Yuri Vargas Xxx

Jasmine Vargas accepted Mark Morelli's proposal because he was a good man who she believed would make her always happy. But everything took a different turn when she crossed paths with Tristan Morelli once again. Tristan Augist de Morelli, Mark’s older brother, is a stark contrast to his brother. Tristan, Italy's wealthiest billionaire and the president of the Cassa di Morelli. She remembers him as a deceitful mobster who took her innocence and callously left her the following day. His arrival five years ago caused havoc in Jasmine's life. It was Tristan who leaked her identity to the 'Lopez', leading to her bestfriend being murdered. Now all Jasmine wants is to avoid meeting the man who has ruined her life because she knows Tristan wants to complete his unfinished mission of destroying her family's cartel. A true hedonist, Tristan Morelli is wrapped up in all the splendor of nature. Unlike Mark, Tristan is darker, colder, and more intoxicating. His confidence is powerful, and his undeniable charm and irresistible attraction make him a dangerous temptation. Jasmine finds herself grappling with his irresistible charm and the destructive cycle he drags her into. Every attempt to push him only strengthens his obsession. Her resistance seems to fuel his desire even more. Tristan's relentless nature awakens a deep darkness in Jasmine, a side of her she never knew was there. In the midst of struggling with her demons, Jasmine is determined not to let him be her ruin. Will she find the strength to break free from Tristan's grip, or will she give in to the darkness he brings into her life? Moreover, he’s the catalyst for all the chaos that destroyed her life five years ago. Will Jasmine once again lose herself and let Tristan wreak havoc on her life? 

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.