บททั้งหมดของ All Yours (An Erotica Collection): บทที่ 111 - บทที่ 120

Chapter 1The blizzard came down suddenly, swallowing the narrow mountain road in swirling white. One minute the sky had been bruised purple with the promise of snow; the next, visibility dropped to nothing. Rowan Maddox gripped the wheel of his battered Jeep, knuckles white against the leather. At thirty-four, he was built like the mountains he guided—broad shoulders, thick forearms corded from years of hauling ropes and splitting wood, dark beard trimmed short against the cold, hazel eyes narrowed against the glare. He wore his usual winter kit: heavy flannel under a waxed canvas jacket, wool beanie pulled low, boots crusted with fresh powder. Beside him, Nora Ellis clutched her camera bag to her chest like a shield. Twenty-nine, city-bred and sharp-edged, she had the kind of beauty that looked almost fragile in this raw landscape—long auburn hair escaping its braid in damp tendrils, wide green eyes framed by lashes still flecked with snow, full lips pressed tight. Her down parka

 The grand ballroom of the old Rothschild estate glittered under a thousand crystal lights that danced across ceilings and marble floors. Everyone wore masks.  Not cheap plastic dominoes, but elaborate Venetian creations: gold leaf, black feathers, porcelain painted with tears of sapphire, leather studded with obsidian. Identities were hidden behind them. Husbands did not recognize wives; lovers brushed past one another unknowingly. The invitation had been clear: no names, no titles, no consequences.  Isabella Moreau stood near a shadowed alcove, champagne flute forgotten in her gloved hand. At thirty-one she moved through the world with the quiet confidence of someone who had learned early how to command attention without asking for it—tall, skin the warm gold of sun on sand, dark hair swept into an elegant bun. Her gown was deep emerald silk, cut low across the breasts and slit high on one thigh, the fabric holding her le

Chapter 1: The PoseThe studio occupied the top floor of an old brick warehouse on the edge of the river district—high ceilings crossed with exposed beams, windows that poured light across wide floors worn smooth by decades of footsteps and spilled pigment.   Julianna Voss arrived at four sharp. Thirty-one, tall and unapologetically curved, she carried herself like someone who had spent years letting strangers look at her naked body and still walked away owning every inch of it. Dark auburn hair fell in loose waves to her mid-back; green eyes steady, almost challenging beneath thick lashes. She wore a simple black wrap dress that tied at the waist with a single knot, flat leather sandals, nothing underneath. No jewelry. No makeup beyond a single swipe of matte red on her lips that matched the faint flush already high on her cheekbones.  The painter—Alexander Hale—waited near the easel in the center of the room. Forty-two, lean an

The resort sprawled along a private crescent of white sand on the leeward side of the island—low white villas with thatched roofs, infinity pools that seemed to spill straight into the turquoise sea, torch-lit paths winding between hibiscus. Palm fronds clattered softly in the night breeze. Layla Reyes had come alone. Thirty-four, recently single after a long, quiet unraveling of a relationship that had stopped feeling like home years before she left it. She was tall, sun-kissed, with shoulder-length black hair that curled at the ends from the salt air, dark eyes that caught light, and a body that moved with the easy confidence of someone who had learned to take up space without apology. She wore a simple black bikini during the day and, tonight, a thin white linen dress that tied at the neck and fell loose to mid-thigh—nothing underneath, because the heat made anything more feel like punishment.  She had been at the resort for four days. Four

I’ve known Fiona since we were twelve—two awkward girls with braces and too many opinions, sneaking into the back row of the movie theater to watch R-rated films we weren’t supposed to see. She was the one who taught me how to French-braid my own hair, who held my hand when my first boyfriend dumped me in the cafeteria, who cried harder than I did when my mom got sick. We have never gone more than a week without talking, even when life got loud and careers and cities pulled us in different directions. So when she asked me to be her maid of honor, there was never any question. I said yes before she finished the sentence.What I didn’t expect was her fiance's older brother.Gabriel Callahan is thirty-four to my thirty-one, six-three to my five-six, and carries himself like someone who’s never once doubted he belongs exactly where he stands. Dark hair that always looks a little too long, green eyes that seem to see straight through small talk, a pointed jaw, and the way he makes every ro