Semua Bab Breed Me Raw, Daddy: Bab 61 - Bab 70

The Europe project refused to fade away. Marcus sent one final email on Monday morning, the deadline now only four days away. The subject line was simple: Last Chance. I read it while kneeling beside Aiden’s desk during one of his morning calls. The words blurred on the screen: Kai, The brand has been very patient, but they need a final answer by Friday. This is a career-defining opportunity. Eight weeks in Tuscany and Provence, full creative control, private villa, generous compensation. If you say no, I’ll understand. But I need you to be honest with me, is something wrong? You’ve been distant for months. If you need help, just say the word. Marcus I didn’t reply. I simply closed the email and rested my forehead against Aiden’s thigh. His hand moved automatically to my hair, stroking gently while he continued his call. The titanium collar pressed cool against my skin. The thick plug inside me shifted as I leaned closer, a constant, grounding reminder of where I belonged. Wh

The decision about Europe was still hanging over us like a guillotine when everything exploded.It started with a single notification on Aiden’s phone late on a Wednesday night. We were in bed, my head on his chest, his hand resting possessively on the titanium collar around my throat. The plug inside me was a constant, warm presence. The room smelled of sex and his cologne.Aiden’s body tensed the moment he opened the message.“Fuck,” he muttered.I sat up. “What is it?”He turned the phone toward me. It was a screenshot from an anonymous gossip account that catered to the city’s elite. The headline was brutal:“Billionaire Aiden Kane’s Secret Boy Toy: Collared and Kept?”Below it were photos.Photos of us.One from the yacht party, my collar clearly visible as I looked up at Aiden with soft, submissive eyes. Another from the gallery event. A third from the rooftop restaurant, Aiden’s hand on my throat over the collar while we kissed.The article was vicious but detailed. It mentione

The phone wouldn’t stop vibrating.I lay on my stomach across the massive bed, the silk sheets cool against my bare skin, staring at the glowing screen like it might bite me. Notifications poured in so fast the device felt hot in my hand. Twitter, X, whatever they called it now, was a wildfire. Instagram had crashed twice already. Even my old photography forums, places I hadn’t checked in months, were lighting up with my name.Kai Voss.Not the anonymous freelance photographer anymore. Not Aiden Kane’s hidden indulgence. Just… me. Exposed.I scrolled with a numb thumb. The photos weren’t even the worst ones. Thank God for small mercies. These were from the charity gala three months ago, blurry but unmistakable. Aiden’s hand possessive on the back of my neck as we slipped into the private elevator. Another of us in the underground parking garage, his mouth on mine, my back against the sleek black car. Someone had sold them. Victor Lang’s people, probably. Or just some opportunistic sta

The morning light cut through the penthouse like an accusation. I stood in the guest room, my old darkroom space, staring at the empty shelves where my cameras used to live before Aiden moved most of them into the main studio. One lone lens sat on the table, a reminder of everything I’d set aside. My fingers itched to pick it up, but I didn’t. Not yet.My decision from last night felt both braver and stupider in the cold light of day. Reclaim something. Post my own work. Show them I was more than the blurry photos of me pressed against Aiden in underground garages. I had spent the last hour drafting and deleting a statement on my neglected professional Instagram. Nothing sounded right. Everything sounded defensive.Aiden found me there, two mugs of coffee in hand. He wore a black sweater and slacks, casual for him, which meant the crisis was still manageable but far from over. He set one mug beside me and leaned against the doorframe, watching.“You didn’t sleep much,” he observed.“N

The penthouse felt like a pressure cooker by mid-morning. Aiden had been on calls since before dawn, his voice carrying down the hallway in clipped, furious bursts. Victor Lang wasn’t done. The media leak had been the spark; now came the coordinated business assault. Whispers of a hostile takeover attempt on one of Aiden’s key subsidiaries, coupled with planted stories suggesting internal instability caused by “personal distractions.” Me. I was the distraction. I lingered in the studio, camera in hand but untouched. My finger hovered over the shutter button on a simple still life I’d set up, morning light cutting across a half-empty coffee mug, but I couldn’t bring myself to shoot. The Lisbon deadline loomed like a guillotine. Elena had sent two more messages. My father had left another voicemail. The world outside kept spinning its narrative, and I felt smaller inside it with every passing hour. A sharp crash from the office made me jump. I set the camera down and moved toward the