All Chapters of Forbidden: Craving My Mother's Husband : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The smell of the hospital never really leaves you. It’s a specific, sterile stench of antiseptic and floor wax that clings to the back of your throat, mixing with the metallic tang of fear that lives in the waiting room. My father, Abel, isn't just sick; he is being consumed. Cancer is a greedy, silent tenant that has moved into his bones and refuses to pay rent, eating away at him until the man who used to lift me over his head is now a collection of sharp angles and yellowing skin. I watch the machines beep in a rhythmic, monotonous drone, counting the dollars of his survival with every pulse. It’s a brutal, slow-motion execution that drains the bank account faster than it drains the life from his eyes. I’ve lost track of the exact number, but the weekly tests alone are a vampire. Four thousand dollars for a scan that tells us nothing but "wait and see." The chemotherapy cycles, the anti-nausea meds, the hospital stays—they stack up into a mountain of debt that crushes my chest

I grip the silver tray tighter, my knuckles turning white against the polished metal. The heavy crystal glass of the vintage Merlot wobbles slightly, the dark red liquid swirling dangerously close to the rim. I need this and I need the tip that might come with it if I can play my cards right. The hospital bill for my father is sitting on my kitchen counter like a death sentence, a terrifying number that grows every single day. The chemotherapy is eating him alive, and the insurance is a joke. I’m not here to party; I’m not here to get my pussy wet or find some dick to ride for the night. I’m here to survive. I weave through the mass of writhing bodies, dodging a groping hand that reaches for my waist and ignoring the drunk guy slurring about how much he wants to fuck my mouth. My eyes are locked on the VIP section in the back, specifically the booth occupied by the man who just walked in an hour ago. Even from across the room, he commands attention. He’s sitting alone, which is ra

Mr. Vane clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the sudden silence of the room. He looks between Tristan and me, sweat beading on his forehead. "I... I have an urgent call to make. Tristan, ensure we settle this discreetly. I’ll leave you to it." He doesn't wait for a response. He scurries out the door, the heavy mahogany clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the predator by the window. The air shifts instantly, heavy with a scent of expensive sandalwood and something darker, like ozone before a storm. I straighten my spine, forcing my shoulders back, refusing to let him see me tremble. My voice trembling despite my best effort to steady it. "I don’t owe you anything." Tristan turns slowly, the movement fluid and dangerous. His gaze locks onto mine, cold and calculating, stripping away my defenses layer by layer. He smirks, a curve of his lips that promises nothing good, and steps closer. The space between us shrinks until his presence suffocates me, a wall of pu

The steam curls in thick, opaque ribbons around the marble vanity, fogging the mirror until my reflection is nothing but a pale, ghostly smear. I sink deeper into the oversized tub, the water hot enough to turn my skin pink, but it doesn’t touch the ice lodged in my chest. My hands shake as I drag a loofah over my arm, the rough scratch of the sponge against my skin doing little to scrub away the feeling of being sold. The soap smells like lilies and expensive chemicals—a scent that belongs to a woman who doesn’t have to auction off her body to keep her father breathing. I stare at the tiled ceiling, the water lapping at my chin. Thoughts race, frantic and disjointed. I could run. The window is large, but we’re three floors up. I could drug him—slip something into his wine glass when he isn’t looking. But the maid had watched me like a hawk, leading me through corridors that felt more like a maze than a home, depositing me here with a stern instruction to wash. There is no escape

"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Absolutely perfect." The praise washes over me, but it’s distant, drowned out by the sudden, blinding pressure as Tristan thrusts forward. He enters me with a guttural groan that vibrates through his chest and into mine. His cock is thick, an unyielding intrusion that forces my body to accommodate him in a single, breathless stroke. I cry out, the sound tearing from my throat as my muscles stretch around him, the sting of the stretch blurring instantly into a heavy, throbbing heat. My hands fly out, desperate for an anchor, and my nails dig into the hard ridge of his bicep. I scratch him, leaving red welts on his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on. He withdraws slowly, torturously, leaving just the flared head of his cock inside me, teasing my entrance. My inner walls clench around the emptiness, trying to drag him back in. Then he slams into me again, deeper this time, hitting a spot so deep and