Todos os capítulos de Sins Worth Keeping : Collection of Forbidden Tales: Capítulo 31 - Capítulo 40

Leo's pov I stood there long after Dante disappeared down the hall, rain still dripping from my hair onto the dark wood floor. My heart wouldn’t slow. Fear sat heavy in my chest, but underneath it something hotter and more dangerous kept twisting. The bathroom attached to the room he’d pointed me toward was all black marble and gold fixtures. Hot water pounded over me, washing away the alley’s stink of blood and rain and fear, but it couldn’t touch the way my skin still burned where his hand had been. I scrubbed until I was pink, then stepped out and dried off with a towel soft enough to feel like a joke in a place like this. On the bed waited a neat stack of black fabric and white lace. A maid costume. Tiny black dress with a white apron, ruffled edges, a little headpiece, sheer black stockings, and a pair of heels that looked like they could kill. No underwear. No pants. Just that. I stared at it for a long time, pulse loud in my ears. He wanted me in this. I just bec

Leo's pov “Please.” The word slipped out of me before I could stop it. I didn’t even know what I was begging for. Mercy. More. Harder. For him to stop teasing and just end me. Everything and nothing at once. "Ahhh..." Dante’s hips kept moving in that same cruel, grinding rhythm—deep enough to make my toes curl, slow enough to keep me right on the edge without tipping over. Every time the thick head of his cock dragged across that swollen place inside me, my vision sparked white and my breath stuttered. The stretch burned in the best and worst way possible. I could feel every ridge, every vein, the way he filled me so completely there was no room left for anything else. My own cock lay heavy and leaking against my stomach, untouched, so hard it hurt. Precum dripped in sticky strands onto the wrinkled black fabric of the maid dress, darkening the cheap material. I reached down without thinking, desperate for any friction, any relief. His hand cracked across mine, sharp and sti

Elias’s POVThe warehouse smelled of oil, gunpowder, old blood, and men who had stopped giving a shit about the law a long time ago. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow that made the shadows look deeper. I stood in the middle of the open floor with my hands loose at my sides, trying to look like I belonged. Shoulders relaxed and breathing steady. The name on the fake ID in my back pocket said Eli Vargas, while the badge locked in a drawer across the city said Officer Elias Kane. Six months of undercover work, three different covers, and more sleepless nights than I could count had led me here—into the heart of Roman Voss’s operation.Roman Voss did not look like a man who needed an introduction.He sat on the edge of a scarred metal table like it was a throne, sleeves rolled up thick forearms, a cigarette burning between two fingers. Dark hair pushed back from a face that belonged on a wanted poster and a high-fashion editorial at the same time. W

Elias’s POV I did as he ordered me. The climax ripped through me so violently my vision went black at the edges. “ahhh… fu…uck” I came, spilling across the floor and the side of the desk in thick pulses while my hole clenched tighter around him. Roman groaned like the sound of it did more to him than words could explain. His hips stuttered as he buried himself to the hilt, flooding me with every drop of his seed. Immediately he was done he pulled out, making cum stream down my thigh. The sudden emptiness made me flinch. He didn’t let me straighten. Just kept one heavy hand on the small of my back while he cleaned himself up with something from the drawer, then roughly wiped the worst of the mess from between my thighs. When he finally let me stand, my legs were unsteady. My jeans were still tangled around my ankles. I couldn’t look at him. Roman tipped my chin up with two fingers, forcing my eyes to his. His mouth was swollen, and his eyes were darker than they had been earlier

Zino's povI had killed for less.The envelope arrived the way the serious ones always did: thin, no return address, one photograph, one line of instruction.*Father Ryan. St. Augustine’s, Drape town. Make it look like an accident if you can. If you can’t, make it clean.*I turned the photo in my fingers. Grainy. Taken through rain. A man in a black cassock on the steps of a small stone church. Even in the poor quality I could see the way the fabric hung on him—broad shoulders, long lines, a body that didn’t belong under a collar. On the back: *Thirty-five. Six-two. Dark hair. Green eyes. Former asset. High risk.*Former asset.The organization didn’t waste time on men who had walked away unless those men had become problems. They said he had been the best in his time. Clean. Precise. Ghost-level. Then one job went sideways and he vanished. No body. No trail. Just gone. Now he wore a cassock and answered to “Father.”I was the best in my time. Present tense. Younger than him by enough