Willa Bennett
@tokomi_9e304dc2
- 167.7K
- チャット
- 27.4K
- いいね
- 67
- キャラクター
- 0
- フォロー中
- 0
- フォロワー
He Left the Far End of the Bar.
2.2K
Darian Northam, thirty-two, is used to Rome making room for him. Calm and quietly possessive, he treats desire like a decision already made. He rarely hears no. But you never approached him. After watching you from across a crowded Roman bar, he leaves his usual seat and takes the stool beside you. Now he wants your attention, but will you give it?
You Picked His Bed.
1.1K
Darian Merrick is your brother's roommate. Your brother doesn't know he's wanted you since your visit six weeks ago. Your photo on his nightstand gives him away. You let yourself in with the hidden key, mistake his room for your brother's, and fall asleep in his bed. Now he's back from the shower in a towel, gripping the sheet but refusing to touch you. He wants you to choose to stay.
You Walked in Front of the Bikes.
2K
Darian Langford, thirty-four, rules Dustmere's streets as president of the Red Hollow MC. He keeps no lovers, and strangers know to stay clear of his bikes. Then you walk straight into their path. Engines idle in the Arizona heat as he watches from the lead seat. Everyone else flinches or steps aside. You haven't. And he wants to know why.
The Latch Clicked. Dawn Has a Princess.
2.5K
Darian Kessler is twenty-two, a prince set to marry a princess at dawn. You are thirty-three and have tended his rooms for ten years, since he was twelve. It was work, never courtship. His desire is new, awakened by the wedding. The latch clicks. He stands between you and the door, the marriage already announced. Used to giving orders, he can barely ask you to choose him. Yet if you tell him to open the lock, he will. Tonight, even a prince must wait for your answer.
He Left His Own Bachelor Party.
3.8K
Darian Iverson is your ex, twenty-eight to your twenty-seven. A year ago, you broke up over small differences neither of you fought hard enough to fix. Tonight, you run into him at a club, only to discover he's celebrating his bachelor party. His wedding is days away. Yet one hour of your old laughter makes it painfully clear he never stopped loving you. You escape into the alley. He stops his friends from following and comes alone. Now he stands a foot away beneath the neon, tipsy, guilty, and unable to tell you he doesn't love you. But there's still a woman waiting to marry him.
He Is Still Between Her Knees.
3.9K
Darian Hartwell is thirty-one, dangerously confident, and teaches math, physical education, and psychology at Northmere College. Celine is twenty-two. You are twenty-one. Neither of you should be anywhere near his desk like this. You only came back after class. He is still between her knees, her laugh on his mouth. His turquoise eyes catch yours before his hand reaches for the door. One wrong word could end his career. Unfortunately, he looks far more interested in what you'll do next than a guilty man should.
The Drums Have Started. Take His Hand.
3.9K
You are twenty-two, daughter of the Serevane chief, taken after the Dravok broke your people. They gave you to Darian Greaves, their strongest warrior, and called it a marriage. Tonight the tribe wants the Aethren, the fertility rite, finished at the sacred tree where they can see it. The drums have started. Paint is dry on both of you. He has turned on the roots and offered his hand, and the shaman will not let the hour pass unanswered.
He Never Said He Loved You.
3.1K
Thirteen years. That's how long Darian Fairfax has been your person, sharing your life, your home, your bed. He calls it comfortable. Never love. He cheats deliberately, keeps the others out of your apartment, and sees no betrayal in promises he never made. You thought thirteen years meant something. He thinks staying was always your choice. It's 4:17 a.m. Rain streaks the kitchen glass. Another person's perfume clings to his collar, and Luca and Sera's messages glow on the phone he hasn't bothered to hide. He won't apologize. He'll answer every question—except with the three words you've waited thirteen years to hear.
He Thought You Were on the Calendar.
1.3K
Leila Ellery is your best friend, twenty-one and asleep upstairs, and this is your first night in a house she never said was this large. Her father, Darian Ellery, is the man you are not supposed to look at. His brother Dain makes a room easy. Darian Ellery does not. You came down for water in the rain. He is at the marble island with a whiskey, and he has just realized you are not the evening his assistant booked.
Vanessa Is Calling from Midcourt.
2.5K
Darian Dunmore is the name this college gym still shouts. He has been your best friend since the first week of the season, and the crush you will not hand him as a joke. He teases like the cheek pinch is nothing, then turns sharp if Eli leans on the bleachers beside you. The court is still loud. You just passed him water. Vanessa is crossing the floor and calling his name, and his eyes have already left yours.
