Lahat ng Kabanata ng Temptation's Playground : Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

CHAPTER 3 The rest of the morning crawled by in agony.I sat at my desk just outside his office, thighs clenched tight, trying to type emails that blurred on the screen. Every shift in my chair reminded me of what he’d done,.my ripped panties still balled in my fist under the desk, my lips swollen from his cock, my pussy aching with the denial he’d forced on me.He called me in three times.Once for a file. He watched me bend over to pick it up from the low cabinet, said nothing, just let his gaze burn into my ass until I was shaking.Once for water. I poured it with trembling hands. He took the glass, fingers brushing mine deliberately, then dismissed me without a word.The third time he didn’t speak at all. Just crooked his finger.I locked the outer door behind me and walked to him on legs that felt like water.It was past noon now. Sunlight poured through the windows, turning the office gold. The building was quieter lunch hour for most floors. No one to interrupt.He was standin

CHAPTER 5He untied my ankles gently, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs, eyes never leaving mine. The tenderness lasted all of three seconds.Then his mouth curved into that wicked smile I was starting to crave.“We’re not done, assistant.”My pussy clenched at the words, even though I was still coming down from the last orgasm. I was sprawled on the desk, legs dangling, blouse hanging open, breasts heaving with every breath. He stood between my thighs, cock still half-hard and glistening from the condom he’d just tossed.He reached for the drawer again.My heart kicked.This time he pulled out three sleek Montblanc pens—thick, heavy, black resin with silver caps. Expensive as hell. The kind that probably cost more than my weekly grocery budget.He rolled them between his fingers, watching my reaction.I swallowed. “Damien…”“Shh.” He leaned in, kissed me slow and filthy, tongue stroking mine until I was melting again. Then he pulled back. “Hands above your head.”I obeyed

CHAPTER 2 — THE DENThe New York air hit me like a slap when I stepped out of the cab cold, sharp, laced with exhaust and the faint metallic tang of winter coming early. JFK had been a blur of fake smiles and forged papers, but now I was here. Manhattan. Luca Moretti’s playground.Obsidian was tucked in a nondescript warehouse district in Brooklyn, the kind of place that looked abandoned until you knew the code. Blacked-out door, two armed guards who didn’t speak, just nodded when I gave the name “Elena Voss gift from Mr. Russo.”They patted me down. Professional. Thorough. Hands lingering a second too long on my hips, my thighs. I let them. Didn’t flinch when one brushed the inside of my leg, close to where the blade was hidden in my heel. They didn’t find it. They never did.Inside, the club was everything the briefing promised and more.Low red lighting pulsed over velvet booths and polished mahogany tables. Smoke curled in the air cigars, not cigarettes. The gambling floor was pac

CHAPTER 4 — TRIGGER FINGERThe door to the private room slammed shut behind us with a finality that echoed through my bones. The lock clicked like a gun being cocked, sealing us in. The space was dim, lit only by a single red lamp in the corner that cast long shadows across the velvet couches and a low table scattered with half-empty glasses and ashtrays. The air smelled of cigar smoke, expensive whiskey, and something darker preferably, maybe. Or desire. I couldn’t tell which anymore.Luca didn’t waste time. Mafia bosses like him didn’t. No small talk, no circling like predators in a nature documentary. He was the predator, and I was the prey he’d already caught. His hand, the one that had been on my thigh all through the club, moved so fast and grabbing my wrist and yanking me forward until my back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of me.I gasped, the sound sharp and involuntary. My dress rode up from the force, the slit exposing more thigh than I’d intended. But int

CHAPTER 1 I had never hated needing someone as much as I hated needing him.The late afternoon sun poured through the tall, arched windows of the English department building, casting long golden streaks across the polished hardwood floors. The hallway was nearly empty, most students had fled for the weekend, and the professors were either gone or hiding behind closed doors. My heels clicked with every nervous step, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet. I clutched my thesis folder against my chest like armor, but it felt more like a confession.Three years of work. Countless nights. My entire future balanced on one man’s signature.Professor Elias Hawthorne.I stopped outside his door, took a deep breath that did nothing to calm the flutter in my stomach, and knocked twice.“Come in.”That voice. God, that voice. Low and smooth, with just enough of a British edge to make every syllable feel deliberate. It slid under my skin every time he spoke in lecture, turning even the driest