The Forbidden Collection: Kinky Daddies

EVELYN'S POV

The air is heavy with the scent of cheap liquor and cloying, fruity body spray.

A relentless bass beat vibrates the floorboards, traveling up my legs and settling deep in my chest. I'm rooted to the spot just inside the foyer of this obnoxiously large house, my hands nervously plucking at the hem of a skirt that feels impossibly short.

This ridiculous "vampire" costume Mila talked me into is a complete farce. The black satin bustier is cinched so tightly I can barely draw a full breath, pushing my breasts up into an obscene display.

The chill of the room kisses my exposed thighs above the fishnet stockings, and these stiletto heels are a genuine hazard.

What in the world possessed me to come here?

For two solid months, I've mastered the art of evading Atticus Stone. Ever since our parents said 'I do', his icy glares and cutting remarks have transformed our shared home into a tense, silent battlefield.

He's condescending. Privileged. Acts like the universe owes him everything.

And now, because of Mila, I'm planted in the center of his social event, dressed like a provocative party favor, virtually serving myself up for his scrutiny. The idea twists my stomach into knots.

"Stop looking so terrified, you look amazing," Mila whispers sharply, thrusting a plastic cup into my grasp. I take a cautious sip and grimace. It's practically pure grain alcohol. "There. See? Instant courage."

My gaze sweeps across the room, sliding over clusters of intoxicated, shouting strangers. It's a chaotic sea of swaying bodies, couples disappearing into shadowy nooks. The place reeks of perspiration and something skunky. And then my eyes find him.

Atticus.

He's holding court in the kitchen. Lounging against the granite island as if it's his throne, a longneck bottle held loosely in his hand.

His dark hair is artfully disheveled, and those piercing blue eyes seem to see everything. He laughs at a comment, and the sound vibrates right through me.

His simple grey Henley strains across his ridiculously wide shoulders, and his jeans sit low on his hips, hinting at the defined lines beneath.

My stomach clenches. Damn it. He looks incredible.

I wrench my eyes away, but the movement catches attention. Logan Pierce, the epitome of smarmy confidence, has zeroed in on me. I see him elbow his buddy and nod in my direction.

"Well, well," he says, his voice carrying. "Evelyn Stone. I almost didn't recognize you without your nose in a textbook."

My heart sinks. I try to turn, to melt into the crowd, but he's already crossing the floor, a slick smile on his face. Mila, the betrayer, just gives me a wink and vanishes.

Logan corners me against the wall, his body crowding my space, his breath smelling of hops.

"Evelyn. This is a surprise." His fingers graze my hip bone and I flinch. "Interesting choice of attire. Or lack thereof."

I attempt to sidestep him. "Thanks. Yours is... creative." He's wearing a bedsheet toga. Naturally.

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a oily murmur.

"Always pictured you as the modest type." His thumb strokes the satin edge of my bustier, and nausea rises in my throat.

I'm gathering the will to shove him away when a dark presence looms beside us.

Atticus's hand closes like a vise on Logan's shoulder, wrenching him backward so forcefully he nearly loses his balance.

"Touch her again and I'll break your fingers," Atticus snarls. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble that sends an unwelcome, electric thrill straight to my core.

I shouldn't react this way. But my body betrays me.

Logan just chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Easy, Stone. We were just chatting. Didn't realize she was spoken for."

Atticus doesn't even glance at him. His intense focus is entirely on me, blazing with a heat I've never witnessed. He looks furious. He looks ravenous.

"Who gave you permission to dress like this for anyone else?" he demands, his tone gravelly.

My breath catches. "What did you just say?"

He offers no explanation. His fingers encircle my wrist, tight enough to promise bruises, and he's pulling me. Towing me through the pulsating mass of people.

I trip in my heels, my muttered objections drowned out by the deafening music.

"Atticus! Let me go!"

He doesn't slow. He hauls me up the staircase, past entangled couples, and kicks open the door to his bedroom, pushing me inside. The lock engages with a definitive click.

