All Chapters of Daddy's Lessons in Pleasure - Erotica Collection: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

◆◆◆ Chapter 5 ◆◆◆ I didn't call Dante for five days. He didn't call me either, respecting the space I'd demanded. But on day six, Sage staged an intervention. "You're self-sabotaging," she said, sitting on my couch with her arms crossed. "You found someone who makes you happy, and you're running away because you think you don't deserve it." "That's not…" "It is. You feel guilty for being alive when Marcus isn't. Guilty for wanting sex when your marriage was sexless. Guilty for moving on. But Liv, Marcus wouldn't want you to be alone forever." "You don't know that." "Yes, I do. Because he loved you, and people who love us want us to be happy." That night, I did something I should have done years ago. I redecorated the bedroom. Took down the wedding photos. Packed away Marcus's things that I'd been keeping like a shrine. It wasn't about erasing him; it was about making space for my own life. Then I called Dante. "I want you to come to the wedding," I said when he answered. "No

◆◆◆ Chapter 2 ◆◆◆ Two weeks later, I’d almost convinced myself the stranger was just a beautiful mistake I’d never think about again. I’d replayed that night in parts — his hands pinning my wrists above my head, his voice low and commanding as he told me exactly how good I felt clenching around him, the way his silver-streaked hair had fallen across his forehead when he buried his face between my thighs and licked me until I sobbed. Each memory was vivid, visceral, humiliatingly wet between my legs even now. I’d shove them back into a locked drawer in my mind labeled Do Not Open, slam it shut, and go about my day: job applications, takeout dinners, pretending the bed didn’t feel obscenely empty without someone to warm it.Felix had called forty-seven times. I blocked him on the forty-eighth. Life clawed its way back toward normal.Then my father called.“Sweetheart! Great news. Remember I told you about Alexander’s firm? Well, there’s an opening in their marketing department, and I p

◆◆◆ Chapter 4 ◆◆◆It happened again. And again. And again.His office after hours, blinds drawn, my skirt hiked around my waist while he fucked me bent over his desk, slow at first, then hard enough to make the framed awards on the wall rattle. His car in the underground parking garage, me straddling him in the driver’s seat, windows fogged, my moans muffled against his shoulder as he thrust up into me with punishing precision. Once, recklessly, stupidly, in the supply closet during a late night at work. He’d pinned me against the shelves, one hand over my mouth, the other working my clit while he drove into me so deep I saw stars. We came together in under three minutes, shaking, biting back sound, hearts hammering in terrified sync.We were addicted to each other, unable to stop despite knowing how dangerous it was.“We’re going to get caught,” I whispered one night in his penthouse apartment, the city lights sprawling below us like scattered diamonds.“I know.” His fingers traced

◆◆◆ Chapter 1 ◆◆◆I was eighteen years old, freshly graduated, and completely unprepared for Theo Morrison.My stepbrother Jake had been talking about his best friend for years. He was the hockey legend who'd gone semi-pro before a knee injury brought him back home to coach at our high school. I'd been away at boarding school, so I'd never met him. Until move-in day for my senior year equipment pickup."Come on, Scar, I need to grab my gear," Jake said, pulling me toward the athletic complex. "Theo's usually there on Saturdays."The ice rink was cold and smelled like rubber and sweat. I followed Jake through the corridors toward the locker rooms, my flip-flops squeaking on the polished floor.Then I saw him.Theo Morrison was bent over an equipment bag, his back to us, wearing a fitted black t-shirt that showed every muscle. When he straightened and turned, I forgot how to breathe.He was beautiful in a rugged, dangerous way, his dark hair still damp at the ends, strong jaw shadowed w

◆◆◆ Chapter 3 ◆◆◆ Three weeks of living with Theo Morrison was systematically destroying my sanity. We’d established a careful routine after that night in the hallway. Mornings: he was up at dawn for rink time, leaving coffee in the pot and a quiet note on the counter (“There’s yogurt in the fridge. Text if you need anything”). Afternoons: I had orientation sessions at the community college, coming home to an empty apartment that still smelled faintly of his cedar-and-soap cologne. Evenings: we crossed paths in the kitchen or living room while pretending the air between us wasn’t crackling with everything unsaid. But the fantasies were relentless. I’d lie in the guest bed (I’d moved back to it the very next morning after he’d kissed my forehead and left me aching in his sheets) and imagine him on the other side of the wall. What he looked like sleeping — shirtless, one arm thrown over his head, the sheet riding low on his hips. If he thought about me the way I thought about him. I