All Chapters of Pure Pleasures (A Collection of short Stories): Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Mia’s eyes burned from staring at the spreadsheet for the last four hours. The office was a ghost town, everyone else had gone home at five like normal people. Not her. Not when the quarterly report was due at eight a.m. sharp and her boss was a raging asshole. She finally saved the file, grabbed her bag, and headed for the elevators at 11:17 p.m. The building felt too quiet, the fluorescent lights humming overhead like they were about to die. The elevator doors slid open on her floor and she stepped in, hitting the lobby button. Just as the doors started closing, a big hand shot through and stopped them. A security guard stepped inside. Tall, really fucking tall, broad shoulders stretching his dark uniform shirt. Late thirties maybe, quiet face, short beard, eyes that looked like they’d seen some shit. New guy. She’d noticed him around the past couple weeks but they’d never spoken. “Late night,” he said, his voice was low and rough. He swiped his badge and hit the ground floo

The argument with her sister still hurt in her chest as Sophie kicked off her sandals and peeled off her sundress at the edge of the hidden cove. 2:17 a.m. The beach was dead quiet except for the low crash of waves. Moonlight painted everything silver and black. She needed this, the cold shock of the ocean, the salt scrubbing her raw. She waded in naked, the water hitting her thighs, then her waist, then her tits. A sharp inhale as it reached her neck. She ducked under, came up gasping, pushing wet hair back from her face. For the first time all night, her head felt clear. She didn’t hear him until he was already in the water. “Little late for a swim, don’t you think?” Sophie spun around, heart slamming. A guy stood waist-deep a few yards away, shirtless, water streaming down a heavily muscled chest and abs. Local, by the look of him--tanned, scruffy dark hair, strong jaw, maybe thirty. Tattoos across one shoulder. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were eating her alive under

The house was finally quiet at 4:07 a.m. Empty bottles everywhere, red Solo cups crushed underfoot, the stench of spilled beer and weed smoke hanging thick in the air. Riley had crashed on the couch after her ride bailed, too buzzed and tired to call another Uber. She was the friend-of-a-friend—some girl from work dragged her along, and now she was stuck here until morning. She heard movement in the kitchen. Clinking glass, running water. The brooding guy who’d been watching her all night. Ethan. Best friend of the host, tall and quiet with that permanent scowl and sleeves of tattoos. He’d mostly stayed in the background, nursing beers and shooting her looks that made her stomach flip. “Still here?” His voice was low, rough from smoke and shouting over music earlier. Riley sat up, tugging her short skirt down. “Yeah. My ride flaked. You cleaning up?” “Somebody has to.” He leaned in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. Dark eyes dragged over her bare legs, the way her

Elena adjusted her skirt as she climbed the stairs into the Gulfstream, the jet’s engines already whining softly on the tarmac. She hated these trips. Corporate fixer meant she spent half her life cleaning up other people’s messes, and this one smelled like trouble from the start. Damien Cross didn’t do normal meetings. He did this—private jet, last-minute summons, vague agenda about “synergies” between his latest tech acquisition and her client’s crumbling defense contract. The cabin smelled like leather and money. Cream seats wide enough to sleep in, dark wood trim, a full bar in the back. Damien was already there, sprawled in one of the captain’s chairs like he owned the sky. Which he did, in a way. Early thirties, sharp jaw, expensive watch glinting under the soft lights. His eyes flicked over her—legs, hips, the open collar of her blouse—before settling on her face with a half-smile that said he’d already won whatever game this was. “Elena Voss,” he said, not bothering to s

Leila kicked off her sandals the second her feet hit the warm sand, the Caribbean sun beating down on her bare shoulders. She’d come to this tiny resort island to forget the divorce papers sitting on her kitchen counter back home, the empty apartment, the way her ex had drained every bit of fire out of her. Three days of cheap cocktails and pretending she was the kind of woman who danced alone at beach bars. It felt good. Free. Until the last night. She’d wandered too far down the private cove after one too many rum punches, the moon lighting the water silver. Footsteps behind her. Strong arms wrapping around her from behind before she could even scream. A hand over her mouth, a low voice in her ear with a heavy accent — “Don’t fight, princesa. You’re coming with me.” She bit down hard. He cursed but didn’t let go. A cloth over her face, sweet and chemical, and the world went black. When she woke up she was on a boat, wrists tied in front of her with soft rope, a blindfold tight