thalia, the new archivist, knew she was trespassing. This sanctum was forbidden to all but the Alpha himself, but the lure of centuries-old knowledge had been too potent to resist. Her fingers, skilled and careful, had traced the spines of volumes on law, history, and war before they closed around a simple, unmarked book of vellum.It was not a history. It was a collection of letters, intimate and raw, written by Alphas to their mates across generations. The words were so visceral, so full of longing and possession, that she found herself whispering them aloud, her voice a soft murmur in the quiet room.“I would have you on your knees before me, not in supplication, but in celebration. I would teach your mouth the shape of my name until you forget all others…”A floorboard creaked behind herThalia snapped the book shut, her heart leaping into her throat. Orion

The storm had clawed its way through the mountains, leaving the air sharp and clean. Inside the small, cluttered cabin, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire in the woodstove and the ragged, wet breathing of the creature on the pallet of blankets.Remi wiped a stray strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist, her hands slick with a salve of comfrey and yarrow. He was a study in contradictions, the body was overwhelmingly male, broad shoulders, a chest dense with muscle, the powerful, tapered waist of a predator. But the wounds that scored his torso and leg were pure animal, the deep, brutal gouges of a territorial fight.And then there were his eyes.When he’d first staggered into the clearing two days ago, half-collapsing against her porch rail, they had been a wild, blazing gold. Now, as the fever receded, they were a quieter, more human hazel, flecked with that residual, untamed gold. He watched her, his gaze a physical weight as she worked.“The infection i

The storm howled around the mountain cabin, a furious beast of wind and driving snow that rattled the windowpanes and made the old timber groan. Inside, the world was reduced to a single, glowing room, dominated by a massive stone hearth where a fire roared, casting dancing shadows over the walls.Willow huddled closer to the flames, the wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders doing little to chase the deep chill from her bones. She’d been lucky to find the place, her car skidding into a ditch a mile back as the blizzard descended with sudden, brutal force. This lone cabin, smoke curling from its chimney, had been a beacon.The door had been opened by a man who seemed carved from the wilderness itself. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with warm, russet-brown eyes and a quiet strength that had settled her panic instantly. His name was Asher, he’d said, as he took her sodden coat and guided her to the fire. He lived here with his pack, tho