บททั้งหมดของ Taboo: Ties and Sins : บทที่ 211 - บทที่ 220

The suite seemed suspended above the city. The huge windows offered an almost unreal view of the night lights, as if the entire world were there to witness what was about to happen. The room, silent, contrasted with the muffled noise of the metropolis outside. The air conditioning exhaled a discreet coolness, mixed with the woody perfume of Henry, which already permeated the environment. The king-size bed, covered in soft white sheets, waited like an inevitable stage.Aline leaned against the door, still trying to catch her breath from the overwhelming kiss they had shared the moment they entered. Her body felt feverish, her skin sensitive to every breath of air. Henry walked slowly through the space, like a predator circling its prey, his dark eyes fixed on her.“Are you just going to stand there?” His voice came out low, drawn out, as if the sound itself were a caress.Aline lifted her chin, a half-smile forming.“Maybe I’m waiting for you to convince me.”Henry didn’t need another

The car glided silently through the city’s most exclusive streets. Henry drove with precision while Aline reclined against the leather seat, her eyes sparkling with anticipation and excitement.“Where are you taking me this time?” she asked, her voice low and laden with curiosity.“A place few people know about,” he replied, eyes fixed on the road. “A private club. Only for those who know exactly what they’re looking for.”Aline felt a shiver run down her spine. The tone of secrecy, the implicit promise of transgression, left her anxious and restless.“And am I part of that select group?” she teased, slowly crossing her legs.Henry shot her a quick, almost predatory smile.“Only if you’re willing to lose yourself a little.”When they arrived, the building appeared discreet, almost invisible to inattentive eyes. A security guard checked something on his card, opened the door, and they were immediately enveloped in sophisticated dimness. The air was perfumed, heavy with exotic incense a

The air in the gallery was an expensive blend of French perfume, restrained sweat, and the faint acidic scent of white wine spilled across polished marble. Spotlight beams sliced through the bluish dimness, illuminating with surgical precision the bronze and marble creatures that seemed to pulse at the center of the room. They were Valentim’s sculptures, and they weren’t merely observed; they violated the space, imposing their physical and emotional presence on everyone present.Elena moved through the exhibition with the impeccable posture of someone who belonged in that world. Her black dress, simple yet perfectly cut, was a silent statement that she wasn’t there to compete with the art, but to understand it. In her high heels, her steps were firm, yet inside her an unusual agitation was beginning to ferment. In her right hand she held the champagne flute with slightly more force than necessary.“The organic line is impressive,” she murmured to the gallerist beside her, a man in a t

The car ride to Elena’s apartment was a silent whirlwind. Inside the air-conditioned cabin, the scent of the studio still clung to them: clay, sweat, and the metallic odor of hastily sated desire. Elena, behind the wheel, felt her legs trembling, the damp fabric of her underwear clinging to her skin—a constant reminder of the deliberate, pleasurable violation of her skirt. Valentim stared out the window, his presence filling the compact space of the car with an almost palpable intensity. He didn’t touch her, but every glance he cast in her direction felt like a physical caress, an affirmation of what had happened and what was still to come.She parked in the underground spot, and the silence that followed the engine shutting off was more eloquent than any words. They rode the elevator up, and Elena felt every glance from the neighbors who came and went like a judgment. She—the impeccable curator—with her torn dress discreetly concealed beneath her coat, accompanied by a man whose hand

Elena woke slowly, as if emerging from deep, warm waters. The first sensation was not a sound or an image, but a weight. A solid, comforting warmth beside her. The memory of the previous night flooded her—not as a chaotic whirlwind, but as a full, serene tide. She didn’t move, afraid of breaking the spell of that quietness.Morning light entered through a simple window, without curtains, painting the room in pale gold. This was not her minimalist apartment, a carefully curated setting for a perfect life. This was Valentim’s room. Small, functional, almost Spartan. The walls were exposed brick, a wide, solid iron bed was the focal point, a massive wooden dresser chipped from use, and stacks of art books scattered across the floor. It was a space that belonged to a man—a refuge, not an exhibition. The air smelled of him: waxed wood, oil paint, and, more subtly, the dry scent of sex and the sweet sweat of his skin.She turned on the pillow, the rough cotton sheet brushing against her sen