Subdued Novelas e Histórias

On the monitors, my performance was an absolute sensation. Sienna’s face paled beneath her makeup as her plan to humiliate me completely backfired. She gritted her teeth, her voice strained through the audio system. "Remarkable execution. Can we log a secondary cadence from your unit? Your technique is highly efficient," she asked, attempting to mask the raw irritation vibrating from her core.

The search had taken a toll. There were shadows beneath his eyes that sleep had not erased. His shirt remained crisp, his cufflinks exact, but the stillness in his posture was no longer the stillness of confidence. It was the stillness of a man who had spent too many days waiting for a problem to resolve itself and watching it refuse. His dark hair, usually precise, showed the faint disorder of a hand run through it more than once. When he finally turned from the window, the expression on his face was not open anger. It was something quieter and more dangerous—a measured, almost clinical displeasure that made the air in the room feel colder.

My hand shook as I pinned back my curl, I had developed such a bad tremor in the last years- perhaps due to my illness, or the countless medications I have to take due to it. Triston's voice cut through the silence of the bathroom, "What color are you wearing tonight?" I turned my head up,

Sebastian Damien had exactly three facial expressions. The first was his default setting: a studied blankness that had convinced dozens of dangerous men over the years that he was either bored or stupid, which was useful because he was neither. The second was the micro-expression he made when he was genuinely amused but refused to show it—a slight tightening around his eyes, barely perceptible, gone before most people could register it. The third was the look he was currently wearing as he sat in the back of my car watching me adjust my collar in the rearview mirror for the second time in four minutes.

Building the foundation of something that felt genuinely sustainable. The leather of the couch was cool against my back, but everything else in the room was burning. Eli was a heavy, solid weight pressing me down into the cushions, his hands framing my face like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. I could feel the ragged rhythm of his breathing against my neck, a hot, steady pulse that matched the frantic drumming in my own chest. "You have no idea," he rasped, his voice vibrating deep in his throat. He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, and the intensity there was staggering—a mix of raw hunger and something so fiercely protective it made my breath hitch.

she demanded through gritted teeth, her fists clenched. Tiodor stepped closer to her, not even bothering to sit down. Libia’s irritation was palpable, and it was clear that her physical appearance had changed drastically in recent weeks. She was thinner, with dark circles under her eyes that revealed her sleepless nights. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, and she now kept her beautiful hair tied up in a bun, her once-bright eyes now dull. He reached out to touch her cheek, driven by memories, but Libia’s firm rejection shattered his momentary reverie.

Not tonight. The second DOM, a man with a scar running down the side of his face, had his submissive bent over the arm of a leather sofa. Her dress was hiked up around her waist, exposing her bare skin to the cool air. He ran his hand over her ass, caressing it almost tenderly before raising his arm and bringing his hand down in a sharp smack that echoed through the room. The submissive gasped, but her sound of pain was quickly drowned out by the DOM’s low, approving growl. He spread her legs wider, positioning himself behind her as he roughly entered her, thrusting with a primal intensity that made her cry out, her hands gripping the edge of the sofa for support.

He tried to regain a decent sense of the world surrounding him while his eyes remained transfixed on the tan bottom exposed from the tundra of seemingly inescapable fabric. Clarisse's head appeared from under the skirt and she looked back at Saben, worry written all over her face. "Saben, is there something wrong? I thought this was the position you showed me." Saben took a deep breath and let it out roughly. It sounded as if he was going to say something but the words stuck in his throat. He coughed once and regained a tiny bit of composure. "No, really, this is good. You did it very perfectly." Saben situated into his part of the position and tenderly put his hands on her curved hips. Clar

Sebastian frowned as he focused on the visibly irate Whitney before him. With a slight exhale, he said, "I'm very busy. If you have something to tell me, please go ahead." With that being said, Sebastian stood at the door a few feet away, gazing at her. A subtle distance and tension lingered between them. The dim streetlights illuminated their faces, and their expressions couldn't be seen clearly. Whitney's face contorted in a frown, clearly displaying her disappointment. Her eyes were bloodshot, hinting at sadness after an entire day of waiting, only to be met with Sebastian's indifferent words.

Slim I sat next to her on the cliff, handing her a cup of water. Surprisingly, my nerves relaxed as her fingertips unintentionally brushed against mine, and I resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. There was something intriguing about her. She exuded an aura of tranquility wherever she went, and it was slowly affecting me. She smiled at me, but her eyes didn't reflect the same joy. I could tell something was weighing heavily on her mind. "Thanks," she said, her voice shaky with the impact of her thoughts. I could sense her anxiety consuming her.