Talk To Myself

My wife's first love broke into our home and killed me. Yet my wife, one of the world's top defense attorneys, stood in court to secure his acquittal. She insisted that the entire incident was nothing more than an act I had staged myself—a desperate attempt to win her attention. She even appeared at my funeral. Pointing at my coffin with open disgust, she sneered, "You'd stoop this low just to get my sympathy? Stop pretending and come out right now to apologize to Marvin."

In my previous life, everything I do to care for myself somehow ends up benefiting my new housekeeper instead. I apply expensive skincare, yet dark spots and fine lines spread across my face, whereas the 45-year-old housekeeper's face becomes silkier. I jog every morning, yet my body only grows heavier and bulkier, while hers becomes slender and toned. When my husband notices the stretch marks on my abdomen, his face twists with disgust, and he never touches me again. "I genuinely can't bring myself to touch you. How can you look worse than Mirabelle when you take such good care of yourself?" My housekeeper looks at me with a sinister smile. A chill crawls up my spine, and the strange feeling makes me fire her on the spot. Yet, as soon as she leaves, I start aging at lightning speed, entering menopause 20 years early and developing diabetes and high blood pressure. I see every doctor I can, but after hanging on for a week, I die from a stroke. When I open my eyes again, I'm back on the day she first reports to work. This time, I push away the royal jelly she sets in front of me with a pleasant smile. "I've been avoiding certain foods lately. You can have it instead."

After my older sister Rachelle came home from dialysis, the atmosphere at home was suffocating. She curled up on the couch, thin as a rail. She was nagging me hard and telling me not to tire myself out too much at work. Dad was by the door smoking. To get money to treat Rachelle’s condition, he had sold our old house and land. Dirty and muddied, my fiance, who had always viewed Rachelle as a sister of his own, brought home his week’s salary. They all lamented how unfair life was to already poor and suffering people who had to suffer even more. I looked at myself in the mirror with my bleeding nose and flushed away the report with my acute leukemia diagnosis. During dinner, Dad suddenly said, “Ryleigh, Rachelle needs a kidney. You’re healthy and young. You might be a match.” I looked at Rachelle’s pleading eyes and coldly put my cutlery down. “I won’t do it. I’ll be a cripple with one less kidney. How am I supposed to find someone to marry then?” Dad slapped me hard, even as my fiance called me ungrateful. I slammed the door shut as I left. I looked for the nearest room to the hospital to rent so that I could wait it out until I died. The room I found was only five blocks away from the organ donation center.

"If you are going to enter my world, be ready to play my game," Mago warned, his eyes gleaming with danger, "If you can't keep up, then you'll have to endure the pain." MAGO CONCEPCION—ruthless, seductive, and incapable of love. He believed emotions were a weakness, and I, ARLENE MEJORADA, believed I could change him. I was the woman who thought I could heal him with my love, drawn in by his dangerous allure that I couldn't resist. I was a willing victim, drawn into his world of power and temptation. I convinced myself that I could handle the pain, that I could survive his cruel, calculating ways. But love doesn't always conquer all. Yet, my determination was unwavering. Soon, I found myself breaking. Piece by piece, he tore through my heart, leaving me shattered and empty, a shadow of the woman I once was. I wanted to save him, but in the end, I was the one who needed saving. This is my story—of how I gave him everything until nothing was left of me. Now I face the choice: do I pick up the pieces and walk away, or keep letting him destroy what’s left of me? My name is ARLENE MEJORADA, and I was willing to endure anything for love. Until I wasn’t.

To celebrate our daughter's eighteenth birthday, my husband, James Miller, decided to go nude cycling. I told him he was too old for that and would embarrass himself, but he looked at me with disdain and said, "Liliana, your life is so boring. You refuse to embrace new things." Then he brought the dog belonging to his first love, Sophia Lewis, and placed it before me. It was then I realized it was Sophia who had organized the nude cycling event. I felt my anger boiling beneath the surface as our son, Thomas, took the leash and handed it to me. "Dad, you can go have fun with Sophia. Mom will take care of the dog," Thomas said. But when the dog lunged at me later, Thomas protected it. Meanwhile, my daughter, Alice, fought to shield me. In the end, both Alice and I were bitten to death. James didn't even take us to the hospital. Instead, he dragged our bodies straight to the crematorium. Just before I turned into a wisp of smoke, I saw Alice rolling in the flames. During that time, James and Thomas were comforting Sophia. At that moment, I felt a deep rage—rage at myself for being so naive and for causing my daughter's death. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on the day when my son handed me the leash. This time, I was determined to make them all pay.

