تسجيل الدخول⚠️WARNING: For mature readers 18+ only. Themes: Body worship, dominance, primal play, and MFM/threesome content. "Stop fighting it, Sloane," he growls, his fist knotted in my hair. He yanks my head back until my throat arches, exposing my frantic pulse. His thumb shoves past my lips, pressing down on my tongue with bruising force, marking me before he even tastes me. I choke on a gasp, thighs trembling against the wall. "We can’t." "Shut the fuck up," he snarls, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of my neck. "I’ve spent years tracking every prim step you took. I’ve fantasized about the moment I finally cornered my prey." He sinks his teeth into the junction of my shoulder, a sharp, possessive bite that will leave a jagged purple brand by morning. "Now, you’re locked in this cage with us. I’m going to leave my mark on every inch of your skin." Behind him, his twin looms. A silent, lethal predator. I’m caged between them, the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and ruin. For four years, I was the invisible shield for the Sterling empire. To me, they were liabilities. To them, I was the hunt. Zurich changed everything. The boy I once scheduled is now a man who pins me down, whispering filth while his brother watches, his eyes dark with the same starving intent. I was paid to guard the Sterling legacy. Now, I’m the prize. I want them to hunt me. I want them to worship me. I want them to break me until there is nothing left but surrender.
عرض المزيد(Sloane’s POV)The elevator ride down to the garage was a blur of fluorescent lights and the heavy, mechanical hum of the cables. I followed a half-step behind Leon, watching the back of his head. He looked steady now, his exhaustion masked by a new, sudden surge of purpose. My anger was still there, simmering like a pilot light, but curiosity was starting to win out. I couldn't let it go completely, though. The image of him walking through that door looking like he'd carried the weight of the world on his shoulders—it stuck with me. So did the fact that he still hadn't explained it.We stepped out into the concrete expanse of the underground parking lot. The air here was damp and smelled of exhaust and old rubber. My sneakers made a soft slapping sound against the oil-stained floor. The echo bounced off the walls, following us like a second set of footsteps."Leon," I said, my voice carrying further than I intended in the
(Sloane’s POV)"Leon?"The apartment didn't answer. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, still in my clothes from yesterday, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. It was the only thing making any noise. No laptop clicking. No heavy footsteps. No Leon.I checked my phone. Nothing. I had sent three texts. Where are you? Are we starting at nine? Leon?I hit his name and listened to it ring. It rang until the voicemail kicked in, that generic, robotic voice telling me he was not there. I hung up before it finished. I told myself he was probably just at an early meeting. He had a life outside this apartment. Outside me.But the voice in my head didn't sound convinced.By noon, I was pacing. The living room floor had a path worn into it now, a track I had carved with my restless feet. I tried to look at the notes on the carbon tax, but the words were just black blurred lines on a page. Every time a car drove pas
(Sloane's POV)Day seven.One hundred and sixty-eight hours of living in Leon's orbit, and the air in the apartment had become a conductor for a current neither of us knew how to switch off. Ever since that night at the Speakeasy, since Greta's voice had dismantled our boundaries and Leon's hands had rewritten the map of my skin, everything was different.We didn't talk about it. We practiced the art of the Great Omission. We focused on the debate. We focused on the data. We focused on anything that wasn't the way my pulse jumped when his shadow crossed mine in the kitchen.But the charge was there. It was in the way he handed me a coffee mug, his fingers careful not to graze mine. It was in the way I caught him staring at my mouth when I cited a statistic, his eyes darkening for a fraction of a second before he looked back at his laptop.By the time the sun dipped low enough to paint the sky a bruised, cinematic orange
(Sloane’s POV)The sunlight today was different. It was sharper, colder, slicing through the gaps in the blinds like a reminder that the world hadn't stopped turning just because mine had fractured.I didn't linger in bed. I couldn't. The sheets felt abrasive against my skin, every movement bringing back a phantom sensation of a velvet chair and the salt-slicked heat of the back room. I moved like I was made of glass.In the bathroom, steam began to fog the mirror. I didn't over-analyze what had happened. I didn't have the stomach for it. The flashbacks came anyway, jagged and strobe-lit. Leon's eyes blown wide and dark. The rhythmic thud of the table against the wall. The way the air had tasted of sweat and expensive gin.Then, I saw it.I tilted my chin up, pushing my hair back. A small, dark smudge sat just above my collarbone. A bruise. It was from where his hand had anchored me, fingers digging in while he u
(Sloane’s POV)The restaurant was a museum of quiet money, where the only sounds were the precise click of silver on china and the low, practiced murmur of German, and it was the kind of place where even the flowers looked disciplined as they sat in their crystal vase
(Sloane’s POV)~~~~~~~ Three weeks later~~~~~~~~The air in Zurich smelled like money and regret.It was a clean, cold smell. Like bank vaults and freshly washed stones. Our apartment was all sharp angles and white walls, high above the Limmat river. It was beautiful. It was a priso
(Sloane's POV)James found me in the pantry, counting cans of soup like a crazy person. It was the only place in the house that was ever truly quiet.“Miss Sloane?”I jumped, nearly dropping a can of tomato bisque. “James. You scared me.”“Mr. Sterling would like to see you. In t
(Sloane’s POV)The slides were a band-aid on a bullet wound.I’d stayed up until 3 AM building them from Kai’s outline, making the data look simple, foolproof.Leon had glanced at them for maybe ninety seconds that morning, chewing on a piece of toast.“Looks fancy,” he












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