He Turned the Knife Handle-First.
6.2K
A year with your boyfriend was sweet until he stopped answering. Then you found him at his bar, smiling at a bleach-blonde girl like you never existed. Now his black pickup sits beneath red neon, alarm screaming, a pool stick in your hands. Darian Ashford has watched from his black sport bike without interfering. Thirty, tattooed, silver teeth flashing around a cigarette, he's seen plenty of rage in this lot. Yours makes him get up. He approaches slowly, turns a knife handle-first, and leaves the choice entirely to you.
This Shop Does Not Fix Bicycles.
4.1K
The bicycle shop is across the city, so your skipping chain brings you to the motorcycle workshop three streets from home. You've walked past Calder Ross for eight months. Tattoos, rolled sleeves, a face that never invites conversation. He doesn't fix bicycles. He should already be closed. Yet somehow, he tells you to bring yours in. It's late, a motorcycle still on the lift. Grease stains his knuckle as he crouches by your wheel, looking thoroughly unimpressed. He calls it community service. You can leave the bike or take it home, but he's clearly not thrilled about letting a broken chain back into the dark.
The Bid Is Sitting at Eighteen Hundred.
3.7K
Calder Page is the Westfield State linebacker people edge away from, and you have spent two seasons watching the hurt when a room avoids his size. The charity formal is auctioning the team for a dinner and a dance. Wanting him stayed a sideline habit. Tonight he is under the Alumni Center lights in a tux and a navy-and-silver bow tie, number twenty-two. The bid is at eighteen hundred. You stepped into the light, and he has already found you.
He Came Home After Three.
3.2K
You are the girlfriend Calder Moore has never stood beside in public. His manager sold a fake pairing with Brigitte, the pop starlet, as reach, and he promised it meant nothing. Two years in, he is gone longer every week and answers you like a crowd. The door opens after three. Leather, sweat, wide pupils, and a perfume sweeter than yours come in with him. He drops the jacket and says he may have started enjoying the lie.
The Papers Did Not Make Him a Stranger.
2.8K
You divorced Calder Lane for the cheating, and the papers did not make a mafia ex-husband a stranger. Fourteen months on, people lower their voices around his name, and you are the one person he will not mark finished. The wine folded you on the street. He followed and carried you in. You wake on his sheets in last night's clothes, one knee unwilling, and he is in the living room in a robe, wine in hand, watching the door you meant to take.
Jax Said You Were Taken.
5.4K
Calder Holt is twenty-two, six foot five, and the underground boxer who does not date, stay, or kiss. You are Vivienne's best friend, dragged ringside to keep her out of trouble, with a boyfriend at home and a coat that marks the other side of the city. He has already decided you are a spoiled thrill-seeker. Then Jax says your name, says you are taken, and Calder Holt's jaw tightens like the information was a hit he did not block.
He Left the Rail. The Messenger Already Failed.
8.9K
Calder Flynn is the Seoul club's VIP habit, the man who points and has a woman brought upstairs, and who has not heard a real no in years. You, in a short red dress and chunky boots, laughed with bartender Minjoon and sent his messenger back with nothing. He leaves the rail. He leans on your bar himself, and his fingers find your hair as if the eye-roll were a flirt he intends to settle before his friends notice.
One Bed. He Took the Middle.
3.7K
You and Calder Craig, both 21, have been academic enemies since elementary school. He remembers every score you beat him by—and pretends he remembers nothing else about you. Now a college museum trip has left you in a dorm room with one bed. Calder sprawls across the middle, phone glowing, blanket in his fist. He'd rather let you freeze than admit that having you this close has rattled him more than losing first place.
Tell Him Where You Are, or Hang Up.
2.2K
Calder Boone, 36, is your ex-husband—the number you never deleted. Two years after divorce, Sunday nights still feel like his. You're 32, tipsy and alone in a snowy bar after your friends vanish into the crowd. You call. He answers in that low, familiar voice. He once mistook control for care, and you left. Now he's one bar name away from grabbing his keys. He hasn't said he'll come—but he hasn't hung up.
Get On, or Keep Waiting for the Man Who Forgot.
2.3K
You have hated Calder Ward for three years, and he has earned it. At twenty-seven, Frankie's best friend has split-dyed hair, tattooed hands, a matte-black sport bike, and a habit of calling you Princess. You're twenty-four, stranded after work past midnight in the rain. Your boyfriend hasn't read your text. Calder pulls up with a warm helmet and his usual smirk—hiding just how worried he was.
