They say the body has memory.

I didn’t believe that until I started waking up soaked in sweat and c*m, my heart racing, my fingers trembling, my lips parted as if I’d been whispering his name in sleep.

But I never even knew his real name.

I remember his voice though, how it curled around me like smoke, soft and deep, commanding yet kind, dark and dangerous.

He never touched me. Never laid a hand on me. But I came so hard, I cried.

Now, every night, I crave it. That voice. That whisper that made my knees weak. That sin I never thought I’d want.

I thought I was straight. Now, I’m not even sure I’m sane.

And I think I’d ruin myself just to hear it again.

For 25 years, Zayn lived in a world of straight expectations, dating girls, chasing pleasure that always ended in silence and frustration. Sex was a routine, not release. Until one bored night, chasing a thrill, he said yes to something different.

A man in a club offered him more than money, he offered a secret, a night of satisfaction like he’d never known. But when Zayn entered that hotel room, he didn’t expect him, the rich, cold, dangerously alluring heir of a conservative empire, whose father publicly condemns everything he hides in the dark.

What started as a one-night experiment turned into a dangerous addiction. Without a single touch, Zayn was broken open, undone, and made to scream, cry, and beg, only through sound.

Now, even back home, Zayn trembles when he hears his voice in dreams, in memory, in madness. His sheets are always wet. His nights are restless. His body wants more.

And the worst part?

He's starting to want him, too.


18+ WARNING 
This story contains explicit male-male content, intense erotic scenes, and psychological seduction.
If you're not ready for a world where a voice can break you, proceed cautiously.

Read at your discretion.

He blinked at the fabric, then at me. "No," he said firmly, shaking his head. "There's no way I'm wearing that with you, Evric."


I raised my brows, pretending to pout though my chest constricted at his rejection. "Why not? It's just pajamas."


But he folded his arms, still dripping from the shower, and gave me a look that said he would not budge.


I held up the pajamas again, trying to convince him. "Please, baby, it's just pajamas," I said softly, my tone almost pleading.


Zayn didn't answer immediately. Instead, he gave me that stubborn look, lips pressed together as though he was determined to resist me. Then, in his calm voice, he finally said, "Come and dry my hair. By the time you're done, I'll think about it."


When those words left his mouth, I didn't waste a second. I quickly went to grab the hair dryer from the drawer and returned to his side. He was sitting comfortably, the towel still loosely tied around his waist, his damp hair clinging to his forehead.


Chapter 89 - Chapter 89: The Fear of Disappointment