Semua Bab EDEN: Steamy Forbidden Pleasures : Bab 41 - Bab 50

Emboldened, she added a second finger, sliding deep with a twist that hit my front wall perfectly. 'Fuck, you're gripping me tight,' she groaned, pumping in and out, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room...schlick, schlick...mixing with my quickening breaths. Her thumb took over on my clit, flicking side to side, relentless. I bucked against her hand, thighs trembling, the coil in my core winding tighter. No guy had ever found this spot so fast; it was like she knew my body better than I did. 'Alexis...oh God, right there,' I panted, hands fisting the table's edges. She curled her fingers, stroking that ridge inside, faster now, her free hand sliding up to pinch my nipple through the air...sharp, electric.'Cum for me, Jane. Let it out.' Her command pushed me over, the pressure shattering. I cried out...'Ahh, fuck!', pussy spasming around her fingers, a hot gush squirting onto her palm as waves ripped through me. She kept thrusting, drawing it out, until I collapsed, chest hea

It had been three days since the wedding, three days of playing the devoted, beaming newlywed, and three days since Victor...my husband’s father, my former sugar daddy, my current illicit obsession...had taken me against a stone wall at my own after-party.The memory of it wasn’t just a lingering thought; it was a goddamn movie loop in my head. The feel of the cool stone against my back, the rough scrape of his tailored suit fabric on my cheek, the brutal, possessive slam of his hips as he claimed me through layers of expensive wedding lace. I could still smell the sandalwood and smoke on my skin, could still feel the phantom ache of his girth stretching me to the brink.I loved Maxwell. I did. He was everything a woman was supposed to want....kind, stable, and genuinely good. We’d ended that night, hours after the party had thinned and Victor had slipped away, tangled up in our own matrimonial bed. Maxwell had been gentle, methodical, whispering sweet nothings as he made love to me.

~Jamie's POV~ The Christmas lights on my tree twinkled like a thousand tiny stars, casting a warm glow across the living room. The fireplace crackled softly, filling the air with that cozy scent of burning pine logs. I'd baked a batch of gingerbread cookies earlier, nothing fancy, just enough to munch on while I binge watched those old holiday classics. A glass of red wine sat on the coffee table, half-empty, and the neighborhood outside was dead quiet. Everyone had bolted for family gatherings, leaving me here in my urban apartment building, solo as always. No way was I dealing with another round of my extended family's bullshit. 'Jamie, when are you settling down? Why no wife yet?' My mom trying to hook me up with her friend's daughters...fuck that. This year, I was celebrating my way, alone...no pressure, just me and the holiday cheer.I stretched out on the couch in my sweats and a faded tee, remote in hand, flipping through channels. Die Hard was on...best Christmas movie, f

~Wilson's POV~ I felt the dull thud of the gavel hit the wood, signalling the end of a surprisingly petty probate hearing. It was just after 4:00 PM, and the fluorescent lights in my chambers...not the grand, oak-lined courtroom itself, but the private, adjoining office where I handled pre-trial motions and confidential pleas...always seemed to hum louder as the day wore down. I, Judge Wilson, the supposed epitome of legal uprightness...fair verdicts for first-timers, no mercy for the repeat offenders. My peers called me the Rock of the Courthouse, and I wore that title like a badge...was now bone tired and ready for the solitude of my leather armchair and a scotch.“Call the next motion, please,” I said to Ms. Chen, my clerk, through the intercom, adjusting the collar of my judicial robes, which suddenly felt heavy and suffocating.The next case was a defense motion to suppress evidence in a high-profile homicide trial, the kind of case that had the local news hounds twitching. As

~Elena's POV~ The rain hammered against the windows of Elena's suburban home, a relentless drumbeat that mirrored the ache in her chest. It had been three years since the accident...three long, hollow years since her husband, Mark, was ripped away in that crumpled car on the interstate. At 35, Elena still looked like the vibrant woman he'd married: long auburn hair that fell in waves to her shoulders, green eyes that held a quiet storm, and a body that time hadn't softened...curves honed by yoga and grief-fueled runs, full C-cup breasts that strained against her fitted sweaters, a narrow waist flaring to hips that swayed with an unconscious grace. But inside, she was a ghost, haunting the life they'd built together.The house felt too big now, echoes of laughter and love bouncing off the walls like accusations. She'd tried dating apps once, swiped through profiles that blurred into sameness, but every touch from a stranger felt wrong, like betraying the man who'd known her every in