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  • 👁 5.3K
  • 7.5

It was a sin to love him. It was a sin to desire him. She was his forbidden pleasure. She was his forbidden fruit. It was never right because she was the wife of his billionaire brother. Excerpt: He glanced at her, frowning. "What did you say?" She angrily squinted at him. "Lie on the floor. If you don't respect me, respect Lennox. I'm his wife." His stares became cold. "Respect?" He smirked coldly. "If I didn't respect him, you might be naked right now moaning my name." She was insulted by what he said, but she didn't show it. "What makes you so sure that I will be in bed with you?" There was an insult in her voice as she looked at him mockingly. He gave her a silly smile. "Oh, I'm sure of it." Her eyes were sharp. "I beg to disagree." He just smirked and was not affected by her sharp gaze. "Oh, come on, Lorelei, we both know I can get you naked in my bed." "That's not going to happen." Her jaw was throbbing with anger. "I love Lennox…." "Don't mention Lennox's name because he's not part of our conversation." In the blink of an eye, he got close to her. His face was so close to hers. He smelled her fragrant breath. She couldn't look straight at him. "Lincoln, get out of…." "Look at me, Lorelei." She needed to be brave in front of him, or else he would be able to handle her again. So, she looked into his deep tantalizing eyes. Her throat was dry. "W-what?" She wanted to slap herself for stuttering. Stuttering in front of Lincoln Del Piero was a sign of weakness. And this evil man would exploit it. "Tell me, Lorelei," his hot breath hit her face, "If Lennox wasn't your husband, would you undress for me? Would you let me see your beautiful naked body? Would you let me penetrate you?"

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  • 👁 42K
  • 8.8

When I was a child, my grandma used to tell me stories. At the time, I never gave them much thought. Thinking they were just that… stories. Growing up, I soon realized that they weren’t lofty fantasies and fairy tales but memories of her past, memories of our ancestors before our world turned to sh*t. You see, what comes from legend, no matter how exaggerated the story becomes, there is always a sliver of truth. You just need to weed out the fiction from fact. My grandmother used to tell me stories of the Chosen One—the one who would save us all. When I was younger, I used to believe that what she said was true. Eventually, someone would be born, just as the Oracle predicted—someone who could save our souls and bind us back to our magic. Once I grew up and saw the world unfolding around me, I no longer believed in salvation. The chosen one seemed to be more of a prayer than reality. Some dream we wanted desperately to come true. Something in which we needed to find hope when there wasn’t any left. When our ancestors turned their backs on us, how were we expected to believe in this so-called salvation? Especially when all we witnessed was death and carnage ever since the great war. Nothing except pain and poverty. I used to believe the stories and used to pray for the mysterious chosen one that would rid our world of its evil. Now, though, I see it for what it really is, just a dream of hope. Some out of reach fairy-tale. A story to create hope. Hope is dangerous; it makes you believe things will get better. I stopped hanging on to hope when I witnessed firsthand that it caused nothing but heartache.

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Heroes

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