Semua Bab Forbidden Taboos : Steamy dark stories : Bab 81 - Bab 90

My phone buzzes on my nightstand and that's another little bit of my life that helps ease the pain. There's a picture of Mama in a small circle from a few years ago, lifted up by Maty, although she's been cropped out. She has her own for when she calls. I hit the button that lets it go through. "I think it's past your bedtime, Mama," I say. "It is," she says, "shame on you. Stop working so late so I can call you at a decent hour." "Tell that to Ash." "Ash is completely uncontrollable and none of us want to stop that." "Any more run-ins with the cops?" "Not yet, but the band's playing in a few days. Should be fun. Someone's going to get a broken nose." She sounds exhausted. More shame on me. I should settle down and get a real job with ties and cubicles and computers that do all the work for me and a curfew. "Did you watch the show?" I ask. "I did. You were so cute with that little girl." "Thank you. I'm not sure her dad's going to appreciate the frenzy I put her in

The sensations, the little shards of pleasure raking through me start off small, piercing into my veins like needles and from there, they ask for movement. I leave them what they ask, rolling my hips and raising my thigh in between Winny's legs as a temptation. She doesn't take it. It's there for her, but I haven't given permission. She can feel it as I raise it higher. She still doesn't take it. I smile and don't say anything when she brings back her mouth. "Take it off," I say. She kisses my stomach again and goes to her new task. Her hands are smart, rolling it up, going around back for the clasp and the straps. I give her a bit of help, moving my arms out of the way. I don't want her to struggle too much. She's already had a big day. It's my duty to make her tasks as easy as I want them to be. It's nice to not have any straps or wires digging into me anymore. I can breathe deeper, stretch longer, roll through my body as the zipper on my front creeps lower. Technically not what

I grab her hair and pull away, gently enough so she has a chance to follow. She does. I can certainly apply the pressure if she needs it, but she's been so good tonight. She's worried. I only do this if she's done something wrong. And she has. I haven't told her, but since so much of me is open and clear, she should have known. "Mount me," I command. I let go and she obeys, dutifully crawling up my body until she's on top. I take the back of her head again and pull her lips to mine. I taste my raw sex on her. I devour her need and make it my own. I wrestle her tongue and make all of her submit. Something flutters in her stomach as the muscles twist in on one another. Her hands don't know what to do right now. So much to feel and grope, so much to please and I am just overwhelming with my mouth. I take my teeth to her lower lip and bite. Not hard, not enough to be painful, not enough to draw blood, but enough for her to know I have fangs. I am sharp. I keep dragging her up until I a

I shove her off and make space for us both. Her hair disheveled, hiding her eyes which were roaring ice blue flame at me. I deserve to be grounded into a sparkling diamond under her heel. But I'm too far gone to the fluid motion of my own insanity to share the same properties as physical matter. an acidic swirls of motion poured into bright colors with a fetching, petite frame. Frostveil's back in her corner, hair disheveled, dripping with sweat and work, the fatigue and panic in her body fighting on what to do next. I'm still burning everything in my tank, every nerve alight with electricity and venom. I rush her and she doesn't have the energy to fight back. I rolled on top her body, paralyzing her limbs, until my knee is locked around her throat and my hands were wrenching her neck. We fell. The announcer screams 'Viper Pit.' He's right. That's the name of this form. There's just me locking her up on the mat and she is exactly where I want her, forehead pressed to mine, gazing in

The porch light was already on when the Uber dropped Emily at the curb. Rain had just stopped; the driveway glistened under streetlamps. She dragged her suitcase up the walk, heart thudding louder than the wheels on concrete.Mark opened the door before she could knock.He stood there in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt that clung slightly from earlier humidity—broad shoulders, forearms corded from years of manual work, a few silver strands at his temples that only made the rest of him look more solid. Forty-nine and still built like he could carry drywall sheets one-handed.“Em.” His voice was low, rougher than phone calls ever conveyed. “You’re early.”“Flight got in ahead of schedule.” She tried for casual. Failed. Her nipples were already tight under the thin tank top from the air-conditioned plane and now from his eyes sweeping over her—quick inventory: damp hair, clinging shirt, leggings that left nothing to guess about the curve of her ass or the lack of visible panty lines.