All Chapters of UNTAMED DESIRES: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Two nights later the Black Veil bar upstairs was packed wall to wall with the same blood-thirsty animals who’d screamed for my blood in the pit. I sat in the back booth, whiskey neat burning down my throat, bruises turning deep purple across my ribs. Every time I shifted on the cracked vinyl, I felt the ghost of Maddox’s body on mine the way his thick cock had dragged against me in the shower, hot and insistent, leaking against my hip like it already owned me. I’d jerked off three times since then thinking about it, coming so hard my vision whited out, then hated myself for how fast I got hard again every single time.I wasn’t into guys, never had been, pussy was easy, quick, forgettable but Maddox Kane had burrowed under my skin like a fever I couldn’t sweat out, and every beat of my heart felt like it was pumping his name through my veins.The door banged open and there he was, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, black tee stretched so tight across his chest the fabric looked se

Maddox didn’t say a word as we pulled our shorts back on, just grabbed my hoodie, shoved it at my chest, and jerked his chin toward the door. His eyes were storm-dark, pupils blown so wide the gray was almost gone. I followed him out into the late afternoon light like a man walking into fire, cock already twitching again at the promise in every tight line of his back.We didn’t make it to his loft slow. The second the heavy metal door slammed shut behind us he spun, pinned me against the brick wall, and kissed me like he was trying to crawl inside my ribcage, no finesse, just tongue and teeth and the low growl that vibrated straight down to my balls.“Shower,” he rasped against my mouth. “Then I’m taking you apart.”The water was scalding, we stripped in the hallway, clothes left where they fell. Maddox crowded me under the spray, soaping his big hands and running them over every inch of me slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the map of my body. He thumbed my nipples until they a

I hear the key scrape in the lock at 2:43 a.m. and I have been waiting the way it always did when she used to come home late.Six months, six fucking months of silence after I told her I was done waiting for scraps, no calls, no texts, just the occasional story view on Instagram that disappeared before I could screenshot it. I’d finally started sleeping through the night again. Started dating someone safe and boring who never made me scream in anger or anything else and now the door opens.Mara steps inside like she still owns the place. Leather jacket dripping rain onto my hardwood floor, hair shorter than I remember, dark strands plastered to her forehead, eyes the same storm-gray that used to pin me in place without a word.She doesn’t speak, just drops her duffel bag with a wet thud, kicks the door shut, and crosses the living room in three strides.I’m standing by the kitchen island in nothing but sleep shorts and a thin tank, heart already hammering. I open my mouth to say somet

I wake up alone.The sheets on Mara’s side are cold, the indent of her body already gone, panic spikes sharp in my chest before I hear the shower running down the hall, water drumming steady against tile. I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles, trying to convince myself last night was a dream, that she didn’t come back, that she didn’t fuck me raw and then tell me she’s disappearing forever, the water cuts off.She emerges wrapped in one of my towels too small for her frame, barely knotted at her hip. Droplets slide down her collarbone, trace the line between her breasts, disappear into the terry cloth, her eyes find mine immediately, no softness left from the dark hours. Just that cool, assessing look she gets when she’s calculating risk.“You’re still here,” she says.“Where the fuck else would I be?”She crosses to the bed, drops the towel without ceremony, naked again, bruises already blooming on her throat where I bit her, fingerprint marks on

The jet touches down on a narrow strip of black tarmac somewhere in Cape Verde just as the sky starts bruising purple with dawn, no terminal, no customs, just a low concrete building, a single floodlight, and a battered black Jeep waiting with the engine running.Mara unbuckles first, grabs the small duffel we packed in a hurry before takeoff fake passports, cash, the pistol still warm from the hangar shootout, she looks at me, eyes steady despite the shadows under them.“Last chance to change your mind,” she says quietly.I stand, legs still shaky from the altitude and everything else. “I changed my mind the second you walked back into my apartment.”She nods once, no smile. Just relief.We descend the stairs into humid night air that smells of salt and diesel, the pilot doesn’t speak just hands Mara a folded paper, tips his cap, and disappears back inside the cabin, the engines wind down behind us as we walk to the Jeep.The driver is a woman short, wiry, mid-fifties, scar running f