Daddy's Lessons in Pleasure (Erotica Collection )

Kris stood with her back to the counter, skirt already rucked up around her hips, wrists crossed behind her and bound with my silk tie. No contract yet — just the test. Her breathing was shallow, n*ppl*s stabbing through her thin blouse like they were begging for teeth.

I stepped between her thighs, forcing them wider with my knee.

"You read every page," I murmured against her ear. "You still came back."

She nodded, cheeks flaming. "I want to know… what it feels like."

I slid two fingers between her folds — slick, swollen, dripping already. She whimpered, hips jerking forward.

"Quiet," I ordered, curling inside her until she bit her lip bloody to stay silent. "Librarians don't make noise in the stacks."

I withdrew my fingers, smeared her own wetness across her lips, then pushed them back in while my thumb circled her cl*t in slow, punishing strokes. Her knees buckled; I caught her with my free arm around her waist, pinning her against the desk.

"Say it," I growled.

"Please… Sir… f*ck me."

I spun her, bent her over the returns counter, yanked her panties aside. My c*ck was out in seconds — thick, leaking, throbbing from days of restraint. One hard thrust and I buried myself to the hilt. She cried out, muffled against her own forearm.

I didn't go slow.

Each snap of my hips drove her breasts against the cold wood, n*ppl*s scraping through fabric. I fisted her hair, arched her back until her spine bowed beautifully.

"Count the strokes," I commanded. "And thank me for each one."

"One… thank you, Sir…"

I f*ck*d her harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin echoing between shelves like a secret she could never unhear.

By fifteen she was shaking, c*nt clenching like a fist around me, begging without words.

I leaned down, teeth grazing her earlobe. "C*m for me, little librarian. Ruin the silence."

She shattered — body convulsing, soaking my c*ck and the edge of the desk.

I followed seconds later, filling her with pulse after hot pulse, marking her from the inside while she trembled beneath me.

When I finally pulled out, c*m dripped down her thighs.

I untied her wrists, kissed the red marks.

"Next time," I whispered, "we use the contract… and the cameras."

Niklaus Henderson

I built the Room of Ecstasy for one purpose only: to f*ck, dominate and break someone down until they were nothing but raw need and obedience, then rebuild them around my c*ck.

Three p.m. sharp on Friday. I strode through the reinforced door, black dress shirt sleeves already rolled to my elbows, the pleasure-whip coiled in my right hand like a living thing.

The braided leather was soft, buttery — designed to kiss rather than cut, to deliver sharp, blooming pain that faded into throbbing heat without leaving permanent marks. I liked my marks temporary. Reminders, not scars.

The overhead spotlight pinned Elena exactly where the contract demanded: naked, knees spread wide on the custom black velvet cushion I'd had made to cradle her *ss for eight-hour stretches, palms flat on her thighs, spine arched in perfect submission. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, but the tremor running through her frame betrayed her. She knew she'd f*ck*d *p.