Todos los capítulos de Daddy's Forbidden Little Pet: Capítulo 301 - Capítulo 310

April was a date on a board. November kept winning.They did the building like professionals. Wren drafted labels. Caleb signed access. In hallways they were badge and key ring, two people who had once stayed late with a crate. Padma finished every crossword and never wrote their names in the margin.After ten, they were something else.His apartment learned her coat on the chair, her notebook on the table with actual wall text in it, her mouth at midnight. They ruined the couch once and agreed the bed had better ethics. They ruined the bed constantly.A Thursday in December: Wren let herself in with the buzzer code he’d stopped pretending was temporary. He was still in the shirt he’d worn to walk the floor. She didn’t let him change it. Kissed him into the door, dropped to her knees on his ordinary hallway runner, and took him in her mouth until his head hit the wood and his hand found her hair — holding, not steering.“Wren—”She pulled off just long enough to say, “The collection i

The atelier sat above a quiet street and smelled like steam, wool, and other people’s ceremonies.Ivy Chen had been measured here twice before — once for a bridesmaid dress she never wanted, once for a black column she wore to a funeral that wasn’t hers.This time the dress was hers on purpose: ink-dark silk, bias-cut, a slit that the invitation’s dress code would call elegant and her own pulse would call a problem. The invitation was a gallery dinner. Not Wren’s museum. A different world. Ivy designed lighting for a living. She knew how fabric ate light. She did not know why she’d booked the last appointment on a Thursday.She knew the tailor’s name.Roman Hale did not do walk-ins. He did not do small talk that wasn’t about grain and hang. He was thirty-six, maybe, with a mouth that stayed pinned shut unless the pins in his hand were talking. He had her card on file. He had her numbers in a book that looked like it had survived a century of waists.“You’re down a half inch in the ri

Saturday at four, the intern was a bright blade of efficiency.Ivy stood on the platform in the ink-dark silk and held still for real this time. Roman moved around her with pins in his mouth and nothing in his eyes that the intern could file. The slit sat an inch lower. The bias hung like water. The dress was, infuriatingly, perfect.“Turn,” he said.She turned. The intern circled with a garment bag already unzipped, humming.“Gorgeous,” the intern said. “You’re going to ruin a room.”“That’s the lighting’s job,” Ivy said, and Roman’s glance flicked to her mouth, gone in a blink.Four-twenty. He pulled the last pin. Four-twenty-six. The intern steamed a wrinkle that didn’t exist. Four-twenty-nine. Roman sent her downstairs with the bag and a story about the client wanting to sit with the hang.“I’ll lock up,” he said.The intern beamed, vanished, bells on the shop door, footsteps on the stair, gone.Four-thirty-one.Roman turned the interior lock. The workroom shrank to lamp and steam

The hotel did not know about orchids.Elias took both keys from the desk like he’d promised. Jonah walked behind her like a man trying not to look hungry in marble. The elevator was mirrored. Tessa saw herself between them — jumpsuit, rain in her hair, two men who had left a gala before it could remember their names — and didn’t look away.1840-something. Different city, same number luck. The door shut. Two keys on the dresser. One bed. City glitter through glass.For a second nobody performed.Then Jonah kissed her like charm had been a long fuse. She opened her mouth and he took it, hands at her waist, the jumpsuit’s silk whispering. Elias didn’t wait to be staged. He stepped behind her, mouth at the side of her throat, zipper finding the long line down her back.“Still yes,” Elias said against her skin.“Still yes.”The jumpsuit pooled. Black lace. Two pairs of hands. Jonah at her mouth, her breast, sucking through lace until she gasped. Elias on his knees behind her, hooking the l

Monday should have been the landing. It wasn’t. Tuesday morning Elias had a call that could have been a flight; he ignored it until noon. Jonah cancelled a lunch that would have loved to hear itself talk.Tessa cancelled nothing. She lit a walkthrough at eleven, came home at two, and found them both on her stoop like the buzzer had sent a save-the-date.“You’re early,” she said.Jonah: “You said after two.”Elias: “It’s two-oh-three.”She let them up.The plants watched. The key in the bowl had become a paperweight. Jonah kissed her in the kitchen like Saturday had been a sketch. Elias took her coat like underwriting the rest of the afternoon. They didn’t stack speeches.They stacked her between them against the counter — Jonah at her mouth, Elias already opening her jeans, his hand in her underwear, two fingers finding her wet from the stairs alone.“Bed,” she said. “If you do me on the tile I will end you.”The mattress took all three with an opinion.Tessa on her back. Elias’s mout