Puss In Boots Kitty Softpaws

"You think you can play with my feelings, kitty?!" I could feel the intensity of his voice. I stepped back, feeling the wall behind me. "Who said I am playing with your feel~" I was cut off by his strong fist that landed beside my head, making me gasp in horror. "You, sitting on the lap of that bastard! Dakota Weasly, you just dug your boy toy's grave!" his voice boomed like thunder, deafening my ears. "He's not my boy toy, Martin. He's my boyfriend, and I like h~" Again, I was cut off, but not by his fist this time. His kiss ravished my mouth like I was his last meal. Before I could say something, my hands, like they had minds on their own, were slowly wrapping around his head. My tongue slid inside of his mouth while a moan escaped from me, making him deepen our kiss. When we stopped, we both gasped for air. "Do you like him?" he asked, his eyes fixed on mine. "Martin, I..." I suddenly lost my tongue. "I'll count till three. You must answer well, or I'll tell Luke to shoot him now!" "What?!" I asked, shocked. "Martin, what did you do to him?" I pleaded with my eyes, which became watery, but he just sneered. "Worried, huh?!" as he was about to call someone, I grabbed the phone and shouted... . Dakota Weasly was an easy-going, independent fashion designer from New York. She was strong-headed, who never stopped till she got what she wanted. This charming young lady accidentally bumped into the notorious mafia leader, Martin Marcini. The leader of Scared-faced Gang, one of the scariest mafia in Italy. . What could happen when an easy-go-lucky young lady played the heart of the scariest, gorgeous young man in the state?

I stepped closer. Close enough to smell his cologne—cedarwood, leather, and power. My hand moved. Smooth, practiced. The pistol slide from under the apron into my palm. I raised it fast. But before I could pull the trigger— BANG. Not my shot. A scream tore through the restaurant as another man launched himself toward Romano’s table, blade flashing. Another assassin. What the hell— Romano didn’t flinch. He shoved the table forward, knocking the attacker off balance. The blade scraped across wood, not skin. I ducked instinctively as the room erupted into chaos. Gunfire cracked. Glass exploded. People screamed and dove for cover. “Get him out—NOW!” one of the guards barked. I aimed for the second attacker. Didn’t even hesitate. One shot—head. Gone. The guard saw me. Confusion flashed in his eyes. Then rage. I ran. I weaved between overturned chairs, plates, and screaming bodies. The smell of blood was real now, thick in the air. One of the guards grabbed me. I slammed my elbow into his ribs, twisted, and brought the butt of my gun down on his skull. He dropped like a sack of bricks. Out. I had to get out. My boots pounded the floor as I tore through the narrow hallway. But then— “Elisa.” His voice stopped me cold. I turned. Antonio Romano stood in the middle of the carnage, suit untouched, blood spattered behind him like art. His eyes were on me. And he was smiling. It was darker. Slower. Like a hunter seeing something worth chasing. Somehow, he knew who I was. “Interesting,” he said softly, tilting his head. “They sent you.” I didn’t answer. I ran. But that voice followed me. He knew my name. And he let me go. This wasn’t over. It had just begun.

Crimson Bloomed: Ascend Post - Apocalyptic Horror | Action | Yuri Harem | Coming - of - Age | Rated R | Mature Content | Slow Burn The city looked like it had been devoured — chewed up by fire, time, and whatever came after — then spit back out in jagged pieces. Dead drones dangled from power lines like rusted ornaments. Neon signs flickered above fractured pavement, their broken scripts glitching into gibberish. Down the block, a half - melted smartcar burned slow, casting warped shadows across the skeletal remains of a coffee bar. Behind a crumpled tram car, someone crouched low, breath tight in her lungs. The shrieking hadn’t stopped. It came again — sharp, bone-deep, the kind of sound that latched onto your spine and refused to let go. She checked the signal jammer at her hip. Still blinking. Still active. Not for long. They were tracking her. She moved fast — boots silent over broken glass, slipping through the breach in an old laundromat’s wall. Her body moved from muscle memory now: slide through, duck left, over the washer, don’t look at the corpse slumped by the dryer. Out the back. Up the fire escape. On the rooftop, she halted. Not alone. Someone was already there — silhouetted against the bleeding sunset. Combat jacket. Short - cropped hair. Pulse rifle slung casually over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. Like this was just another rooftop, just another war. “Don’t move,” the voice snapped. She lifted her hands slowly. “I’m clean.” “Everyone says that.” “Scan me.” beat. Then the girl stepped forward, rifle still raised but gaze locked in. Dark eyes, sharp, searching — not just for weapons, but tells. Fear. Lies. She lowered the rifle half an inch. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” That wasn’t the line she expected.