Nina Blackwood Photo Novels & Stories

I couldn't care less. " Whatever.....let's get to know each other first. What's your name? Mine's Aria Monroe" she says. From her question I knew she wasn't aware of who I was. The hitch in her breath and the faint hum music at the background making her look like a million goddess. She stares at me, her gaze as intoxicating as the liquor I held making my heart skip a bit. " I'm Nikolaus Blackwood by name" " That's great. Y..you're a big shot here right?"

I felt my jaw tighten so hard the muscle clicked. It was a high-definition photograph of Carter Blackwood standing outside the university gates, his hand holding open the passenger door of his car for Maya. Her face was clearly visible, caught mid-smile as she looked up at him. Another picture showed the two of them driving away together, the luxury sedan cutting through the campus traffic. Right beneath the images, printed in a loud, obnoxious font, was the headline. "Is Blackwood heir Carter Blackwood dating the mystery designer behind Toronto Wolves captain Killian Yates' banquet suit?"

About Ethan on a rock at the edge of a clearing in the northern forest watching me run with nothing calculated in his expression. I thought about what it meant to be worth the waiting. Then I stood and walked back down the mountain path toward the lit windows of the estate, and the silver light moved through my palms with the easy warmth of something entirely at home in the hands that carried it. Far south, in a darkened study in the Blackwood pack's main estate, Alexander Blackwood was sitting alone in the chair behind the desk where the armrest had cracked six weeks ago under the pressure of a decision he had not been strong enough to refuse.

Her soft, full breasts, narrow waist, wide hips, and round, perky ass had made her a favorite in fashion and lingerie circles for the past two years. But today was different. Today, she was doing her first fully nude photoshoot. The man behind the camera was a legend in the industry: **Julian Black**, 38. Renowned for his fine-art and erotic photography, his work hung in prestigious galleries and the private collections of the wealthy and powerful. His images were sensual, raw, intimate, and unapologetically erotic. Julian stood near the large industrial windows, adjusting softbox lights with practiced precision. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp, chiseled features, dark hair stre

"Do you really think throwing some money at me makes us even, wipes out what you owe me?" Genevieve sneered, pulling a miniature camera from her bag and roughly shoving it into my arms. "Listen, I want you to do something. Go take some photos of Adam Blackwood." I was stunned. "What?" "Don't insult my intelligence." Genevieve lowered her voice, her tone full of vicious calculation. "The outside world has never seen any frontal photos of Blackwood. Everyone says he's a monster disfigured by that fire, or a cripple with serious physical defects. I want you to photograph his ugly face, or his disabled body parts."

The photo loads. My hands freeze on the keyboard. Paige. Standing outside a building I recognize. Blackwood Tower. NovaCore headquarters. She's dressed casual. Weekend clothes. Hair loose. She's looking up at something. Waiting for someone. I scroll to the next photo. A man opens the door. Julian Blackwood. Grey eyes. Dark shirt. Sleeves rolled up. He's looking at her like she's the only thing in the world worth looking at. She steps inside. The door closes behind them.

“My plan is perfect!” “Then why are you so interested in Nyter?” asked Nina as she cut a vine to let her mother pass. It was already dusk and she had to reach her pack as soon as possible. The healers were trying to get Blake out of consciousness and she had to put his back to sleep. She couldn’t let him heal properly so Lyle was blamed on a permanent basis.

In his life. I slid out of bed quietly, my legs still aching from the night before, and padded toward the soft glow coming from the kitchen. I didn’t know what I expected to find, but it wasn’t him leaning against the counter, bare-chested and half in shadow, nursing a glass of water like it might drown his demons. For a moment, I just watched him. Dominic Blackwood wasn’t beautiful in a traditional sense. He was all sharp edges and hard lines. A man built like a weapon, forged in fire and sharpened by circumstance.