Virgin Fever A Taboo Virgin Erotic Series

I didn't knock.

I was too angry. Too desperate. Too ashamed.

The door slammed behind me as I stepped into Leon's penthouse, rain still dripping from the hem of my dress. My chest heaved. My throat ached. All I could hear was my brother's voice echoing in my head: *"They said I've got a week. Then they'll come for me."*

And I knew exactly what that meant.

The penthouse was silent except for the soft hum of city traffic far below. Dim golden light spilled from overhead, pooling on marble floors and the sleek edges of designer furniture. It smelled like leather, scotch, and something faintly spicy-him.

Leon was already standing by the window when I barged in, as if he'd been waiting. He didn't look surprised. Just calm, unreadable. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a lowball glass half-full of amber whiskey. The rain shimmered behind him, streaking down the massive windows like tears the sky couldn't stop.

"I need your help," I said, my voice thinner than I expected. "He's in trouble, Leon. Really bad trouble. He borrowed from people who don't ask twice."

Leon turned slowly, glass of whiskey in hand, his gray eyes locking on mine. Cold. Calm. Dangerous. That look alone could freeze blood.

"And you came here. To me."

"You're the only one who can fix this," I said. "Please. He's your stepson too-"

"No," he cut in, voice like cut steel. "He's your brother. I married your mother, not your mess."

The words sliced through the air, final and unyielding.

A beat passed. My fingers curled at my sides.

Then I stepped closer. "I'll do anything."

His eyes narrowed. I could see the exact moment the shift happened-the way his gaze slid down the curve of my body, the way his jaw tightened. The temperature in the room dropped, or maybe it was just me.

He didn't speak right away. The air felt thick. Charged.

"Anything," he repeated, slowly, deliberately. "You sure you know what that means, little girl?"

"I'm not a little girl," I snapped. My cheeks burned, but I held my ground. "I'm old enough. I know what I'm offering."

He set his glass down with a soft *clink*. The sound was deafening in the silence. Then he walked toward me, unhurried, like a wolf circling something fragile. His movements were fluid, controlled-like he owned every second between us.

My breath caught.

When he reached me, he didn't touch me-just stood close enough that I could feel the heat of his body. The air between us felt electric, like static before a lightning strike.

"I've watched you grow up in my house," he murmured. "Pretending not to notice the way you looked at me. You thought I didn't see it?"

"I wasn't pretending," I whispered.

There. It was out. Naked and exposed.

His hand lifted-slow, deliberate-brushing a strand of wet hair from my cheek. His thumb lingered on my skin, calloused and warm. My heart slammed against my ribs.

"I'm not a good man, Elara," he said. "You give yourself to me, there's no going back."

"I'm not asking for good," I breathed. "I'm asking for help."

Another silence. His fingers slid down my neck, slow and possessive. A shiver followed in their wake.

Then he kissed me.

It wasn't soft.

It was a warning. A claim. A fire I'd never felt before.

And I kissed him back.

My fingers clenched the front of his shirt, my legs trembling beneath me. Every part of me was aware that this was wrong. But it didn't matter. Nothing had ever felt this right.

He pulled back just enough to speak.

"Upstairs. My room. Wait for me there. If you lock the door, I'll walk away. If not..." His voice dropped to a growl. "Then you're mine tonight."

I nodded, heart hammering against my ribs.

And I went.