Lahat ng Kabanata ng DIRTY DADDIES: AN 18+ EROTIC COLLECTION: Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

CHAPTER 1: COCK HUNGRY WIFEEVELYN’S POV (WILLOW’S MOTHER)God, this house is a tomb. A beautiful, sterile, million-dollar tomb. And I’m the prize corpse rotting in the middle of it.It’s 10 a.m. on a fucking Wednesday. Nikolai, my perfect, polished husband, gave me that dry, passionless peck on the cheek before he left for the office. It was the same kiss he’d give a business associate. My skin still crawls with the emptiness of it. My daughter, Willow, practically floated out the door to her classes, that secret, knowing little smirk on her face. The little bitch knows what it’s like to feel a real cock, I can tell. She seems different recently. Happier. Glowing. That much I can’t say for myself. A forty-two-year-old trophy wife with a dead sex life.I pace. My silk robe feels like sandpaper on my skin. My nipples are so hard they ache, rubbing against the fabric. My cunt is throbbing, a hollow, empty ache that’s been building for weeks. Nikolai hasn’t fucked me properly in a

CHAPTER 1: FINGERING MYSELF FOR THE PRIEST (WARNING: RELIGIOUS TABOO EROTICA) The first time I walked into St. Agnes, it had nothing to do with God. I was new in town, lonely, and the massive, silent cathedral seemed like a good place to hide. But then I saw him. Father Malachi. He wasn't some soft, gentle old man. No. He was… fuck. He was in his late forties, maybe early fifties, with this storm of silver in his dark hair and lines around his eyes that just made him look more intense. He had a jaw you could cut glass with and these broad, strong shoulders that filled out his black cassock in a way that made my mouth go dry. But it was his voice. When he addressed the congregation, it was this deep, resonant baritone that didn't just fill the church—it vibrated right through the pews and settled deep in my belly, right between my thighs. From that day on, I was a regular. Not for salvation. For him. I’d sit in the back, my thighs pressed together, just watching him. The w

CHAPTER 1: USED ON THE LADDERSEIKA’S POV The Nordian palace always smells like sex and danger.I've been here long enough to stop noticing. Long enough that the scent clings to my skin, my hair, seeps into my pores until I can't tell where the palace ends and I begin.My name is Seika. I’m twenty-three, and for five years, my world has been this: a conquered Earth, a lavish palace, and my purpose. I am a Comfort-Maid. My body is not my own. It’s a vessel, a plaything, a living, breathing instrument for the pleasure of Earth’s new rulers. And they are… gods.The Nordians are tall, most of them well over six and a half feet, built like warriors from some ancient, erotic fantasy. Their skin is marked with glowing tattoos that light up when they're turned on.Strong jaws, sharp cheekbones, eyes that see right through your clothes and into your soul—or what’s left of it. And their cocks… fuck. Thick, long, veined, and with these subtle, delicious ridges designed to drag against every

CHAPTER 1: CHOKE ON ITELODIE’S POVThe worst part of this whole fucking arrangement isn't that I hate him. It's that my body has become a traitorous, dripping mess the second I step off the elevator. The sterile, recycled air of the office doesn't smell like paperwork and ambition to me anymore. It smells like him. Like dark, expensive cologne and the addictive, musky scent of his sweat when he’s buried deep inside me.For six months, I’ve been his “assistant.” What a fucking joke. I’m his living, breathing stress-relief toy. A warm, wet hole he gets to use whenever the mood strikes him. And God, does the mood strike him often.Tonight, the office is a ghost town. The only sound is the wild thumping of my own heart and the hum of the fluorescent lights. I adjust the hem of my pencil skirt for what feels like the hundredth time, my fingers brushing against the damp fabric of my thong. Soaked. Again. He’d commanded me this morning, after bending me over the filing cabinet, “Don’t

The worst part isn’t that I hate them. It’s that I know every fucking detail of their faces by heart.I know Ryder's eyebrow scar and River's crooked smirk. I recognize Ryder's stormy anger and the green flecks in River's eyes when he laughs. I know their faces better than my own.Right now, the boathouse smelled of damp wood and forgotten summers. I came here to escape them—three months of pretending my stepbrothers didn't make my pulse race across dinner tables, three months of hating myself for it.Living with them was hell. River's "accidental" touches and burning gazes left me exposed, heat pooling traitorously in my belly.Ryder was worse—sharp smiles, sharper words. "Lost, little stepsister?" he'd purr against my ear, trapping me against kitchen counters.They always circled like predators. I told myself I hated them both. Yet at night, my fingers would drift beneath sheets as I imagined bad, bad things.The truth was simple: if either stopped playing this little cruel game an