Todos los capítulos de Wild Dreams [An Erotic Collection]: Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 10

I never imagined I’d track my life by sexual droughts, but at twenty-nine, freshly single in the ways that counted most, I’d hit a solid ten months without action. Ten months. I’d counted the nights more times than I cared to admit, glaring at my bedroom ceiling like it could fix my frustration.So when Jordan and Luca knocked on my door that stormy Saturday evening, armed with bottles of my go-to New Zealand sauvignon blanc and greasy cartons of Indian takeout, I figured the night was just another cozy hangout. Little did I know it was about to flip everything upside down.They barged in like always—Jordan using the spare key I’d hidden under a fake rock (he’d replaced it with a sparkly unicorn one for my last birthday), Luca juggling the food and wine like he was made for taking care of us. I was already halfway through my solo bottle, sprawled on the couch in faded yoga pants and an old band tee, hair piled in a messy bun that screamed defeat.“Damn, Sophie,” Jordan grinned as he s

I woke to sunlight slicing through the half-open blinds, warm stripes across bare skin that wasn’t just mine. My body felt heavy in the best way—muscles loose and aching, the kind of soreness that reminded me exactly how thoroughly I’d been taken apart and put back together.Jordan was sprawled on his back to my left, one arm flung over his eyes, chest rising slow and steady. Luca was curled against my right side, face tucked into the curve of my neck, his breath warm and even against my collarbone. Both of them were still naked. So was I. The sheets had twisted around our legs sometime in the night, but no one had bothered to pull them up.The air smelled like sex and sweat and the faint trace of Luca’s cologne clinging to his skin. My thighs were sticky—dried evidence of everything we’d done. When I shifted experimentally, the ache between my legs bloomed sharp and sweet, a deep, internal throb that made me bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud.I could still feel them inside me

His mouth was fire on my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear, biting down hard enough to make me gasp and arch into him. That sound—raw, needy—seemed to flip a switch in Damian. The control he’d been clinging to all summer shattered like glass.“Fuck,” he growled against my throat, voice gravel-rough. His big hand squeezed my breast harder, fingers pinching my nipple, twisting just enough to send a bolt of pain-pleasure straight to my clit. I moaned, loud and shameless, grinding my soaked panties against the bulge straining his pants.He didn’t waste time. Both hands shoved under my tank, pushing it up roughly until it bunched above my tits. Cool air hit my bare skin, but then his mouth was there—hot, wet, sucking one nipple deep into his mouth while his fingers tormented the other. He wasn’t gentle like I’d dared him not to be. He sucked hard, teeth scraping, tongue flicking, until my hips were bucking off the counter, chasing friction.“Damian… please…” I whimpe

My name is Emily, and I’ve always been the good girl. Straight A’s, captain of the debate team, the one who volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends. At 22, I’m in my final year of college, majoring in literature, dreaming of becoming a writer someday. But beneath that polished exterior, there’s a secret side of me—a side that craves the forbidden, the filthy, the kind of pleasure that makes your toes curl and your mind shatter. And it all revolves around him: Professor Adrian Black.He started teaching my Advanced Literary Theory class this semester, and from the first day, I was hooked. Tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair that begged to be tugged, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to strip you bare when he looked your way. His voice was deep, commanding, like velvet wrapped around steel. He paced the lecture hall like he owned it, quoting Foucault and Derrida with an intensity that made my thighs clench under my desk. I’d sit in the front row, notebook open, prete

The next morning I woke up sore in the best possible way.Every muscle ached, my pussy was swollen and tender, my ass still throbbed faintly from the way he’d claimed it on the couch, and there were faint purple fingerprints on my hips and thighs—souvenirs I traced with my fingertips under the shower spray like they were love letters.I didn’t go to class.Instead I received a single text at 10:17 a.m.:Professor Black: My office. 7 p.m. sharp.Wear the red dress. No panties. No bra. Bring your notebook. We’re having a private tutorial on submission.My cunt clenched at the words.I spent the entire day in a state of low-grade fever—restless, wet, distracted. I tried to study, but every time I opened my textbook my mind replayed the feeling of his cock stretching my throat, the burn of his palm on my ass, the hot flood of his cum deep inside me. By 6 p.m. I was dripping again, thighs slick just from thinking about him.The red dress was a sin.Tight, sleeveless, plunging neckline that