All Chapters of THE SINFUL HOUR COLLECTION : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

“Weirdo,” she mutters as she walks out the door. I rub my face with both hands, pressing my palms into my eyes until spots dance across my vision. No… no, this can’t be a dream. It felt so real. Argh. I shake my head sharply, trying to shake it off. Doesn’t matter. Just have to set up the surprise for him alongside Nelly. Good thing the ‘threesome’ isn’t a dream either. I jump out of bed, slipping my feet into the fluffy flip-flops. My legs feel a little wobbly, like the dream has drained every ounce of strength from them. I glance at my hand—no ring, of course. Everything is all set, Nelly says a few hours later, clapping her hands together as she surveys the room. Balloons are tied in clusters, the banner strung up perfectly, and the cake sits on the table with candles ready. She looks satisfied, bouncing on her toes a bit. Guests start trickling in—friends laughing as they hide behind furniture or squeeze into corners, whispering excitedly. I help direct a couple of them, fo

The empty beer bottle clattered to a stop on the hardwood floor, its neck pointing straight at Mia. The six of them—curled up in a loose circle in Jake’s dimly lit basement—erupted in a mix of cheers and nervous laughter. It was past midnight, the vibes were peak cozy-chaotic, and everyone was a little tipsy from the spiked punch. “Truth or dare, babe?” Leo asked, leaning back on his elbows with that signature smirk. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he didn’t bother pushing it away. Mia tucked a strand of her pink-streaked hair behind her ear, biting her lip like she was calculating risk. “Dare. Obvi. I’m not scared of y’all.” The group oohed dramatically. Beside her, Harper clutched a pillow to her chest, already giggling. Across the circle, Ethan raised an eyebrow at Leo, waiting for the chaos. Leo grinned wider. “Okay, okay. I dare you to… touch yourself over your shorts for thirty seconds. Right here. No hiding.” Mia’s eyes went wide, but she laughed—half shocked, half t

My heart sank, then started pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The front door had swung open without a knock, and there I was—sprawled naked on the living room couch, legs still spread wide, the massive dildo buried halfway inside me, butt plug glinting between my cheeks, and my fingers glistening from licking my own squirt off them. The porn video was still blaring from my phone, the woman on screen mid-moan.I froze. Everything froze.Standing in the doorway, toolbox in hand, was the plumber—Alex, I think his name was. Early thirties, tall, broad shoulders under a faded gray work shirt, dark stubble along his jaw. He’d been scheduled to fix the leaky kitchen sink this afternoon; I’d completely forgotten in my horny haze.His eyes went wide, mouth parting like he was about to speak, but no sound came out. He just stared—first at my face, then slowly down my flushed body, lingering on my soaked thighs, the toys, the mess I’d made on the cushions.“Oh shit,” I whispered, voic

I had just finished buttoning the last button on my cream blouse when my phone buzzed twice against the kitchen counter. A forwarded contact from Milika. Mr T. My lips curved before I could stop them. I opened WhatsApp and there she was—her profile picture unchanged for two years: Milika in a red sundress, head thrown back mid-laugh, gold hoop earrings catching sunlight, that perfect gap-toothed smile that always made me feel like the world wasn’t entirely against me. I tapped the voice-note icon, leaned close to the phone, and let my voice drop soft and grateful.“Miki baby… Thank you so much. I know you’re probably in the middle of service right now, running around with those heavy copper pots, but I just wanted to say—I’m heading out. I owe you one. Actually, I owe you like twenty. I love you, okay?” I blew a small kiss into the microphone and hit send before the nerves could claw the words back.Bag over my shoulder, keys in hand, I stepped out into the hallway and locked the door

It had been exactly two weeks since I started working as Elliot’s private chef, and without hesitation, I could say the experience had been nothing short of wonderful. The kitchen no longer felt like a battlefield; it felt like breathing. I woke up every morning excited to experiment, to plate something beautiful, to hear the quiet hum of appreciation when he took the first bite. I’d even managed to visit my mother last weekend, arms full of gifts—freshly baked financiers, a bottle of her favorite rosé, and the diploma I’d finally collected from Étoile Culinary Academy that very morning. The original results had landed in my inbox three days earlier: 87%. Eighty-seven. I’d stared at the screen until my eyes burned, the number blurring into something almost unreal. Mr. Charles had deducted forty-three points from what should have been a near-perfect score. All because his wife had died years ago and the world had apparently stopped spinning for him. He wasn’t the first person to lose