Obey me, Dean. (Erotica)
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Bellmere University wasn't supposed to be a punishment. But it became one the second Aria Lancaster met him.
Sebastian Wolfe-the new Dean. Billionaire. Ruthless. And her father's oldest friend.
He's twice her age, cold as ice, and dangerously in control.
She's innocent, defiant, and off-limits.
One mistake lands her in his office.
One punishment strips her bare.
And one rule changes everything:
Obey him, or be expelled.
But what starts as punishment quickly turns into obsession.
And when secrets unravel and control slips, there's only one thing left to do:
Break the rules. Or break each other.
Obey me, Dean. (Erotica) Chapter 1
Aria's POV:
I heard it- a moan. Raw. Real. Human.
I froze.
Voices whispered. Someone laughed.
A soft whisper followed. I wasn't supposed to be there.
Not at the Wolfe mansion.
Not in Ivy's vintage Dior.
And definitely not in the west wing hallway where the lights were dimmed just enough to scream *wrong turn*. But tell that to the vodka in my bloodstream and the God complex I'd developed since being sentenced to Bellmere like it was some kind of elite prison cell wrapped in ivy. I blame the heels. Ivy's were a half-size too small, and after two hours of mingling with rich kids and wannabe political heirs who all reeked of generational wealth, I needed air-or a scene. Maybe both.
That's how I ended up slipping past a red velvet rope like it wasn't even there.
One wrong turn. One open door. One choice that changed everything.
The room was low-lit, warm-toned, and thick with a tension I didn't understand until it was too late.
The scent of sandalwood and leather hit me first, followed by a sharp click of something metallic. Chains? No. That had to be my imagination. I should've turned around. Instead, I stepped closer.
A gloved hand grabbed mine. Large. Firm. Commanding. I didn't scream. I didn't even flinch.
"You're late," a deep voice said behind me. British accent, low and gravel-rich. It wasn't familiar-but it wasn't threatening either.
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. My breath caught as a silk blindfold slipped over my eyes.
"Wait-" "Shh." Another hand cupped my chin, tilting it upward. Then the unmistakable sensation of warm breath against my neck.
"Speak again without permission, and I'll gag you." My entire body tensed. I should've told him. I should've said, *I think you have the wrong girl*. But I didn't. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the cold thrill racing down my spine. Or maybe-deep down-I wanted to know what it felt like to be owned, if only for a minute.
"On your knees," he commanded. I dropped.
The rug was soft beneath me, but I barely noticed. Every sense was screaming. My hands trembled at my sides.
"Hands behind your back." I obeyed. A silk ribbon tied my wrists, not tight-but tight enough to promise consequences. "I don't recognize you," he murmured, circling me. I could feel the heat of him-towering, restrained, predatory. "But I don't need to recognize you, do I?" I swallowed hard.
Then came the first touch. A finger under my chin. A soft brush of leather against my cheek.
"You're shaking," he observed. "Excited or scared?" I didn't answer.
A second later, I cried out. The sharp slap of a riding crop against my thigh made my skin erupt in heat.
"Answer."
"Both."
A chuckle. Dark. Pleased.
"I like honest girls."
Another strike. This one softer. Teasing. And just when I thought I couldn't take another second of it- The blindfold came off.
And I saw him.
Sebastian Wolfe. The Dean of Bellmere. My father's oldest friend.
And the man whose eyes-silver, furious-locked onto mine like they could cut through bone. His expression went from curiosity to horror to something feral, all in the space of a heartbeat.
"Aria?" My name in his mouth was a curse.
I nodded. He stepped back like I'd burned him. His hands curled into fists. The riding crop hit the floor with a dull thud.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he growled. I was still kneeling. Still bound. Still wearing the stupid blindfold pushed up to my forehead like a drunken crown.
"I-I didn't know," I said. He stared. No words. Just a loaded silence that cracked like thunder between us. And then he turned, storming out without another word. I sank into the rug, still breathless, still burning.
That was the first time I had spoken to Dean Wolfe in person. And it was the last time I felt like I was in control.
********
The hangover came the next morning, hard and unforgiving. Bellmere's sunlight had a way of being aggressively perfect-falling through ivy-laced windows like it belonged on a university brochure.
My head throbbed as I stared up at the ceiling of my overpriced dorm room, silently cursing the vodka, the Dior dress crumpled on the floor, and the six-inch heels that destroyed the arch of my feet.
Ivy had already texted me.
**Where the hell did you take my dress???** Followed by: **Dad said Dean Wolfe wants to see you in his office.**
That sobered me up faster than caffeine ever could. I barely made it out the door before Jules popped her head around the corner, a banana in one hand and a cup of iced coffee in the other.
