Semua Bab Midnight Cravings: A Forbidden collection : Bab 251 - Bab 260

The penthouse was stunning — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, modern minimalist furniture, and soft lighting that made everything feel intimate.I stood in the living room with my tablet and wedding binder, trying to stay professional.This was supposed to be a standard initial planning meeting with my new client, Damien Voss — 32, successful, and about to marry his fiancée in six months.But the moment he opened the door, my pulse quickened.Damien was tall, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly handsome in a charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His grey eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach flutter.“Miss Sienna,” he said, voice deep and smooth. “Thank you for coming. My fiancée couldn’t make it tonight — work emergency. It’ll just be us.”Just us.I smiled, trying to ignore the sudden heat between my thighs.“No problem at all, Mr. Voss. Shall we start with the vision board and timeline?”We sat on the large sectional couch. I spread

The cake tasting was scheduled for 9 PM at Damien’s penthouse.His fiancée was once again “unfortunately” unavailable — a last-minute work dinner she couldn’t miss. So it was just the two of us, alone in his luxurious kitchen with an array of sample cakes spread across the marble island.I arrived in a soft, fitted black dress that hugged my curves and ended mid-thigh — professional enough for a client meeting, seductive enough to drive him crazy.Damien opened the door in a dark grey button-down, sleeves rolled up, looking every bit the powerful man who was supposed to be getting married in a few months.The moment the door closed behind me, the air thickened.“Shall we start with the flavors?” I asked, keeping my voice light as I set my binder down.He nodded, but his eyes were already dark as they traced the neckline of my dress.We began tasting — chocolate ganache, vanilla bean, raspberry lemon, salted caramel. I fed him small bites from a fork, letting my fingers brush his lips

The grand ballroom in my family’s mansion was bathed in soft golden light.Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, and the polished wooden floor gleamed under my bare feet. I stood in the center wearing a flowing, knee-length practice dress that swirled around my legs — elegant enough for a high-society event, but light enough to move freely.At 20 years old, I was preparing for my debut at a prestigious charity gala that required perfect ballroom dancing skills. My parents had hired the best private instructor in the city.Marcus Vale arrived exactly on time.He was 36, tall and powerfully built, with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and the kind of quiet, commanding presence that made the air feel thicker the moment he entered the room. Dark hair, sharp jaw, and piercing grey eyes that seemed to see right through me.“Miss Lila,” he said, voice deep and smooth as he set down his bag. “I’m Marcus. We’ll start with basic tango technique today. Close hold, strong frame, and connection. A

The “intensive weekend” was supposed to be a final push to perfect my dance skills before the big gala.My parents had arranged for Marcus to stay at the mansion for two full days of private lessons, with no interruptions. They were away at a charity event, leaving the entire house — and the grand ballroom — to us.The moment the front door closed behind them, the pretense evaporated.Marcus dropped his bag in the middle of the ballroom floor and turned to me with dark, hungry eyes.“No more lessons,” he growled, stalking toward me. “No more pretending this is about dance. This weekend, you’re not my student. You’re mine. And I’m going to fuck you properly until that tight young pussy only knows my cock.”He pulled me into a rough, possessive kiss, his hands already sliding under my practice dress and yanking it over my head.I stood naked in the center of the ballroom, the mirrored walls reflecting every inch of my body.Marcus stripped quickly, revealing his powerful, athletic frame

The private jet was sleek, luxurious, and completely empty except for the two of us.I stepped aboard in a short, flowing white sundress that fluttered around my thighs, my long hair loose and my sunglasses perched on my head. At 20 years old, I was used to flying on my father’s jet, but this time it felt different.Captain Marcus Kane was standing in the cockpit doorway, checking pre-flight instruments.He was 38, tall and powerfully built, with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and the kind of quiet, commanding presence that made the air feel thicker. Dark hair, sharp jaw, and piercing grey eyes that always seemed to see too much.“Miss Voss,” he said, voice deep and professional. “We’ll be taking off shortly. Your father said it would be just you today. Make yourself comfortable in the cabin.”I smiled sweetly and walked past him, letting my shoulder brush his arm on purpose.“Thank you, Captain. I’ll try not to be too much trouble.”The flight was a long one — six hours to our privat