I buried him myself. I stood at his grave with dirt on my hands and grief in my throat as I said goodbye to the only man I ever thought I would love. Kael was my betrothed, my mate, the boy who grew up beside me and became the person I built every future around. When the war took him it did not just take him — it took every version of myself that existed because of him. Years passed. The moon goddess, in her mercy, gave me something I never asked for — a second chance. Rowan was not supposed to happen. He was patient where I was resistant, steady where I was broken, and present in every way I had convinced myself no one would ever be again. I did not want to love him. And then I did not know how to stop. I was finally learning what it meant to choose life again. When Kael walked back through my door. Alive. Unchanged. And completely unable to explain where he had been. Now I am torn between a love that was written into my soul before I was old enough to understand what souls were, and a man who chose me quietly and completely when I had nothing left to offer. The elders say this is not a reverse harem blessing. There is no keeping both. I have to choose. But how do you bury someone you love twice?

EROTICA ROMANCE. RATED 18+. "Oh my God!" I moan. "Mmm. Your ass is so fucking tight, baby," he says to me. He starts thrusting in and out of me harder and faster. I throw my head back and moan louder. The sounds of our skin slapping together and our moans fill his little office. I wonder if maybe people can hear us. It's so fucking hot and I can feel myself getting closer again when he pulls out. I look back at him and he's grinning. He's fucking with me. He puts his cock up to my pussy and thrusts inside of me. Then he pulls out and does it again. I feel him stick a finger inside of my asshole. "Mmm," I'm loving this. Every damn second is pure ecstasy. I find that I already want to come again. He's fingering my asshole and fucking my pussy and the feelings mixed are amazing. I reach around in front of me and begin to rub my clit. "Are you gonna come again baby?" he asks. "Yes," I moan and rub myself faster. He starts fucking me harder and deeper, thrusting into me with all of his power. We're moving the desk and either he hasn't noticed or he just doesn't care.

Explicit content 🔞 Enemies in campus. Obsession behind closed doors. One secret that could ruin them both. Captain worked solo until an unexpected offer came from his favorite OnlyFans creator, Anonymous69, turns his world upside down. A collab offer? Hell yes. He’s all in. But when he steps into that hotel room, ready to meet his mystery crush, he comes face-to-face with the last person he wanted to see—Andrew Parker. The smug bastard who embarrassed him in front of his friends. The trash talk gets dirtier, the tension cuts deeper, and soon, every stolen glance feels like a challenge neither of them can resist. When their hate explodes into something far more dangerous, they’re left with two choices: keep playing it safe or risk everything—including their future—for a chance at something real. The only problem? There can only be one winner. And neither of them plans to lose.

Lillian George is a twenty-three years old lady who decides to leave home after hearing her parents talk about marrying her off to a man twice her age. Out of rage, she leaves home to stay with her high school best friend, but it didn't go well between her and her best friend's roommate. The day Lillian decides to go job hunting, an offer was brought right to her door. Something risky, but she was willing to go for it. She needed the money already and will do anything for it. Carson Weston, the arrogant billionaire who lacks nothing, a complete player who doesn't give a shit about anyone. When Carson officially meets Lillian, he is attracted to her curvaceous body and will do anything to get in-between her legs. Little did he know that he was her target all along. The offer she was given has everything to do with him.

I’d been dead a month before my family even noticed. It wasn’t concern that brought them to that realization. It was my silence after the so-called “dinner” with Adam Rossi, the infamous mafia boss. My father scoffed like always,“She probably shacked up with that bastard. Too busy spreading her legs to pick up the damn phone.” My sister texted me a photo of them smiling under the Christmas tree, ornaments twinkling like nothing was wrong. Bitch, she wrote. You better talk Mr. Rossi into working with Dad, or you might as well be dead already. And my mother—once the softer one—was now colder than the frost on their windows. “I told you, we should’ve sent Gia to charm Mr. Rossi. Serena always screws things up.” They didn’t think I would die. Not until they found my body—broken, rotten, and forgotten—in Adam Rossi’s basement.