All Chapters of Wet & Wicked: Forbidden Collection Of Lust: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Layla’s POV~ I was going to murder Julian Thorne. I was going to strangle him with his own obscenely expensive tie, watch the arrogant light leave those stupid, gorgeous grey eyes, and then I was going to ride his face until he begged for mercy. No. You’re such a bad girl. What the hell are you even thinking? "Stop looking at me like that," I hissed, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring out the tinted window of the SUV. Julian didn’t even blink. He just sat there in the backseat with me, his long legs spread in that infuriatingly casual way that took up all the space, his charcoal suit stretching over shoulders built for ruining lives and pinning brats against walls. He smelled like sandalwood, expensive leather, and pure, unadulterated sin. God, I hated him. I hated the sharp cut of his jaw. I hated the way his dark hair fell just so, like he spent hours making it look effortless. I hated his stupid, long fingers and the way I knew exactly how strong t

Layla’s POV~ Julian did not speak as he dragged me down the hallway of the West Wing. That silence was worse than shouting. His fingers were wrapped around my upper arm, firm enough to leave marks, and he walked with the unhurried confidence of a man who had already decided how the night would end. I stumbled along beside him in my heels, my pulse racing, my face hot with a mixture of fury and something far more shameful. I called him every name I could think of. I told him he was ass freak, a pervert, a monstrous asshole who got off on terrifying women. None of it touched him. If anything, my struggling seemed to amuse him, because the corner of his mouth twitched once, just once, before he shoved open the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor and pushed me inside. The room was beautiful in the way prisons probably were in five-star hotels. A massive bed with black silk sheets, tall windows overlooking the dark forest, a fireplace, and soft rugs underfoot. It was

Silas’s POV~ I stood in the doorway of the kitchen and felt the heavy, suffocating weight of my own sin settle in my gut. The scene before me was a disaster of control. Layla was perched on the marble counter, swallowed by Damian’s massive black t-shirt. The hem brushed her upper thighs, leaving her long, bare legs spread wide around my brother’s waist. She was twenty-three years old now. The gangly, irritating teenager I had tolerated was gone. In her place was a fully grown woman with soft, heavy breasts, a narrow waist, and a mouth made for nothing but trouble. Her nipples were hard, pressing visibly against the thin fabric, and her skin was flushed with a mixture of cold air and pure, unadulterated adrenaline. “Father,” Julian said, his voice rough as he kept his back to me. “She dared to run.” I did not respond immediately. I could not. My body betrayed me the way it always did when she was near. A hot, shameful throb started low in my groin, making my trousers

Damian’s POV~ The estate had finally gone quiet by the time I locked the West Wing behind me. Julian had taken her upstairs himself. Even after the heavy door shut, I could still hear Layla’s voice threading down the corridor, sharp and furious, full of curses she probably thought made her sound untouchable. The dogs had gone back to the kennel. The floodlights were off. Downstairs, the kitchen had been wiped clean, the marble counter scrubbed, and every trace of what had happened on that hard surface erased. From the outside, the house looked calm, orderly, and exactly the way it always did. I was not calm. I had not been calm since the moment I carried her through the woods with her bare thighs locked around my waist and my black shirt hanging off her body. She had been warm against me, soft in places I had no right to feel, and shaking from the cold and from something far more dangerous. Even now, hours later, the memory of her pussy heat soaking through the f

Felix’s POV~ The fire in my room had burned down to embers by the time I finally allowed myself to begin. I had not gone to bed. I never went to bed when she was in the house and awake somewhere behind a locked door. Instead, I sat in the high-backed velvet chair near the window with a glass of thirty-year-old whiskey in my hand. The silk robe I wore hung open over my chest, and the belt was undone so the fabric brushed against my thighs with every small movement. The candle on the table beside me threw a warm, golden light across the room. Outside the window, the estate was buried in snow and silence. That silence was a lie. The whole house was full of men pretending they had not spent the night imagining their brother's stepdaughter on her knees. I was the only one who did not bother pretending. I was Felix Thorne, thirty-nine years old, the youngest of the brothers, and the one the family called the hedonist. I liked beautiful rooms, expensive drink, soft fabric agains