Todos os capítulos de Forbidden Romance Tales: Capítulo 21 - Capítulo 30

Jaye stood at the edge of the bustling bachelor party, her heart fluttering with anticipation. The wedding was just a day away and she couldn't believe how lucky she was to be marrying Tony, the man she had loved for years. She accepted a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter. To anyone watching, she was the picture of a blissful bride-to-be, circulating among friends, accepting congratulations with a gracious blush. Her gaze, however, kept straying to the far end of the bar to her future father-in-law.His charisma and good looks made it easy to see why so many women were drawn to him. Leaning against the polished mahogany, he was listening to the young, pretty bartender who was mixing his drink with a small, polite smile on his lips. The woman was laughing, tossing her hair, her body language an unmistakable flag of flirtation.She felt a pang of something she couldn't quite identify, but quickly dismissed it. But the feeling persisted, a nagging, possessive itch under h

Scarlett’s body arched in the darkness with a sensation. A slow, searing heat that started at the base of her spine and fanned outwards, a languid wildfire under her skin. She felt a hand, a man’s hand to be more precise, slide up the length of her thigh, fingers grazing skin with deliberate possession.The heavy oak desk was cold against the backs of her thighs, the stark contrast to the heat of his body a delicious shock. His mouth was at her ear, breath hot, words too blurred to understand yet devastating in their weight.She gasped, lips parting, as his teeth brushed the tender hollow of her neck. Her hands fisted into nothing, clutching at the phantom figure pinning her. His thumb stroked a slow, maddening arc against the skin exposed between her jumper and her skirt.“Miss Jones.” His voice was a low murmur, a vibration against the shell of her ear that was more felt than heard. She dared to look up. His face was inches from hers, all sharp, aristocratic planes and brooding int

Scarlett Jones felt the hours of the day stretch and bend as though time itself had slowed. Evening had come and with it a weight she could not define. She found herself in Dr. Davis Clark’s office again. Normally she would have been eager to leave the moment the session ended, but tonight, she didn’t want to go. The irrational desire to simply sit with him, to talk for hours untethered from syllabi or essays, was a quiet, persistent hum beneath her skin.Dr. Clark wasn’t his usual composed self. There was a subtle restlessness in the way he leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the edge of the desk or the way his hand ran through his hair as he scanned her latest essay. For a moment, he looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers. Scarlett felt her pulse spike as if she had been caught thinking something she shouldn’t. “Solitude is often the tax levied on any meaningful endeavor. The price of admission to a world of one’s own making,” he conceded.“Your opinion, it matters to

The first thing that Scarlett felt was a deep, resonant ache, a pleasant soreness that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. The second sensation was heat, not from the pale morning light filtering through her dorm room window, but an echo of a body pressed against hers.Scarlett Jones drew a sharp breath before she even opened her eyes, lingering in the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, letting the memories wash over her.Davis Clark.Her professor. Her mentor. The man who had lifted her from the floor of his office and fucked her like his personal whore on his bed in his bedroom. He had looked at her not as a student, but as a man who had finally surrendered to a hunger he could no longer deny.Her fingers drifted beneath the duvet, tracing the faint, tender abrasions his stubble had left on the soft skin of her inner thighs. She pressed gently against the deep, internal ache that remained, a raw testament to the relentless, consuming force of his possession.She knew she shoul

November 16, 2025 Memory is a curious seducer. It paints the past in hues either too soft or too severe, rarely in the honest light of day. A memory visited me tonight as I watched Charles sleeping in the pallid moonlight in my apartment. The slow, steady rhythm of his breath, the way the sheets tangled around his waist, the absolute peace on a face that commands courtrooms, it all conspired to drag me back to the beginning. You know me better than anyone, my silent confidant. You remember the girl I was, the one who put salt in the sugar bowl at the debutante ball, who superglued the headmaster’s gavel to his podium after an unjust ruling. That was a childish sort of mischief, a sparkler compared to the wildfire that smoldered in me later. Pranks lost their flavor. Th