บททั้งหมดของ Taboo: Ties and Sins : บทที่ 141 - บทที่ 150

The silence that followed the last sigh seemed to carry the full weight of the wait Thora had imposed on herself. Her eyes were fixed on Perry's, and there was no more escape possible. Her body burned, every fiber crying out for the touch she had tried so hard to avoid. He moved in slowly, as if recognizing her as a wild beast that might flee at any moment, but Thora no longer had the strength to resist.The tension between them was palpable. The air seemed thicker, charged with desire and unspoken promises. Perry raised his hand, sliding the tips of his fingers along the line of her jaw, and Thora closed her eyes, feeling her skin prickle at the minimal contact."There's no turning back now, Thora," he murmured, his voice deep, laden with certainty."I know," she replied, without hesitating this time, letting the confession escape like a broken whisper.Perry's smile was almost imperceptible, but his eyes burned with intensity. Without waiting any longer, he pulled her to him, and hi

Luana"Some people live with siblings. I lived with a dirty desire dressed as a man."After that night he tried to enter my room and heard me moan his name, everything changed.I no longer needed insinuations. I no longer needed hints.I knew he wanted me. And he knew I was almost begging.Living together became... heavy. Hot. Unbearably arousing.I would wake up and he was already in the kitchen, in his underwear, making coffee, looking me up and down as if he could devour me right there.And I pretended everything was normal, but my every movement was calculated down to the millimeter: the way I crossed my legs, the slightly open robe, my tongue running over my lips.It was a game.And nobody wanted to stop.One day, my mom and Roberto left early. I was alone with him. Again.I went downstairs in shorts and a top. No big deal—if the shorts weren't short enough to show the curve of my ass with every step.Caio was on the couch. Boxer briefs. Legs spread. Remote control in his hand.A

Luana"I didn't plan it. I didn't provoke it. I didn't ask for it. But deep down... I wanted it. I always did."The house was silent.My mother had traveled with Roberto for two days. A couples' retreat or any other empty excuse to live a romantic illusion. I didn't ask for details. I just heard the sound of the door closing and the heavy peace that remained in the air.Me and him. Alone. With time. And with no excuses.I tried to distract myself.I read three pages of a book and realized I hadn't absorbed a single line. I scrolled on my phone for an hour, looking at pictures of people I didn't care about, as if that could numb the fire already burning inside.I went to the window. Came back. Took a shower. Changed my clothes. Changed again.Every step in that house was like walking on hot coals.And I knew that sooner or later, one of them would set everything on fire.I went downstairs for water. Barefoot, my skin still damp from the shower, dressed in a short pair of shorts and a t

Luana"It wasn't just lust. It was addiction. It was necessity. It was a hunger only he could satisfy. A dirty hunger."My mother's trip was extended. A car problem, according to her. Roberto was with her, and they wouldn't be back before the weekend.And there, in that house that was only ours, with the world outside silent, we finally had a whole night—a whole one—to do everything we never had the time, space, or courage to do.There were no more barriers.Not of time. Not of body. Not of soul.In the afternoon, he sent me a message:"Today you're all mine. Don't say a word. Just obey. From the moment you enter my room, you'll forget any rule, shame, or limit. You'll be what I want. You'll give yourself to me the way I want. Understood?"I replied with a single word:"Yes."But my body said much more.Yes, with skin that was already burning.Yes, with a heart beating in my neck, as if begging for hands around it.Yes, with a pussy that was hot, pulsing, dripping before even being to

The air inside the White Cube gallery was as cold and controlled as a fine wine cellar. A mix of expensive perfumes, woody notes, and the slight metallic smell of air conditioning formed a distinct aroma of wealth and sophistication. Spotlight beams, precise as scalpels, cut through the reigning gloom, illuminating not the people, but the objects of their veneration: the artworks. The crowd, an ecosystem of black dresses, tailored suits, and champagne flutes, murmured in low, polite tones—a hum of elegant bees around excessively expensive flowers.Savanah Phillips stood there like a misplaced piece, though no one could tell. The wine-colored silk dress was impeccable, its cut flattering her body, sculpted by years standing in kitchens. Her brown hair, pulled into an austere bun that stretched the smooth skin of her forehead, didn't allow a single strand out of place. Every detail was controlled, an armor of perfection she wore for the world. She had been invited by Marco, her cheese s