Forbidden Lust: My Father-in-law のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 101 - チャプター 110

Damien didn’t sleep. He stood under the scalding spray of his penthouse shower until the water ran cold, cock still half-hard and aching, the taste of Elara’s cunt lingering on his tongue no matter how many times he brushed his teeth. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her: head thrown back against the stone wall, thighs trembling around his wrist, those wide green eyes locked on his while she came apart on his fingers with his hand clamped over her mouth. *Victor’s daughter.* The thought should have killed the want. Instead it made it filthier. By six a.m. he was in his home office, already dressed in a black shirt and trousers, staring at the city skyline without seeing it. He had three missed calls from Victor and a text that simply read: *Breakfast tomorrow? Need to run numbers on the Singapore deal.* Damien’s reply was curt. *Can’t. Tied up all day.* A lie. He was free. He just couldn’t sit across a table from the man whose daughter he’d finger-fucked against

Breakfast was a special kind of hell. Damien arrived at the Voss estate at 7:58 a.m., black suit immaculate, expression carved from stone. The cut on his palm from two nights ago had scabbed over. The marks Elara had left on his back with her nails were hidden beneath expensive fabric. He had scrubbed the scent of her off his skin three times. It hadn’t helped. He could still feel the phantom clench of her cunt around him every time he shifted in his seat. Victor was already at the long glass table on the covered terrace, reading the financial section, coffee steaming beside him. He looked up with the easy smile of a man who had no idea his best friend had spent the early hours of the previous morning buried balls-deep in his only daughter. “There he is. Thought you were going to cancel again.” “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Damien said, voice even. He took the seat across from Victor and accepted the coffee the housekeeper poured. His hands were steady. His pulse was not. Elara

The invitation arrived on heavy cream stationery embossed with the Voss family crest. *Private dinner. Saturday. 8 p.m. Close friends only.* Victor had decided to celebrate the Singapore deal closing. Twelve people. Intimate. The kind of night where everyone would be watching everyone else over expensive wine and slow-roasted lamb. Damien almost declined. Then Elara texted from the new number she rotated every few days. **Wear the black shirt. The one that makes your arms look illegal. I’ll be thinking about them holding me down the entire night.** He stared at the message for a long time. Then he typed back: **Be careful what you ask for.** --- The private dining room at the estate glowed with candlelight and low conversation. Crystal. White roses. The soft clink of silver against porcelain. Victor sat at the head of the table, expansive and proud. Damien was seated two chairs down on his right. Elara sat directly across from Damien, wearing a deep green dress t

Victor Voss sat at the kitchen island for a long time after the photographs finished loading. The first one was almost innocent: Damien’s black Bentley entering the underground garage of his building, Elara visible in the passenger seat through the windshield. The second was not. A long-lens shot of the two of them in the elevator, Damien’s hand in her hair, her body pinned against the mirrored wall, mouths fused. The third showed Elara leaving through the service entrance at dawn, coat pulled tight, hair a mess, the unmistakable walk of a woman who had been thoroughly used. Victor’s coffee went cold. He did not call Damien. He did not storm upstairs to wake his daughter. He simply sat there as the morning light strengthened across the marble counters, the quiet of the house pressing in around him, and felt something fundamental crack inside the life he thought he understood. --- Elara woke in her own bed to the sound of her phone vibrating against the nightstand. Da

Six days of not answering her calls. Six days of deleting her texts without reading them after the first night. Six days of sleeping on the couch because the bed still smelled like her. Six days of walking through his own penthouse like a ghost, every surface a reminder of where he had held her, fucked her, told her he loved her, and then left anyway. He told himself the distance was necessary. Honorable, even. Victor had drawn a line, and crossing it again would only hurt Elara more in the long run. By the sixth night the lie had worn so thin he could see straight through it. He was standing at the window with a glass of whiskey he hadn’t tasted when the elevator chimed. He knew before the doors opened. Elara stepped into the penthouse wearing a coat over a simple black dress, hair loose, eyes red-rimmed but fierce. She looked like she hadn’t slept either. The second the doors closed behind her she dropped the coat and the overnight bag she was carrying. “You don’t get