Asmodeus Lust Mga Nobela at Kwento

Droplets of water were glistening on his skin, enhancing the contours of his physique, chiseled with defined muscles rippling beneath his taut skin. His broad shoulders lead down to a well-defined chest complimenting his abdomen. That is a canvas of defined abs. “You look like a hungry female wolf that wants to rip my body apart with the look on your face,” his voice broke me out of my thoughts. My cheeks turned red out of embarrassment. I didn’t realize that I was staring at him for too long. Silence ensued as he moved past me to his room. I unhurriedly face-palmed myself for getting caught while drooling over Alpha Damon.

Lula spread my cheeks, spat on my asshole. Dax didn’t wait (lined up and slammed into my pussy once, then pulled out and took my ass, no prep, just spit and cum). “Count the money,” he growled. “Every thrust ten grand.” I screamed, clawed paint, took it. “Fifty… sixty… fuck, Dax, harder—” Lula slid under me on the hood, legs open, cunt in my face. I ate her like I was dying while Dax wrecked my ass, hands bruising my hips, cock splitting me.

“Actually… there’s something I wanted to mention. It’s… unconventional.” Her curiosity piqued despite the hollow ache in her chest. “Unconventional how?” “There’s an artist,” Alden said. “Damien Cross. You’ve probably heard of him.” Lena frowned. “No, I don’t think so.” A faint smirk touched his lips. “Not surprising. He’s… not exactly mainstream. Reclusive. Selective. But his work...” he paused, searching for the word, “...it’s raw. Provocative. He only works with live models, and… he’s looking for one.”

I can see her shrug, I hear adjusting noises come through the speaker, squeaking leather that reminds me that my best friend has been obsessed with leather creations these past few days. “He is shy, what’s his name again?” “Stephen Hosea Moore.” “Great, you already know his full name, know what his great grandmother had for lunch the day she met her husband.” “What the fuck?!” “He is definitely not the type to get drunk and fuck, he reads comics, and wears a cute gray hoodie, so you have to know what does it for him.” That sounds exhausting, I don’t want to do it again. “But I strongly advise against it, find and fuck someone else.”

At the sound of the tires, Xavier lowered the axe, his brow furrowing defensively. A sleek, ridiculously expensive silver sports car parked next to her mother’s rusted Subaru. The driver’s side door opened, and Elias Thorne stepped out, wearing a sharp, custom-tailored charcoal suit that looked entirely absurd against the backdrop of the rural woods. Elias stepped carefully over a puddle of mud, his sharp eyes scanning the property before landing on Xavier. "Well, I'll be damned," Elias drawled, leaning against the hood of his sports car, a wicked, highly amused grin spreading across his face. "The terrifying, unstoppable Xavier Sterling. The wolf of Wall Street. Reduced to a lumberjack."

I pant through the sounds he’s wrenching with every scrap of will that’s been trying to fight him. “Keep talking back, Kitten....” It’s an even deeper hiss against my other ear as his masterful long fingers clench my hair. Positioning my neck for him to suck and nip a spot I didn’t know existed. The hold on my throat is released for his fingers to slide past my racking chest and into the band of my pants. “I really am going to stuff those naughty little lips instead of this sopping wet mess begging me to fuck it.” Asmodeus’ words are a breath from my lips.

JP answered. “Don’t be so smug about it, dog, you all can’t use your powers either, but I will still enjoy my time with you, I might not be able to use my powers to affect you people but I am still Asmodeus the demon of lust and I will have every male wolf in this pack eating out of the palm of my hand.” She smirked.

He liked his trophies quiet; he liked his victims to be nothing more than instruments for his discordant music. Asmodeus loomed over her, a vision of absolute horror. He had lost the ability to wear a human mask. He was a hulking, skeletal wolf-thing, his gray muscles twitching under translucent skin, his ribs showing like a cage of rot. He moved with a jerky, unnatural grace as he dipped a gnarled claw into a bowl of thick, dark fluid—a mixture of his own necrotic blood and consecrated ash.

“I don't seek to create anything, Janet. Passion, lust, is like playing with fire. Things may ignite, or they may combust. It is dangerous to work with desire. I promise no happy endings.” “So you fancy yourself some dark Cupid?” I say. “A matchmaker? I suppose,” Asmodeus chuckles. “I enjoy experiments - some pleasurable, some sadistic. All forms of passion intrigue me. Call me a Cenobite, call me a scoundrel. Some pleasures are more brutal and mutilated than others, some cost lives. Whether the flame of lust is fanned by a whip or a kiss or an Iron Maiden is irrelevant. All that matters are results. But it seems you and dear Samael have reached a stalemate.”

His body stiffened, reacting to me. Needing me. A jolt of my own pent-up violence swarmed my blood and I veered back slightly, biting down hard on his plush lower lip. The sweet metallic taste slid against my tongue. It didn't taste like blood at all. Only raw power. Hot as a scorching flame. Asmodeus recoiled from me, eyes dancing dangerously. His tongue swiped against the swollen injury, licking the blood away as it closed almost immediately. He glared down at me, but it was hard to find anger in his gaze. It was pure, carnal hunger.