All Chapters of Raw Pleasures: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

BRENDA'S POV“God, Arman—” I gasped, half in shock, half in ecstasy.“That’s it,” he rasped, thrusting deeper, filling me until I was stretched wide around him. “Take me. Every inch. You were made for this.”The first few strokes were slow, deliberate, forcing my body to adjust. He held my hips still, grinding deep inside me until I moaned, my walls clenching helplessly around him. Then his pace shifted—hard, fast, merciless.The glass behind me shook with each thrust, my breasts bouncing in his hands as he squeezed, pinched, twisted. My moans turned into shameless cries, my legs trembling, struggling to hold myself up as he drove into me.“Say it,” he demanded, lips brushing my ear as his cock pounded into me. “Say you’re mine.”My pride wavered, shattered by the rhythm of his body slamming into mine. “I—God, I can’t—”“Yes, you can,” he snarled, pinching my nipple harder as his hips crashed against me. “This pussy already knows who owns it.”The heat coiled tight, unbearable, my bod

HER POVThe morning sun spilled through the tall glass windows of Stark & Co., glinting off polished floors and the ridiculous marble reception desk. I adjusted the strap of my red silk blouse, the one that always hugged my breasts just right, and leaned against my desk with my coffee in hand.The buzz around the office was louder than usual — whispers, giggles, everyone peeking toward the elevator. The reason?Him.The new manager.When the elevator doors slid open, I nearly spilled my latte.Six-foot-something, broad shoulders in a tailored navy suit that probably cost more than my rent for a year. His hair was dark, slicked back without a strand out of place, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, lips firm like he hadn’t smiled in decades. And those eyes — pale gray, cold, scanning the room like we were insects beneath his boot.“Alexander Pierce,” someone whispered near the copier. “Came from the London branch. Ruthless. Bougie as hell.”Ruthless? Bougie? Mean? Oh, yes. Exactly my type.I

HER POVFor weeks I kept my distance. I told myself I’d weigh the risk, count the cost, and decide if my bones were worth the break. I held myself like a secret — quiet, tucked away, careful. Then came the last Friday of the first quarter and the company suite at the hotel, all glass and low lights and too-good champagne. Sometimes the calendar hands move faster than your brain.The suite was a blur of lacquered surfaces and music that thudded in my chest. Senior partners laughed at one bar, associates clustered by the windows, and the open bottle of something sparkling disappeared faster than the elevator service. I started the night with a single glass, sensible, but conversation flowed and one glass became two, and then the office dissolved into friendly heat and the rules that usually held me taut felt slipperier.I saw him across the room first as if the crowd had parted; Alexander moved like he always did—calculated, precise, a line cut clean through the murmur. He stood at the

HIS POVIf the food had humbled us, the dance nearly broke us.Their hips rolled, snapped, swayed in time with the drums. Waists twisting, feet stomping, fabric swirling. It wasn’t just dance—it was seduction, celebration, defiance all in one. The squad went silent for the first time all day, jaws slack, eyes wide.And Amara danced too.Not in front, not trying to lead. But when her hips moved, slow and precise, my chest tightened. I forgot the other women, forgot the men around me, forgot the war we were here to fight. All I saw was her, moving like the rhythm belonged to her body.At one point, her gaze found mine mid-dance, and she tilted her head just enough—daring me to look away. I didn’t. Couldn’t.By the time the music ended, sweat clung to my palms, my throat dry. My chest ached from holding back things I couldn’t say.We retired to our base not long after, our bellies full, our nerves jangling with things none of us would admit out loud.The base was little more than an old

HIS POV“Follow me,” she said.Her voice carried a sharp edge, like she knew I would obey even before I decided. She led me deeper, down a narrow hallway carved into stone, torches burning low along the walls. My boots echoed behind hers, every step pounding with anticipation.Then she stopped.The room she brought me to wasn’t just a room. It was a space meant for fear, built for breaking men down to the bone. Shackles hung from the walls. Chains gleamed faintly in the firelight. Wooden beams scarred with burn marks, whips coiled neatly on hooks, and a drain cut into the stone floor told the story—blood had run here before.But tonight, the place smelled of oil and soap. Clean. Ready. Waiting.She turned to me, her eyes glowing feral. “This is where enemies, spies, or wrongdoers are brought. Tortured. Disciplined. Some survive…” she dragged her nails lightly down the wood of a post, “…others don’t. No matter how you scream, nobody can hear a sound down here.”My pulse spiked. She was