All Chapters of Mummies and their Badboys: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Nine A.M. and the Advisory Seat💦💧The message sat on my phone like a second pulse.Unknown: Nice cleanup with Hale. Professional. But he wasn’t the only recipient. The files are already with someone who doesn’t need cameras to hurt you. Check your board portal in the morning. The first clip goes live at 9 a.m. unless the advisory seat you rejected last year is signed and returned by then.I did not sleep. Ash stayed until nearly three, checking the service-door logs and the kitchen-mic schedule one more time before I made him leave through the front so the cameras would show an ordinary after-hours departure. After he was gone I sat in the study with the old advisory-seat proposal open on the screen and the hard reality of the deadline sitting in the corner of the monitor.The seat had been the idea of a board faction led by Daniel Voss—my late husband’s former colleague, the same man who had spent the last year suggesting that the company needed “steady external guidance” now that

Side Door and Night Check🫦💦The audio clip stayed on my phone through the entire farrier visit.I stood at the end of the aisle while the farrier finished the bay mare’s new shoes, and all I could hear was my own voice ordering Cole slower and the rough sound he made when I finally let him come. I had deleted the message twice before breakfast. Both times I recovered it. By the time the farrier’s truck pulled out of the yard my pulse was still wrong and the place between my legs still ached with the memory of the tack-room bench.Cole worked the morning like nothing had happened. He had the mare ready at 6:50. He kept the aisle clean. He answered the farrier’s questions in the same calm, competent tone he used with the horses. Every time our eyes met across the stall door something hot and wordless passed between us. I signed the invoice. I did not pull him into the tack room. The side door stayed locked.By 7:40 the day staff had arrived. By noon the breeding-syndicate call had end

Barrels and Bad Decisions💦💧 “On your knees between the racks.” Roman dropped without a word. Twenty-six. Dark hair still damp from the wash-down after evening punch-downs. The canvas work shirt hung open over a stained undershirt. A thin scar cut through his left eyebrow. He had a record for opening doors that were supposed to stay closed, wine storage, private cellars, once a bonded warehouse. I hired him anyway. People with his skills were useful when the inventory needed quiet corrections after hours. I leaned back against the cool limestone wall of the lower cellar, the hem of my dress already gathered in one hand. The only light came from the single low-wattage bulb over the tasting barrel and the faint red glow of the exit sign at the far end of the aisle. Outside, the estate was silent. The last of the day crew had clocked out an hour ago. “Mouth only,” I said. “You do not touch yourself. You do not rush. You make it last until I say otherwise.” “Yes, ma’am.” He le

Three A.M. Hatch💦💧Roman covered the distance in four silent steps.He locked an arm around the man’s throat and dragged him backward into the blind behind the bottling crates before a shout could form. The camera bag hit the stone floor with a soft thud. I stepped out, picked it up, and opened it under the low service light. Another recorder. A spare lens. A folded printout of stills from the east rack, my hand in Roman’s hair, his mouth between my thighs, the timestamp from the night before.Marcus Hale. Medium height. Dark jacket. The same careful face that had walked my cellar once last spring under the pretext of advising on humidity sensors. He had stayed until the last barrel was checked. He had always been polite.Roman eased the pressure just enough for him to breathe.“You’re done,” I said. “The on-site units are gone. The SIMs are gone. You will delete every off-site copy while we watch. Then you will sign a statement that you conducted illegal surveillance on this proper

Side Studio and Offline Feeds🫦💧Jax was gone eighteen minutes.I stayed on the piano bench with the Bach score open and the still image of his mouth between my thighs locked on my phone. The practice room remained quiet. The radiator ticked. Somewhere down the hall a pipe knocked once and went silent. At 9:47 p.m. the side-studio door sensor on my tablet still showed locked. I had not touched it.The hallway door opened. Jax stepped inside, closed it, and locked it from the inside without being told. His black shirt carried a smear of dust from the lower-level closet. In his hands were a small black network recorder no larger than a metronome and two loose network cables.“Music-stand unit was replaced,” he said. “Old housing, new board, cellular uplink instead of the hard line that was supposed to be dead. Recorder was tucked behind the switch stack in the security closet on the lower level. Live feed was pushing to an external number on a twelve-hour loop. I pulled the unit and th