All Chapters of Sinful Affairs (MM Erotica collection): Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Victor’s POV It started raining a few minutes past midnight, and it was a slow rhythm against the glass window. I lie awake staring at the ceiling replaying everything that happened earlier. Most especially the way he stared at me before he walked off angrily. I tried to erase the way my body felt when I held him, but it was not working. Also, the way his body tensed when my hand was on his. I shut my eyes to try to sleep but it’s useless. The silence in this house feels louder than thunder. Somewhere down the hall, I hear movement. It was footsteps. And then I heard a door creak open. It’s him. Kumar. I push the covers aside and get up, my bare feet cold against the marble floor. The lights in the hallway are dim, a faint golden path leading toward the living room. I went towards the living room and there he was, by the balcony. The glass doors are open, rain coming in with the wind. He was standing outside, he was drenched to the bone, his head was tilted toward the sky li

Kumar’s POV The next morning feels different. The house is quiet as always, yet every sound seems to echo louder. The faint hum of the coffee machine, the soft thud of my steps, even my heartbeat sounds out of place. I find Victor in the kitchen, already dressed, already perfect. His sleeves are rolled just enough to show the clean line of his wrist. His movements are smooth, practiced, like every motion follows a script he wrote for himself years ago. He glances up when I walk in. “You’re late,” he says, but his voice lacks its usual edge. I smirk faintly. “You didn’t give me a wake-up call today. I thought I was being tested.” “You’re always being tested,” he replies, setting a cup on the counter for me. “You just don’t always realize it.” Our eyes meet. For a few seconds, we just look at each other and though neither of us says a word about last night, it hangs there, quiet and undeniable. The things he did to my body. The part of him I wasn’t supposed to see. I take

Kumar’s POV It had been five days since I left the mountains. Five days since the rain, since that kiss, since Victor Flair’s eyes had looked into mine like he was seeing something he’d spent years trying to forget existed. And yet, he hadn’t called. Good. I didn’t need him. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. The office smelled like coffee and deadlines against the familiar chaos of Gujral Industries. My company was far from stable, but it was alive. People were working. Phones were ringing. Ideas were flowing again. We were trying to rebuild. I threw myself into it completely. Meetings from dawn to dusk. Calls with investors. Long nights rewriting proposals. Anything to keep my mind away from him. Every time I caught myself thinking about that night, the balcony, the rain, his touch, I forced my focus back to the spreadsheets. Numbers couldn’t hurt me. Emotions could. By the fifth morning, the boardroom was full. My team sat around the long glass table, waiting

Micheal’s POV The first thing I noticed when Kane Anderson walked into my studio was how careful he was. Every step he took and every glance, he was like a man walking into a lion’s den but trying not to show fear. He wore a navy jacket, plain jeans, and a press badge hanging from his pocket. He looked more like a detective than a journalist. My studio was quiet, too quiet for people like him. There were no assistants here, nor were there any cameras; it was also very quiet compared to the noise journalists were used to. There was just a faint smell of oil paint, diffusers, and the faint hum of the air conditioning above. The walls were filled with faces I had painted, eyes that were half trapped in color. He paused at the door. “Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Rodriguez,” he said. His tone was polite, but I could hear the uncertainty behind it. I smiled, slow and deliberate. “Please, call me Michael. Everyone does.” He nodded slightly, his eyes moving over the canvases. “The

Michael’s POV The light in the studio had dimmed. It wasn’t bright anymore, just faint, and I felt the tension in the room as I kept painting. We’d been at it for hours. I’d painted, paused, studied, and painted again. He’d hardly spoken, but he didn’t need to. Every small movement, every breath, told me enough. “Still,” I said softly, my brush hovering near the canvas. He gave the smallest nod. “You’ve been saying that for three hours.” “Because you keep moving.” “Or because you keep looking,” he countered. That made me stop. The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. He wasn’t mocking me, but there was a subtle challenge in the way he said it. The first hint that he’d found some footing again. I returned to my strokes, slower now. “Observation isn’t the same as staring.” “It feels like it,” he said. “You look at people like you’re taking them apart.” “Maybe I am.” “Then who puts them back together?” I didn’t answer. He’d caught me off guard, and I hated that. My han