Semua Bab Tamed By The Devil Stepbrother : Bab 111 - Bab 120

Clara's POaVSunlight stabbed through the blinds like accusatory fingers, striping the bed in harsh gold and shadow, and I woke to the solid warmth of him—Nolan's arm slung heavy over my waist, his breath a steady rhythm against my hair, the faint scratch of his stubble on my shoulder where I'd burrowed closer in the night. The sheets were a twisted mess, tangled around our legs like we'd fought wars in our sleep, and my body ached in the best ways: thighs sore from straddling him on the couch, core still tingling with echoes of his thrusts, the faint throb of marks he'd left blooming under my skin. The clock glowed 8:17, and I blinked at it, groggy, the mansion's quiet hum broken only by the distant perk of coffee brewing—strong and bitter, the kind Mom swore by to "kick the day in the ass," as she'd once put it with a wink.I shifted, not ready to leave the cocoon of us, my leg hooking tighter over his, toes curling against his calf. His hand flexed instinctively on my hip, pulling

Clara's POV The library's hush wrapped around us like a conspirator, the air thick with the musty scent of old books—leather bindings and yellowed pages that had witnessed countless secrets over the decades. We were tucked into a forgotten corner on the third floor, the classics section where dusty tomes of Dickens and Austen lined the shelves like silent guardians. Sunlight filtered through the high arched windows in lazy beams, casting golden motes that danced in the air, but it did little to dispel the shadows that cloaked our illicit rendezvous. Nolan had me pressed against a towering oak shelf, my back arching slightly as the hard spines dug into my skin through my thin cotton blouse. His body was a wall of heat and muscle, caging me in, his breath hot against my neck as his fingers—those long, calloused fingers from years of gripping motorcycle handlebars—plunged deeper inside me, curling with that expert, deliberate twist that made my knees buckle and my toes curl inside my s

Clara's POV "Come with me, baby," he whispered, one hand slipping between us to circle my clit with expert precision, fingers slick with our combined arousal. The touch was electric, sending jolts straight to my core. "Wanna feel you shatter around my cock." His thumb pressed harder, rubbing in tight circles as he thrust deeper, angling to hit that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes.The words, combined with his touch, pushed me over—ecstasy uncoiling in waves, softer than last night's storms but no less shattering. I cried out softly, walls pulsing, milking him until he followed with a guttural moan, spilling deep inside me once more, hot and thick, marking me from within. We stayed locked, panting, his weight collapsing onto me in a comforting press, our hearts hammering in sync."Best way to start the day," I murmured, kissing his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin. My body hummed with satisfaction, but already, that insatiable hunger stirred again—the way he

Clara’s POVSunlight poured through the half-open curtains in Nolan’s room like warm honey, spilling across the tangled sheets and painting gold stripes over our bare skin. His body was heavy and perfect against mine—arm locked around my waist, thigh shoved possessively between mine, morning wood thick and hot against the curve of my ass. I could feel every inch of him, even through the thin sheet, and the ache between my legs was already pulsing again, greedy for more.He stirred when I shifted, lips brushing the nape of my neck, stubble scraping deliciously. “Mmm… fuck, Clara,” he rasped, voice gravel-rough from sleep and last night’s screaming. His hand slid lower, fingers splaying over my bare mound, middle finger lazily tracing my slit. “You’re already soaked. Greedy little pussy never gets enough of her step-brother, does she?”I arched back against him, grinding slow and filthy. “Never,” I whispered. “I woke up thinking about how deep you were inside me when you said ‘come on y

Clara's POV We scarfed down the last of breakfast in that easy rhythm we'd faked our way into—Nolan's foot hooked secret around my ankle under the table, Mom's knowing smiles skirting too close to the truth, Dad's gruff chuckles papering over the undercurrents. Plates clattered into the sink amid promises of grant deadlines and workshop tales, and before the syrup could fully congeal, we were out the door. Nolan's bike growled to life in the drive, my arms locked around him like a lifeline, the wind tearing through campus gates with us, scattering leaves like confetti for our stolen normalcy. University blurred by in a haze of lectures and deadlines: me hunched over my laptop in the sun-dappled quad, fingers flying across keys to seal that grant proposal—words weaving narratives of light and shadow, fueled by the phantom press of his thigh against mine during our shared art history seminar. Nolan sat two rows back, his gaze a tangible heat on my neck, sketching idle thumbnails in h