Craving The Wrong Man Novels & Stories

But sharing this with him? It felt… reckless. And wrong. Mr. Wrong: You told him about your dirty fantasies? Nina: I did. And he said it wasn’t dirty. Mr. Wrong: Then maybe he didn’t really understand them. What you crave is filthy, Nina. It’s dirty, degrading shit. Maybe I should be the one chasing you. I squeezed my thighs together, my body betraying me at the thought of two men hunting me down. Nina: Disappointing for you that you won’t be the one running after me.

She groans, her head goes back slightly. “We can finally consummate our engagement, it’s been a long six months, Lucky. Your body is craving my hard cock.” Another whimper. Her eyes are hooded. What the fuck is wrong with this woman? Why doesn’t she just give in to me? It’s clear as night and day that she craves every inch of me as I do her. “I’m just craving cock, Santangelo. Right now, I don’t think I give a fuck who. Since being engaged to you, I’ve not been able to see anyone. It’s been too long.”

All suffering originates from craving, from attachment, from desire. —Edgar Allan poe DARIUS Some presences choke you like smoke, but hers,hers lit me on fire. And I hadn’t burned in years. “Again,” I yelled at the men sprinting across the field. Their strides had slowed, a clear contrast of the burst of energy they started with. I pushed them harder than usual, not out of discipline, but because I needed the noise to drown out the chaos in my chest.

I watched Chase fuck Monica, his cock buried deep in her pussy, the muscles in his back flexing, the low, guttural sounds he made, and it always made my pussy wet. Other nights, I stayed in my own room, fingering my pussy, biting my pillow to muffle my moans, as I imagined it was his cock moving in and out of my pussy instead of my fingers, that his hands were on my hips, his mouth on my throat. I knew it was wrong. I knew I was messed up for craving Chase that way, but it was not my fault that he was so incredibly hot, so sexy and so fucking irresistible. I had tried to talk myself out of it.

Katrina, a stunning 38-year-old woman, sat on the couch in her modern suburban home, her mind filled with dark, taboo desires. Her son, Mitch, was away at college, leaving her alone with her twisted fantasies. She had always been a dominant woman, both in her personal life and in the bedroom, but lately, her cravings had taken a disturbing turn.

Just freedom. He was tall. Handsome. The kind of man I used to dream about. When he chose me, I felt lucky, even though I was a little overweight back then. He made me feel like a queen. I worked hard to become someone he’d be proud of. And for a while, I thought I was. He would show me off, take me shopping, introduce me to his friends like I was a trophy. I mistook it for affection. But looking back now, I see it clearly. He wasn’t loving me. He was owning me. Sebastian had become an addiction, one I kept returning to, no matter how much he hurt me. Every time I tried to pull away, he would find a way to pull me back in. A gift. An apology. A promise. But this time? I wasn’t coming back.

My mum was right, Patrick is the key to my success, I need to embrace him more to thrive in my career. Then I thought of her again, her confession. I remember when I had that spark of attraction to Marcella, I took it as a joke, I thought it will end, I thought I could just make her a friend but no, I wanted to know how she’d taste, and friends don’t know how they taste. I wanted to be all over her with no one close, let it feel like it’s just the two of us in the universe. I wanted to be her lover and just tonight, she confessed her feelings to me and I couldn’t say anything, still living in the fear of my mother’s voice. I wanted to say those words too but I remembered what it almost cost

I know this is dangerous but the problem is I desire her more than I’ve ever desired any woman, ever. It’s a craving—an instant madness in my head. And it’s already thrown me into making at least one misstep. I stormed down the halls of the club to my office. The door slams behind me, and I head for the bar cart by the fireplace. I pour a healthy double splash of the Glenfiddich Fifty Year scotch I always keep there. I was just about to take a second sip when there’s a knock at my office door. I already put a pause to business… I need to release but I haven’t because I dared touch a woman who wasn’t my submissive.

Why did he constantly pull back right when the climax was imminent? A heavy wave of disappointment and humiliating shame washed over me. I was so ready to be fucked. I had shamelessly, explicitly begged to be fucked, only to be stood up, left sexually starved, and forced to deal with the burning wreckage of my own cravings. I hated him for the way he always treated me... but I didn't hate his dick. I wanted it fiercely. "Lara!" A loud, impatient knock at the door startled me out of my fevered thoughts. Figuring out that it might be Jude, I scrambled out of the bed and went to the wardrobe. A big white T-shirt and bum short that were my size smiled at me, awaiting to be worn by me.

“Drunk girls in five-inch heels who can barely stand get taken advantage of. Where do you live? I’ll drive you home.” Then he assists me to stand on my own. “Take me home? Who are you? Superman? Saving a girl in distress?” I laughed frustratingly, but it came out more like a sob. “You have no fucking right to tell me how to live my life! I’m allowed to be messed up! I’m allowed to drink until I forget my husband just told the whole world he still loves his ex! I’m allowed to be happy for five damn minutes at least!” His eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed cold. “You’re one bad decision away from waking up in some club men's bed tomorrow hating yourself.”