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Hate Me Professionally

Mairaaaa
SMUT DONT READ IF BELOW 18 “I hate you, you monster,” I gasped, the words tearing out of me even as my hips bucked up against him. Adrian’s mouth hovered a breath away from mine, his gray eyes dark with hunger. He was on top of me on the bed, the hard length of him grinding slow and filthy between my thighs, dry-humping me through the thin scrap of lace that was all I had left on. His eyes raked down my chest, lingering on the black lace bra that barely contained me, the way my nipples pushed against the fabric with every desperate breath. “Really?” he scoffed. “You hate me so much you’re soaking through your panties when I haven't even brought out the real thing?" I wanted to slap him. I wanted to pull him closer. My fingers twisted tighter in his shirt, knuckles white. “Shut up—” He rocked harder, the friction so perfect it ripped a broken moan from my throat. “That’s what I thought.” His hand slid up, thumb brushing the underside of my breast, teasing the edge of the bra. “You can say you hate me all you want, Alexandra. We both know it's a lie." I hated that he was right. ~ He made her teenage years a living hell. Now he wants to make her his wife. Alexandra Calloway didn’t expect her miracle job interview to end in a slap across her former stepbrother’s face. She definitely didn’t expect Adrian Reyes, ink-haired, gray-eyed, and disgustingly successful, to propose marriage before dessert. He was her first heartbreak before she even knew what heartbreak was. The boy who made her feel invisible, unwanted, and small. The boy she spent ten years trying to forget. Now he's her husband. The contract was simple. One year. Fifteen million dollars. No feelings. A business arrangement between two people who are supposed to hate each other. Supposed to being the most dangerous phrase in the English language. Because the way he looks at her isn't hatred. The way his hands find her waist in a crowded room isn't business. And the secrets buried beneath his cold gray eyes aren't simple at all…..
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The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Isabella was supposed to be sipping champagne at a luxury spa, not waking up in the middle of a forest. Worse, a SYSTEM had attached itself to her like some clingy ex, spouting nonsense about survival, quests, and—oh, hell no—manual labor. "System, I was NOT built for the wilderness! My ideal ‘roughing it’ experience involves a five-star hotel with bad WiFi!" Now, instead of lounging in silk robes, she’s being ordered to farm? To hunt? "A farming quest? You want me—a city girl—to grow food? System, I once killed a cactus by overwatering it. This is NOT my calling!" And don’t even get her started on the hygiene situation. "You want me to bathe in a cold river? Darling, I require warm water, scented oils, and an ambience! What do I look like—some barbarian?!" Unfortunately, the locals—big, muscular beastmen—don’t seem to understand the concept of self-care. The women? Neglecting their skin like it’s a crime to be radiant. The men? Walking hygiene disasters. "Ladies, if your man can smell you before he sees you, we have a problem." "You see this? This is lotion. It exists so you don’t look like a dried-up leaf. Use it." "A beard should be majestic, not tragic. Let me fix it." And the beastmen? They don’t just stare at her like she’s an oddity. No, they hover. They smirk. They lean in too close, fangs flashing with amusement. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?" she huffed, crossing her arms. The panther grinned, his tail flicking. "Because you’re fascinating when you’re annoyed." No, absolutely not. She was not here for this nonsense. "If you have time to stare, you have time to moisturize." She didn’t ask to be here. She didn’t ask to be their savior. But if she has to suffer through this world, she’s making everyone around her suffer less—through skincare, style, and some serious attitude. "If I hear one more ‘We don’t season our food here,’ I’m launching a war." "If you have time to gossip, you have time to do squats." "You want to impress a woman? Start with not smelling like the battlefield." Survival isn’t just about fighting monsters; it’s about looking good while doing it. So what if the System keeps throwing impossible quests her way? "What do you mean ‘you can’t skip quests’?! Since when?! Where is the skip button?! I demand a skip button!" But somewhere between dodging ridiculous quests and fixing these people’s tragic grooming habits, Isabella found herself in situations. Uncomfortable, heart-racing situations. Like being trapped against a tree by the red python, his red eyes half-lidded as he murmured, "You talk too much, little star. Should I silence you?" Like waking up with the lion lord’s fur-lined cloak draped over her shoulders, his deep voice gruff, "You shiver in your sleep. I’ll fix that." Like the phoenix watching her every move, his burning gaze searing into her skin as he mused, "You cause chaos wherever you go, but I find that I don’t mind." Oh, hell. No. She was not about to fall for four beastmen. She was too pretty for this much stress. "If you insult me again, I’ll make sure your soul needs a beauty upgrade." "I refuse to be disrespected by anyone who dresses like an unwashed tree branch." And yet, when a rival tribe came to challenge her, when danger lurked too close, those same beastmen stood beside her—smirking, taunting, fighting for her. "A beastman growled at me today. I growled back. He ran. I am the alpha now." Isabella isn’t just surviving. She’s thriving. And this world better keep up.
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