All Chapters of Make Me Yours (A Steamy Collection): Chapter 371 - Chapter 380

Chapter 3I don’t remember sleeping, only drifting in and out of a haze, the scent of him still clings to my body…sandalwood smoke and the sex we just still clinging to the silk sheets like a shroud too. My body aches, It’s a deep, tender throb between my thighs, a dull reminder of his possession. I can feel the dried tracks of his cum on my skin, a crusty, shameful evidence of the night before. Every muscle is tight, coiled with a dread that has been fermenting in the pit of my stomach since he left me here, a used and discarded thing.The door clicks open without a knock and I flinch, pulling the sheet up to my chin, but it’s the sharp-featured woman. She is holding a simple black dress. It's the same one from yesterday. Her eyes flicker over me, taking in my state without a trace of emotion, like I’m a piece of furniture she’s about to polish. She lays the dress on the foot of the bed and turns to wait for me. The message is clear: she wants me to get up and get dressed.My le

Chapter 5The water is cold now, murky with soap and his release. My knees ache against the marble and my face is pressed to the slick edge where I've been sobbing. Every muscle in my body screams as my ass throbs, It’s a deep, pulsing ache that radiates through my pelvis. I can feel his cum leaking out of me, trailing down my inner thighs in the cooling bathwater.Dmitri's footsteps echo on the tile, then they’re gone. The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I push myself up slowly even as my body is protesting. The water sloshes around me, gray and disgusting. I need to get out. I need to clean myself.My fingers tremble as I pull the drain plug making the water go away. I turn on the shower and it’s scalding hot, I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink. I scrub myself raw with a rough washcloth, trying to wash away the memory of his hands, his cock and his voice whispering filth in my ear. But it's no use. The scent of him still clings to me like a secon

Chapter 7His words keep turning over in my head—I’m going to ruin you for anyone else and more tears keep slipping out of the corners of my eyes no matter how hard I try to stop them. The sheets are cool against my back, but every place his skin touches mine feels too warm. His cum is already leaking out of me, slow and sticky, running down the insides of my thighs and onto the bed.Dmitri shifts and props himself up on his elbows so he can look at my face. He watches the tears for a long moment, then reaches out and wipes one away with his thumb. He brings the thumb to his mouth and tastes it, eyes still on mine.“Still crying?” His voice is low and rough from everything we just did. “Good. I want you to remember this feeling.”He starts moving again before I can answer. His cock hardens inside me even though he only came a few minutes ago. The stretch burns this time, everything is still too sensitive, too swollen. I make a small sound and try to shift away from the pressure, but

Chapter 1I’ve been back in the house for six days and it still smells like her. Not strongly, but I still notice the smell. When I walk past the living room or open the hall closet, all I smell is my mother. Cassian had everything cleaned twice after the funeral. It didn’t really help. The smell’s still in the walls somehow. Or maybe it’s just in my head.The house feels bigger than it used to. Quieter too. I keep expecting to hear her voice from the kitchen or the soft sound of her favorite show playing in the background. Instead there’s just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards when Cassian moves around downstairs.I came home later than I meant to tonight. The porch light was on, which told me he’d waited up. He always does that now. I used to think it was just a habit. Lately I’m not so sure.He’s in the kitchen when I walk in. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows, one hand resting on the counter, a glass of water sitting untouched beside him.

Chapter 3I stay on the floor with the cool wood of the hallway pressing against my legs through my thin skirt. The photo frame is still against my chest and I can still feel where his hand was on my back, the weight of his arm around my shoulders and how close his body was. Everything he didn’t say is still hanging in the air. I push myself up, muscles stiff, and walk into my bedroom, leaving the door open a little. I don’t bother changing. I just lie on top of the covers in my wrinkled clothes and stare at the ceiling.Sleep isn’t coming at all . Every time I close my eyes I see his face…the way his eyes dropped to my mouth, the conflict in them. My body feels restless, still wound up from earlier, and it has nothing to do with grief. It’s him. The memory of his touch isn’t fading. It’s still stuck in my head. I remember the rough feel of his thumb on my back, the solid muscle of his thigh when I leaned into him. I toss and turn until the sheets are tangled around my legs. The hou