Semua Bab The Alphas’Dirty Desires : Moan for Us: Bab 1 - Bab 10

Valerie Mary Storm “I think your husband is cheating on you.” Serah’s words landed like a slap across the quiet café table. She said it casually, almost bored, while stirring the last sad swirl of melted ice in her coffee. I swallowed hard. The cold water I’d just sipped turned to lead in my throat. “What?” My voice came out thin, defensive. My fingers automatically found the silver necklace at my collarbone—the thin chain James had given me on our first anniversary. The one he’d kissed while fastening it, whispering that I was his forever. Serah gave me that look. The one that said come on, girl without saying a word. “When was the last time he touched you, Val?” she asked, voice low but unrelenting. “Like, really touched you. Not a peck on the cheek or a hug because you looked sad. Actual sex. Passion. Desire. When?” Heat rushed to my face. I glanced around, terrified the barista or the couple at the next table might overhear. “That’s… that’s not fair,” I whispered.

Vincenzo The private room upstairs smelled of leather, sweat, and submission—familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. Red lights pulsed low, casting long shadows over the padded bench where the omega girl knelt, wrists cuffed high to the cross, back arched, thighs spread by a spreader bar. She was pretty enough: dark hair spilling down her spine, skin flushed from the warm-up, a soft whine already leaking from her throat. Lorenzo circled her like a wolf toying with prey, black shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, gold eyes gleaming. He trailed the flat leather flogger down her spine, teasing the curve of her ass before delivering a light snap—crack—against one cheek. She jolted, a sharp “Ah!” bursting out, then melted into a trembling moan. “Again,” I said, voice low, velvet command from the center chair. My legs were spread, cock half-hard in my pants from the power play, nothing more. Routine. “Make her beg properly this time.” Lorenzo grinned, feral and teasing. “You h

Veleria Mary storm I woke up aching in ways I didn’t even know were possible.A deep, throbbing soreness pulsed between my legs, right where they’d stretched me open and filled me so completely last night. My hips felt bruised, my lower back screamed every time I tried to move, and the fresh bite mark on my shoulder burned like it was still healing under Valentino’s teeth. My head pounded too—sharp, nauseating throbs behind my eyes, the kind that came from too much whiskey and too many tears.I groaned, the sound scraping out of my raw throat.The sheets were silk, cool and slippery against my bare skin. I wasn’t naked, though. Someone had slipped an oversized black polo over me while I slept. It swallowed me whole, the hem brushing mid-thigh, soft and worn at the collar like it had been loved for years. I lifted it to my nose without thinking.Smoke. Cedar. Warm amber. Commanding and steady, like a hand pressing me gently but firmly against a wall.Vincenzo.My stomach flipped—panic

Lorenzo DrakvolkI’m two steps above them when it happens.One second she’s walking like a drowned kitten in our too-big clothes, the next her foot snags that damn sweatpant hem and she’s pitching forward like a baby deer on ice.Valentino moves first—always does when it’s about catching her. Arm around her waist, yanking her back, and they both go down in a controlled tumble onto the step.She lands straddling his lap. Thighs spread wide. Hands scrambling.And one of those tiny hands?Lands right on his cock.Full grip. Fingers curling around the thick outline like she’s claiming it. I see the exact moment the head peeks past his waistband, slick and leaking, and her palm slides over it—hot little shock of friction.Val hisses. She freezes. Her face goes crimson—eyes huge, lips parted, like she just realized she’s holding a live grenade.I bark out a laugh so hard I nearly lose my balance on the stairs.“Fuck me,” I say, leaning over the banister for a better view. “Little mate’s alr

Vincenzo DrakvolkBeing Drakvolk meant learning early that survival was never enough. My father made sure of that. He used to say the world was not cruel, only honest, and that cruelty was what weak men called truth when they were too soft to take what they deserved. He spoke those words calmly, like lessons meant to protect us, and we were too young then to understand that they were not wisdom at all. They were confession.My father came from a lineage of great Alphas. His brothers were legends—stronger, sharper, favored by blood and prophecy alike. They ruled vast packs and territories so wide their borders blurred into myth. Their names were spoken with respect and certainty. His was spoken with pity.He was not useless, but he was unremarkable, always standing just behind greatness, close enough to taste it and never close enough to claim it. When territories were divided, his father gave him what he called mercy: a small pack, countable and manageable, easy to overlook.My father