All Chapters of Fucked Into Forever [Forbidden Collection]: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Tuesday morning poured rain like the sky was pissed at everyone. Emma sat in Sarah’s passenger seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, staring at the wipers slapping back and forth. Her thighs still carried faint fingerprint bruises from the equipment shed; every shift in the seat made her remember Blake’s grip.Sarah didn’t even wait for the engine to warm up. “I’m not playing this game anymore, Em. You’re glowing like you got railed again and I know it’s him. Madison’s telling everyone you blew some senior in the shed yesterday. She’s got a blurry pic of someone’s back that could be anybody, but she’s tagging you in the comments.”Emma’s stomach dropped. “It’s not even clear. And I didn’t blow anyone—I got fucked, there’s a difference.”Sarah slammed the brakes at a red light harder than necessary. “Listen to yourself. You’re defending the guy who treats you like a booty call between cheerleader warm-ups. You’re plus-size, yeah, and hot as hell, but he’s still the billionaire’

Thursday morning felt like walking a tightrope. Emma stood in front of her mirror again, this time in a plain black tank top and her favorite high-waisted jeans—the ones that made her ass look round and her waist soft without trying too hard. No hiding today. Blake had said lunch table, no hiding. Her stomach was in knots anyway.Sarah picked her up, took one look at the outfit, and nodded. “You look hot. Like, ‘I dare you to say shit’ hot. If he chickens out at lunch, I’m spilling his protein shake on his lap.”Emma laughed, but it came out nervous. “He won’t. He kissed my neck in the hall yesterday like he meant it. Small stuff, but… it’s new.”School buzzed the second they walked in. Madison had clearly been busy—fresh Instagram story this morning: a screenshot of Blake’s Rover in the lot with the caption “Some people forget who their real friends are.” Comments were a mess of fire emojis and whale jokes aimed at Emma. She scrolled once, then shoved her phone in her bag.Blake c

Emma woke to the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped heavy across her waist and warm breath tickling the back of her neck. Sunlight cut through the blinds in thin stripes across her purple sheets. Blake was still there—naked, one leg tangled with hers, his morning wood pressed thick and insistent against the curve of her ass like it had a mind of its own.She shifted, and he stirred, pulling her closer without opening his eyes. “Don’t move yet,” he mumbled, voice gravel-rough from sleep. “Feels too good.”Her heart did a stupid little flip. Last night’s threat from his dad still sat in her chest like a rock, but waking up like this—Blake in her bed, no rush to leave, no hiding—made the rock feel smaller. She reached back, wrapped her fingers around his cock, and stroked slow, base to tip, feeling him thicken even more.Blake groaned, hips rocking forward into her fist. “Your mum is going kill me.”Emma twisted in his arms, pushed him onto his back, and straddled him. Her heavy breas

NORA I woke up with my thighs sticky and my jaw sore from clenching it all night. The shitty mattress in my studio apartment squeaked when I rolled over, and the first thing I felt was the ache between my legs—deep, used, the kind that reminds you exactly what you did. Sunlight leaked through the cracked blinds, hitting the pile of unpaid bills on the milk crate I used as a nightstand. Forty-three dollars in my account. Rent due in six days. No job since the diner fired me last week for showing up late after the funeral home meeting.Elias Davenport. Fifty years old, married, richer than God. I’d fucked him in the back office of his own bar like it was nothing. No, not nothing. It was everything I’d needed right then—hard, fast, no bullshit questions about how I was “holding up” after the crash. Just his hands on me, his cock stretching me open, and the sound of him groaning my name like he meant it.I sat up, winced at the pull in my hips, and padded to the bathroom. The mirror

NORA The apartment smelled like fresh paint and money. Not the cheap kind I was used to—the kind that came from a spray can in a dollar store—but real paint, the expensive low-VOC stuff rich people used so they wouldn’t get headaches. I stood in the middle of the living room with the key still warm in my palm, staring at the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the river. Two bedrooms. A kitchen with appliances that actually worked. Furniture that didn’t come from a thrift store. Elias had texted me the address yesterday with a simple *Yours now. Move in today.* No explanation. No “if you want.” Just done. I should have felt grateful. Part of me did. The rest of me felt like I was stepping into quicksand—warm, soft, pulling me under one inch at a time. I’d spent the morning hauling the last of my crap out of the old studio in garbage bags while the landlord watched from the hallway like I owed him something extra. Now here I was, nineteen years old, standi