บททั้งหมดของ Wet Desires: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

The Beta's words hung in the air like a noose, tightening around my throat. Lucky night? In this world, luck was just another word for surrender. I rose from the cot without a sound, my body moving on autopilot—knees apart just enough to show readiness, spine rammed straight, wrists locked behind my back. The door clanged shut behind us as we walked the dim corridors, my bare feet silent on the cold stone. No one spoke. No one needed to. The hierarchy pulsed in every shadow, every echo. We stopped at a heavy oak door, carved with snarling wolves that seemed to leer at me. The Beta knocked twice, sharp and obedient, then pushed it open. 'Your new toy,' he grunted to the room beyond, shoving me inside before vanishing like smoke. The chamber was vast, lit by flickering torches that cast long, dancing shadows. A massive bed dominated one wall, draped in dark furs and silk that screamed excess. Two figures lounged there, identical in their ruthlessness—tall, broad-shouldered Alphas with

The contract was signed.The door was locked.My father was gone.And Dante Valenti was looking at me like I was the only thing left in the entire world.He didn’t rush.He didn’t growl or threaten or tear my dress off like I’d feared.He simply stepped close, cupped my face with both hands, and brushed the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs.“Bia,” he said, soft as midnight. “Breathe.”I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until he said it. I let it out in a shaky rush.“I’m not going to hurt you tonight,” he murmured. “Not like that. Not ever, if you let me take care of you.”His hands slid down my arms, slow, reverent, until my trembling fingers were wrapped in his. He brought my knuckles to his lips and kissed them, one by one. The gesture was so gentle it broke something open inside my chest.“Come,” he said, and led me through the penthouse like I was made of glass.The bedroom was dim, only the city glow through the windows and a single lamp turned low. The bed was enormo

It was past two in the morning and the penthouse was silent except for the low hum of the city thirty floors below.I couldn’t sleep.Every night for the last three weeks had been the same: Dante left before dawn, came back after midnight, and fucked me until I forgot my own name. Then he held me while I drifted off, his big hand splayed possessively over my stomach like he was already imagining it swollen with him.Tonight he was late.Too late.I was naked in his bed, thighs slick, nipples hard and aching from nothing more than memory. The sheets smelled like us: sex and his cologne and the faint copper of the scratches I’d left down his back last night. My fingers had found my clit three times already, circling, rubbing, trying to take the edge off, but every time I got close I stopped. I wanted him to be the one who pushed me over.The front door clicked.My breath caught.Heavy footsteps. The soft rustle of his jacket hitting the floor. Then the bedroom door opened and Dante fill

I woke up sore in places I didn’t know existed.Sunlight poured through the guest-room blinds, striping the bed in gold. My thighs were sticky with dried cum, my pussy and ass throbbing with that delicious ache that said I’d been used hard and well. Mr. Carter was gone from the bed, but the smell of him was everywhere, and the low clink of metal told me he was already planning the next round.I tried to sit up and whimpered. My nipples were so sensitive the sheet dragging across them made me hiss.The bedroom door opened.He walked in shirtless, sweatpants slung low, a black silk tie dangling from one hand and a length of soft white rope in the other. His eyes were dark, predatory, and his cock was already tenting the front of those sweats like he’d been hard just thinking about me.“Morning, baby girl,” he rasped. “Time to tie you up and make you scream for the camera.”My pussy clenched so hard I felt fresh wetness slide out of me.He dropped the rope on the bed and yanked the sheet

The church was almost empty.Thursday evening, 8:47 p.m. Only the red sanctuary lamp glowed above the tabernacle and the faint flicker of votive candles. I knelt in the old wooden confessional, heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it through the lattice screen.I was nineteen. A lifetime of Catholic school, plaid skirts, and repressed wet dreams about the one priest every girl in the parish whispered about.Father Luca Moretti.Thirty-five. Roman collar, black cassock, eyes the color of dark wine. Voice like velvet dragged over gravel when he said the Latin. Hands that had blessed my forehead every Sunday since I was twelve and now starred in every filthy fantasy I took to bed.Tonight I was here to confess the worst sin of all: I wanted him to ruin me.The little sliding door opened. The screen between us was carved with tiny crosses, but I could still see the shadow of his profile, the sharp line of his cheekbone, the way his thumb stroked the purple stole across his sho