I spin around, my back pressed against the solid wood.

"Have you lost your mind? You can't just drag me in here and-"

He closes the distance in an instant, his powerful frame pinning me against the door. One palm slams flat beside my head, the other grips my waist, fingers biting into my skin. His exhale is hot against my neck.

"You're with me tonight. And I don't share what's mine."

My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. This is insane. This is completely wrong. But every nerve in my body is screaming in fierce agreement.

A deep, pooling heat gathers low in my abdomen, and a treacherous dampness blossoms between my thighs.

"You don't own me," I manage to whisper, but the words lack conviction.

"No?" His free hand slides upward along my thigh, his rough fingertips brushing against the already damp lace of my underwear. A soft gasp escapes me. "Then explain why you're already this wet for me, Evelyn?"

Oh, no. He can feel it. He knows.

A dark, victorious chuckle escapes him.

"You've always been a temptation." His lips sear a path to my ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive lobe. "You think I haven't noticed? Parading around in those little sleep shorts? The soft sounds you try to muffle in the shower? You're not the innocent girl you pretend to be. You're craving this. And this eager, aching body is all the proof I need."

His fingers press more firmly against the soaked fabric, and my hips jerk involuntarily. A moan is torn from my throat. I'm betraying every principle I have, and I'm powerless to stop.

Then his mouth crashes down on mine.

It's a consuming, desperate kiss. Brutal and claiming. His tongue demands entry and he tastes like whiskey and utter corruption. I melt against him.

My hands fist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. I kiss him back, my tongue tangling with his, and a low, approving growl vibrates in his chest.

His hands are everywhere. Gripping my waist, palming my backside with enough force to leave marks, tangling in my hair to angle my head for deeper access. I'm burning up. The bustier is constricting. I need it gone. I need him.

He breaks the kiss, his lips blazing a trail down the column of my throat.

"God, you're intoxicating," he groans, nipping at my collarbone.

His hands find the ties of my bustier and he yanks them loose with a single, sharp motion. The garment falls open, and my breasts spill free into the cool air.

His breath stutters.

"Perfect." The word is filled with raw awe. Then his mouth is on my breast, his tongue flicking over my peaked nipple before drawing it deep.

I cry out, my fingers clutching at his hair. The sensation is overwhelming. The heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble on my tender skin. I'm unraveling.

"Atticus-!"

His hand slides down my stomach, past the waistband of my ruined panties. His fingers glide through my slickness, making me arch against him.

"So ready for me," he murmurs against my skin. "You love this, don't you? You love when I touch this sweet, desperate part of you."

Two of his thick fingers thrust inside me without preamble, and I scream. It's a rough, exquisite stretch. He curls them, finding a spot deep within that makes my vision blur at the edges.

"You belong to me, Evelyn," he growls, his fingers setting a relentless pace. "Say it."

I can't form a coherent thought. I can't breathe. Pleasure is coiling, tight and urgent, at my very center.

"Yours," I sob, the admission ripped from me. "I'm yours!"

His growl of satisfaction is my undoing. My orgasm shatters through me, my inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his fingers as I cry out, my world dissolving into white light.

He doesn't stop, drawing out every last tremor until I'm boneless, supported only by the door and his body.

Then he withdraws his fingers, glistening with my release, and brings them to his lips. His eyes lock on mine, holding my gaze as he sucks them clean.

A wicked smirk touches his mouth.

"The sweetest thing I've ever tasted."

My legs are useless. But he's far from finished. He turns me around, pressing my front against the cool wood. The hard length of him is insistent against my backside.

"Bend over," he commands, voice rough with need.

He guides me into position, a firm hand on the small of my back. I feel the air on my bare skin as he pushes my skirt up around my waist.

His hand comes down on my ass in a sharp, stinging slap. I yelp. The pain is immediate, but it quickly melts into a deep, throbbing heat. He does it again, and I moan, pushing back against his hand for more.

"Such a dirty, eager girl," he rasps, his palm soothing the heated skin.