Shaken Dirty Book 4 Mga Nobela at Kwento

I'll never see him again. A violent sob breaks through as I slump onto the floor and look at his blood on my hands. I can't stop staring as Damian tries to unlock the door from the outside. My hands are shaking like crazy as another wave of nausea fills me and I miss the toilet this time. I grimace at the vomit on the floor as my shoulders shake with the sobs that fill my body. I can't control them as tears drip down off my face. I slowly stand up and take my jacket off so I can wash his blood off my hands. My vision is blurred by the tears as I turn on the tap and rub my hands together. The door opens and Damian hugs me from behind tightly as I try to clean the redness away.

And yet, all I could think about was the way he looked at me, the way he dropped to his knees on his own dining room floor and handed me the key to his life, and that massive, unimaginable length between his legs that had stretched me open last night in a way no man ever had. "You stupid, desperate, nasty bitch," I cursed at myself, digging my nails into my jeans. "You disgusting, hypocritical little slut. You stand there crying to him about your mom and your principles, and then the second he pulls you close, you melt right into his chest like a pathetic, horny teenager. You're so dirty. You're a sick, wretched, shameless bitch, Sophia. You're falling for him. You actually have feelings for

I hung up and set the phone down, my hands still trembling from everything crashing together at once. The money he was offering the filthy journal the way my pussy would not stop aching. Professor Voss leaned in closer again, his body heat reaching me as he picked up the journal and held it out to me. “We are not done Riley. Open it to page twenty three. The one where I describe edging a shy girl until she is dripping down her thighs and begging for cock. Read it aloud for me. Slowly. Let me hear every filthy word in your voice and watch how wet it makes you.”

And he was addicted to his little girl’s tight pussy. This was only the first story in the book of our sins. There were ninety-nine more ways to damn ourselves still waiting. And I could not wait to fall even deeper.

“It was in a diary that belonged to a guy I used to work with. The last thing he wrote was on the very last page, and after that he just never came in again. When they told me to clear out his locker it was completely empty except for that book sitting at the bottom of one of the drawers. There was no call, no forwarding address, nothing. I ended up putting the book in my bag because leaving it there felt wrong, and I’ve regretted it ever since.” I watched Hazel’s jaw tighten and nothing else. The missing man sat in the room with us now, along with the clean company photo of Don I had seen online months ago. A plate of meat. Days of weakness. A colleague who wrote it down and then disappeare

She looked every bit the innocent college girl on the outside, but her eyes burned with filthy desperation. “On the bed, legs spread,” Clyde said, his voice rough. “Show us that greedy little hole that took us in.” She didn’t wait. She lay back and spread her thighs wide, exposing her already dripping pink cunt and asshole. Both brothers groaned at the sight. They weren’t fans of sharing women, but if it was their Zinnia, then they could break that rule. They climbed onto the bed, cocks hard and throbbing, ready to ruin her. Clyde claimed her mouth first, kissing her deep and filthy while Cedric latched onto her left tit… doing what he couldn't do in the basement.

Monalisa Smutty books were getting way too filthy for my taste lately. The couple in the one I was reading were twisted into a position that looked physically impossible, legs over shoulders, back arched at a brutal angle, the hero slamming into her so deep and hard it looked like he was trying to ruin her for any other man. The author deserved jail time. How the hell did someone even write something that dirty? And how was the heroine not cramping? I gripped my Kindle so tight my knuckles turned white, equal parts horrified and shamefully turned on, when the chaos downstairs exploded again. Bass vibrated through the floor. Loud laughter. Splashing. Drunken shouts.

I'm a mess – a perfect, filthy, destroyed, worshipped mess. "Don't clean up yet," Ethan says. He grabs his phone. Photographs me – covered in cum, spread on the sheets, the bowl of unused condoms visible on the nightstand, evidence of a night that exceeded every fantasy I've ever had. "Now," he says, setting the phone down. "Who wants to go again?" Round two is dirtier than round one.

The lock clicked open, the sound as loud as a gunshot in the silent, sun-drenched office. She pulled the drawer open. There, nestled amongst expensive pens and a signed first edition, was a small, unassuming black book. It looked old, the leather worn smooth in places. It felt heavier than it should, heavy with the weight of her husband’s trust, a trust she was about to shatter into a million pieces.

Oh, Goodness. The sensation was so shocking, so utterly taboo and intimate, that a strangled groan was torn from him. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the wood. She didn’t just lick; she probed, her tongue a slick, relentless intruder, circling and pressing until the muscle relaxed under her ministrations. The shame was burned away by a wave of pleasure so profound it left him dizzy. He was panting, pushing back against her face, begging for it without words.