All Chapters of Daddy's Lessons in Pleasure - Erotica Collection: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

◆◆◆ Chapter 3 ◆◆◆"Marcus is the best DJ in the city…""Marcus is your college friend who plays EDM from 2018!" Damien slammed his coffee down so hard the lid popped off, dark liquid pooling on the desk between us. "I'm hiring Kristov. He's got a European following, plays festivals…""He costs fifty thousand a night!""He brings in seventy thousand in bar sales!"We glared at each other across the Voltage office. The club was empty, mid-afternoon sun slanting through the high windows in dusty shafts, highlighting every particle of tension suspended between us. "You know what?" I stood, chair scraping back. "Fuck you and your expensive DJ.""Careful what you offer." His eyes darkened to near-black, pupils swallowing the irises. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, voice dropping to that dangerous register that always made my stomach flip. "We're alone. Office doors lock."My pulse kicked hard against my throat. "We agreed to no sex at the club. Business and personal stay separate."

◆◆◆ Chapter 5 ◆◆◆Three months later, Voltage was thriving. Our compromise approach, my atmosphere with his innovation, created something neither could have achieved alone. The LED accents glowed subtly along the edges of the dance floor, never overpowering the warm, intimate lighting I’d fought for. Kristov’s weekend sets packed the place, but Marcus’s residency nights still drew the loyal crowd who came for the vibe, not just the name. Profits were up twenty-three percent. The staff stopped flinching when we walked into a room together.And us? We were thriving too.“Move in with me,” Damien said one morning, watching me make coffee in his kitchen wearing nothing but one of his crisp white shirts, sleeves rolled to my elbows.I paused, spoon halfway to the French press. “That’s a big step.”“We already spend every night together. You have a drawer here. Your shampoo’s in my shower. Your books are on my nightstand.” He leaned against the island, arms crossed, looking unfairly good in

◆◆◆ Chapter 2 ◆◆◆I spent the day distracted, replaying last night. The way Garrett had touched me, looked at me, made me feel completely seen for the first time in my life. Every time I closed my eyes I felt his hands on my hips, his mouth on my throat, the way he’d whispered my name like it was something sacred when I came apart on his couch. I barely ate, barely spoke to my coach when he called to check in. My body still ached in the best way due to bruised ribs from the crash, yes, but also the deeper soreness between my thighs, the faint marks on my neck I’d covered with a high collar.At 8:00 p.m. sharp, I met him at the base gondola.The mountain at night was otherworldly silent, pale blue under moonlight, snow glowing like it had its own light. Garrett was waiting in civilian clothes: dark parka, jeans, no uniform, no authority. Just a man who looked at me like I was the only thing that existed.“You came,” he said.“Did you doubt I would?”“Little bit.” He gave a small, crook

◆◆◆ Chapter 4 ◆◆◆Competition day arrived cold and clear.The sky was a sharp, endless blue, the kind that makes every breath feel like it’s cutting through crystal. I stood at the top of the run, surrounded by other riders, some I’d competed against since I was twelve, some new faces, but feeling utterly alone. My board felt heavier than usual, my stomach a knot of nerves and memory. Then I looked down the course and saw him.Garrett, in full patrol gear, red jacket stark against the white, standing at the midway checkpoint where he had no business being. Our eyes met across the distance. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave, just nodded once, slow and certain.That nod was enough.I dropped in.First run was cautious — clean, safe, no heroics. I finished solid, middle of the pack, and the announcers called it a “smart ride.” Second run, I pushed. I went bigger off the kicker, added the rotation I’d been too scared to try since the crash, modified the double cork 1080 to make it mine instead

Chapter 1:The crisis hotline was quiet at 2 AM on a Tuesday. Most nights were; the real calls came on weekends, holidays, the times when loneliness hit hardest for most people. Then line three lit up.“Crisis hotline, this is…” I paused, remembering protocol. No names. “This is your listener. How can I help tonight?”A pause. Then a voice, deep and slightly rough, with a hint of amusement: “That’s very formal. Do people actually call you ‘listener’?”“What would you prefer to call me?”“How about something normal? Like… Blue.”“Blue?”“Your voice sounds blue. Like late night jazz. Melancholy but warm.” Another pause. “Is that weird? That’s probably weird.”I smiled despite myself. “It’s not weird. Blue works. What should I call you?”“Insomniac works.”“Are you in crisis, Insomniac?”“Define crisis.” His laugh was self-deprecating. “I’m not going to hurt myself, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m just… awake. Alone. Thought maybe talking to someone would be better than staring at the