Semua Bab DARK OBSESSIONS : Bab 21 - Bab 30

The Carver twins had been indistinguishable since the ultrasound showed two heartbeats. Riley and Rowan came into the world seventeen minutes apart on a rainy Tuesday in March both with the same shock of auburn curls, the same hazel eyes flecked with amber, the same tiny freckle constellation across the bridge of the nose that their mother used to trace with her fingertip while singing lullabies. Even the delivery nurse mixed them up when she handed them back to their exhausted parents—Riley on the left, Rowan on the right—and no one bothered to correct the tags until the next morning. By kindergarten the confusion was legendary. Teachers gave up trying to tell them apart by October and started labeling their cubbies “Twin A” and “Twin B.” The girls thought it was hilarious. They swapped seats during roll call, answered to each other’s names, finished each other’s sentences so seamlessly that classmates sometimes thought they were telepathic. They weren’t. They were just twins. The

The Professor's Live-In Research AssistantEmma Hayes arrived at Dr. Elias Thorne’s brownstone on a rainy September afternoon in 2025, her backpack slung over one shoulder and a duffel bag in her hand. She was twenty, brilliant but broke, a psychology major at the university with a 4.0 GPA and student loans that made her stomach twist every time she checked her bank account. The ad had seemed like a miracle: free room and board, generous stipend, in exchange for being a live-in research assistant to the world-famous sexologist who studied taboo desire. “Must be open-minded,” the listing had said. “Confidentiality agreement required.”She was open-minded. She had to be.Dr. Thorne opened the door himself—fifty-one, silver-threaded black hair, sharp jawline framed by wire-rimmed glasses, tall and lean in a crisp button-down shirt and slacks. His eyes were steel-gray, piercing, the kind that made you feel seen in ways you weren’t sure you wanted to be.“Emma,” he said, voice smooth as ag

The first time Nora saw her daughter come home from university with that particular look in her eyes was late May.Adele walked through the front door at 3:17 p.m., canvas backpack sliding off one shoulder, dark hair still damp from the campus shower, wearing the same oversized olive hoodie she’d stolen from Nora’s closet two summers earlier.She dropped the bag beside the shoe rack, kicked off her sneakers, and looked straight at her mother standing in the kitchen doorway.Nora—forty-three, divorce papers signed eleven months earlier, body still carrying the soft strength of someone who had once taught spin classes six days a week—felt the air change.Not because Adele was home.Because Adele was looking at her the way men had looked at Nora in her twenties: slow and totally unafraid.“Hi, Mum.”“Welcome back, love.”Adele crossed the room barefoot, stopped two steps away.The distance felt obscene.“You cut your hair.”Nora touched the blunt bob that ended at her jawline.“Last week

"That's what I told myself, at least, as I put my shirt on and grabbed my jacket. He grabbed my arm as I unlocked the door and stared down at me. "You can't just leave me like this." He told me, angrily. I looked at his cock, hanging erect from his zipper. "Yes, I can." I retorted, and slammed the door behind me as I left. I returned to my dorm a few hours later, and fingered myself to climax at least five times, but it just wasn't what I needed. I went to dinner, and began looking at boys. The only problem was that I didn't have the courage to approach any of them. I wasn't looking forward to my History of Rome class the next day, when I would have to watch him pace, stare at his bulging cock, and know that I had turned it down. And there was no way he'd fuck me now that I had walked away without relieving him. I spent a restless night alone, moaning into my pillow and fingering myself to unsatisfying orgasm after unsatisfying orgasm. I even tried looking up p**n, to see if that woul

My name is Ava Reynolds. I just turned twenty last fall. I have long chestnut hair that falls in loose waves past my shoulders, hazel eyes that catch the light like liquid gold, and porcelain-pale skin that blushes crimson the moment I get turned on. My body is soft in all the right places—full 36C breasts that sit high and firm, a narrow waist that flares into rounded hips, and long legs that look sinful when I’m wearing nothing but a thong. My parents are still married on paper, but I know they haven’t fucked in over a year. Mom is gone most nights, coming home reeking of sweat, cheap perfume, and someone else’s cum. She staggers in at dawn smelling like bar bathrooms and strangers’ cologne—definitely not Dad’s clean, woodsy scent. While she’s out spreading her legs for anyone who’ll have her, Dad stays home. He cooks dinner, folds laundry, keeps the house spotless. He’s both mother and father to me now, and fuck, the way he moves around the kitchen in nothing but low-slung sweatpan