My CEO's Blackmail Tape

My name is Evelyn Laurent—a woman raised with old-fashioned values. I'd dated before, but I'd saved myself for marriage. When I walked down the aisle to Daniel Evans, I believed in the fairy tale.

Our wedding night shattered that illusion.

Daniel's touch set my skin on fire—his hands kneading my breasts, his mouth hot against mine. My body responded instantly, heat pooling between my thighs. But when he stripped bare, my breath caught.

There it was—purplish, swollen, and utterly useless.

He tried. God, he tried. For agonizing minutes, then hours, he strained, desperate to consummate our marriage. But his body betrayed him.

I held him as he sobbed, murmuring empty comforts—It's okay, we'll figure it out—while my own need throbbed beneath the surface, unspoken, unbearable.

Two years passed. Doctors. Herbs. Shame-filled attempts at intimacy that left me hollow. I faked pleasure to spare his pride, but every failed encounter carved another scar.

When I suggested therapy—maybe it's in your head, darling—he shut me down. Hard.

I never dreamed I'd crave another man's touch.

Then came the bus.

The summer heat clung to my skin as I squeezed into the crowded vehicle, my denim shorts riding up. Bodies pressed tight, sweat and perfume thick in the air.

Then him.

A stranger, tall and unfairly handsome, his chest flush against my back. His breath—warm, tinged with tobacco—ghosted over my neck. I tried to shift away, but the bus lurched, slamming me against him.

And I felt it.

Hard. Insistent.

My face burned. My pulse raced. I should have shoved him. Screamed. But when his hands gripped my hips, holding me in place, a traitorous heat surged between my legs.

His lips brushed my ear. "You like that?"

I should have said no.

But when his fingers slid beneath my shorts, tracing the damp lace beneath, my breath hitched.

And when they pushed inside—