บททั้งหมดของ DIRTY ANGELS: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

Ethan woke to a storm inside his chest. The sheets were twisted around his legs like restraints he hadn't asked for, and the rage hit him before his eyes even focused on the ceiling.Dirty Angels, his bar. His blood, sweat, and late-night deals poured into every scarred beam and sticky floorboard had been ripped out from under him. At the will reading two days ago, the lawyer's voice had been flat, clinical: Lila's share, the half that should have defaulted to him, her husband of eight years, had gone instead to her younger cunt of a sister. Marisol. The name alone tasted like dirt. Marisol, with her sharp tongue and sharper eyes, who had always looked at him like he was dirt under her manicured nails. Now he was supposed to share ownership with her. Share decisions. Share the keys. Share the fucking air in the back office. His cock throbbed in furious agreement, thick and insistent against his thigh, as if the rest of his body had decided fury deserved a physical outlet.He kicked th

The tension in Dirty Angels coiled tighter than a garrote wire as the night deepened. The bar wasn’t some dive with sticky floors and cheap beer; it was high-class sleaze, polished brass rails, leather booths that cost more than most people’s rent, crystal tumblers catching the amber glow of pendant lights. Velvet ropes at the VIP section. A dress code enforced with a single raised eyebrow from the doorman.Money flowed here like the bourbon, smooth, dark, and never quite clean. Everyone who mattered knew the truth, even if no one said it out loud. Dirty Angels laundered cash for the right people. Mafia money, old family money, the kind that came in duffels and left in wire transfers labeled “consulting fees.”Ethan had been connected since before he married Lila, loose threads at first, then tighter knots. Favors traded for protection, protection traded for silence, silence traded for profit. The bar was the perfect front: busy enough to hide volume, exclusive enough to keep question

The office reeked of sex and cocaine, sweat, cum, bourbon, and the faint chemical bite that still lingered in their nostrils.Remy slid off the desk first, legs shaky but eyes bright. She tugged her tank top back into place, nipples still hard and visible through the damp fabric. Skirt smoothed down over thighs streaked with drying release.She looked between them. Ethan slouched against the wall, cock softening but still heavy; Victor leaning on the desk, shirt half-unbuttoned, suit pants zipped but tented again. She licked her lips, tasting the last of Victor on her tongue.“Back to work?” Ethan nodded once. “Tell the manager its top secret, if he asks what the meeting was about.” His voice was gravel. “Whisper it. Make him squirm.”Remy grinned, wicked and satisfied. She stepped close, rose on her toes, and pressed a quick, filthy kiss to Ethan’s mouth, then turned and did the same to Victor, slow, lingering, letting her tongue flick against his.“Thanks,” she murmured. “That was f

Marisol pulled her sleek black Audi into the narrow alley behind Dirty Angels just after nine, the engine’s low purr cutting off as she killed the ignition.The neon sign flickered above the back door, red letters buzzing like a warning she chose to ignore.She’d dressed for war: black leather pants that hugged every curve, a deep crimson silk blouse unbuttoned one too many, heels sharp enough to draw blood. Her hair was pulled into a high, severe ponytail; dark lipstick matched the fire in her veins. She was ready to face Ethan, to shove the buyout papers down his throat if necessary, to claim what was hers by blood and will.She stepped out, locked the car, and strode toward the employee entrance. The night air carried the faint scent of spilled beer and cigarette smoke. Her heart hammered, not from nerves, but from anticipation. She’d spent the afternoon replaying stepdaddy’s promises, his cum still a faint, delicious ache inside her.Tonight she’d win the bar, then go home and let

Lorenzo's hand closed around Marisol's wrist, not tight enough to bruise, but firm enough that she felt the quiet promise beneath his skin.He led her down the dimly lit corridor without a word, past closed doors and the faint echo of someone else's muffled cry. The air grew thicker, warmer, scented with leather and wax and the metallic tang of anticipation.He pushed open the heavy black door at the end of the hall.The playroom.Low crimson lighting bathed the space in blood-warm shadows. Black walls, padded benches, a sturdy St. Andrew’s cross in one corner, chains dangling from the ceiling like silver vines.A wide leather-padded table waited in the center, restraints already laid out neatly at each corner. On the far wall, a rack of implements: floggers, paddles, canes, a coiled bullwhip that made her stomach clench every time she saw it.Lorenzo released her wrist and stepped behind her, his chest brushing her back.“You’re going to be such a good girl for me tonight, aren’t you