Todos los capítulos de Daddy's Forbidden Little Pet: Capítulo 291 - Capítulo 300

The lamp made everything amber and close.Nora pulled Julian’s hand the last inch and his fingers found her already wet through the shorts. He made a sound that wasn’t polite. Levi heard it and bit the side of her throat, not cruel, just hungry, his chest a furnace against her back.“Still with us,” Julian said. Not a question dressed as one. A check.“Yes.” Her voice had gone low. “Don’t make me fill out a form.”Levi laughed into her skin and dragged the shirt up. She lifted her arms. Bare. The cabin air was cool; two mouths fixed that. Levi’s palm covered her breast, thumb circling until the nipple drew tight. Julian hooked the shorts and her underwear down together. She kicked them off. Then she was naked in a bed meant for one while two dressed-enough men looked at her like dawn could wait.Julian spread her thighs with a gentleness that didn’t match the heat in his eyes and put his mouth on her.Nora’s head dropped back into Levi’s shoulder. Levi held her there, watching over he

The place two streets up from the terminal did not close between breakfast and bad decisions. It just dimmed the lights and stopped pretending the coffee was fresh.Nora got there at 2:07 in the same coat, meeting done, hair coerced into a knot that fooled no one. She’d sat through slides with a body that still remembered the shape of two men.Every time she crossed her legs under the conference table she thought of Levi’s hand and Julian’s mouth and had to ask someone to repeat a number.Levi arrived first. Dust on his boots, a clean shirt that meant he’d washed at the site trailer. He saw her in the back booth and didn’t smile big. He smiled like cabin 9.“Crew thinks I’m buying gauges,” he said, sliding in. His thigh hit hers and stayed. “I’m not.”“You’re buying eggs you won’t eat.”“I’m buying time.”Julian came at 2:12, coat over his arm, the closing either held or butchered — his face didn’t say which. He sat on her other side instead of across, boxing her in with the kind of m

The red light stayed dead.Kit kissed her like he’d been riding the fader up for two days and had finally run out of reasons to pull it down. Eden’s stool rolled back an inch; his hand caught the edge of the desk and her waist in the same motion so she didn’t hit foam. Headphones tangled.She yanked hers off. His followed, a plastic clatter on the carpet that would have ruined a take and did not matter now.“Still Eden,” he said against her mouth.“Still not Lina.”The booth was built to swallow sound. It swallowed the noise she made when he lifted her onto the narrow ledge along the wall — the one meant for scripts, not for her ass.He stepped between her knees. Denim to denim. Already hard. The microphone hung beside them like a third party with a confidentiality clause.She pulled his shirt from his belt. Warm skin. The ink on his forearm flexed when he braced. He got her sweater up and his mouth on the lace of her bra, not gentle, not performing. When he dragged the cup down and s

Thursday’s booking ran.Eden knew because the text came at 6:52 while she was standing in her kitchen wearing toothpaste-commercial hair and the opposite of a confidential script.Kit: Light’s still on. Talent is a talker. Loading dock 8:10 if you hate waiting in public. Door after if you don’t.She hated waiting in public. She also showed up at 8:07 in a coat over a dress that had not been invited to a studio.The alley dripped. The loading dock door opened on Kit in shirtsleeves, tired in the eyes, wired in the mouth. He didn’t kiss her under the camera. He walked her two corners until the building gave up, then backed her into brick and used her mouth like the session had been a long argument he’d lost on purpose.“Talker,” he said against her jaw. “Four hours of a man who loves his own adjectives. I kept thinking about your please.”“That’s unprofessional.”“That’s Thursday.”They took a car because the train felt like delay. His walk-up still smelled like bakery ghost and solder.

The emergency strip painted everything the color of old glass.Caleb kissed her against the empty bay like he’d been arguing with himself since October and had lost on purpose. Wren pulled his shirt from his belt and found warm skin, a jump of muscle when her nails skimmed. He made a sound into her mouth that the climate system carried away and did not file.“Wall,” he said. “Not the table. Not the shelves.”“I heard you the first time.”“I’m reminding myself.”Her curator badge clipped his chest. He unclipped it, set it on a cart that held nothing precious, and got her blouse open with hands that logged condition reports for a living. Precise. Then not. His mouth on her bra, then under it, sucking her nipple until her head tipped back against steel uprights that had never been meant for this.She popped his belt. He caught her wrist.“If anyone overrides that door—”“Then we become a staff meeting.” Wren’s voice was already wrecked. “Padma’s on the crossword. You locked the metal. I’