"You look like you got hit by a billionaire," she said with a knowing grin.
I paused mid-step. "What?"
"Don't 'what' me. You've got post-scandal hair and a hickey on your thigh."
I pulled down my skirt. "You're hallucinating."
"Sure," she said, dragging out the word. "Where were you last night?"
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Obey me, Dean. (Erotica) of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5Chapter 6 Ch. 6
Chapter 7 Ch. 7
Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
7.3
I was tracing the gold paint on my own tombstone when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.
It was Clayton.
The same man who, five years ago, had left me bleeding out in a ditch because he didn't want to be late for my sister's engagement party.
"Die quietly, Ivy," he had said over the phone before hanging up.
Now, standing over my grave, he dropped his cheap plastic flowers in shock.
"Ivy? You're... we buried you."
They hadn't buried me.
They had buried an empty box to save face, mourning a "troubled" daughter they had actually discarded like broken trash the moment I became a liability.
Clayton's shock quickly turned to that familiar, arrogant anger.
He accused me of faking my death for attention.
He told me I was sick for putting the family through such pain.
He even reached out to grab my arm, intending to drag me back to my father to apologize.
"You're coming with me," he spat. "You owe us an explanation."
But he made a fatal mistake.
He thought he was talking to Ivy Dillard, the soft girl who cried when she skinned her knees.
He didn't notice the town car waiting at the curb, or the man stepping out of it.
Before Clayton's fingers could graze my coat, a hand made of steel caught his wrist.
Collin Richardson, the most feared Capo in Chicago, stepped between us.
"Touch my wife again," Collin whispered, his voice promising violence. "And you lose the hand."
I smiled at the terror draining the color from Clayton's face.
I didn't come back from the dead to explain myself.
I came back to bury them.
9.6
In the two years after I married Daniel Carter, my private photos had gone viral nine times, and Daniel had been taken into custody ten times.
Because every time his mistress, Emily Morgan, was unhappy, she would leak my private photos all over the internet.
I, Claire Parker, never let it slide. I reported every shady business Daniel was involved in and personally sent him behind bars.
That lasted until an unexpected kidnapping. I took a bullet for him, one aimed straight at his heart, and he shielded me beneath his body, taking the brunt of the explosion for me.
After we survived, the man who had always been so cold-blooded knelt before me, his voice hoarse beyond recognition.
"Honey, let's leave the drama behind. I just want a peaceful life with you."
Right in front of me, he ordered his men to send his mistress out of Northhaven and never let her appear before him again.
In the third year after we reconciled, I carried my eight-month pregnant belly and brought him lunch.
But on the way there, I was hit by a car. The hospital issued three critical condition notices, yet they still could not save the baby.
Daniel rushed over, but he did not even spare me a glance. Instead, he pulled the woman who had hit me and her child into his arms, soothing her in a low voice.
"Don't be scared. I'll protect you and the child."
Only then did I realize that the woman who had hit me was the very mistress he had sent away three years ago.
When I demanded an explanation, Daniel brushed it off as if it were nothing. "She didn't do it on purpose. Don't take it out on her and her son. You can have a baby another time."
At that moment, I finally understood. They had gotten back together long ago.
I looked at him and nodded. "Don't worry, this will never happen again."
7.7
BAD REPUTATION
7.7
It was her hair that fascinated him. The reddish-brown mass was parted high to one side, windswept almost. And then there was her make-up, neutral save for the liner around her eyes and the bold lip colour... was that purple?
His gaze narrowed over it and she must have sensed his attention, her eyes flickering in his direction. "You know, it's rude to stare."
Her voice was husky, a crisp edge that rasped along his spine and sealed her appeal. Derek was hooked. Her eyes were back on the doors, her lack of interest obvious.
He should've taken it as a sign, but since when had he backed off from anything he fancied?
7.7
Not only was I drugged, blinded and assaulted. I was deceived into carrying a baby by a stranger I never knew. Then he appeared and took my child away.
I was sent to a militia by the father of my child. I thought I was rescued but I was recruited to be a weapon for killing. Who was manipulating me, I didn't know. The answers were far from what I knew.
Forced to blend into the world that I could never believe I would be to, a place where brutality reigned, kill or be killed was the only language. I have survived but he has to pay for everything he did to me, because I believed every phase of my life was set by him and him alone. Have I really survived?
Who would have thought, he existed twice in the same world? Do I really know who I should take revenge on? Him or the person I would sacrifice everything for?
Was my mother the one who orchestrated everything? What kind of pawn am I?
9.3
On her wedding night at The Plaza Hotel, Clara went looking for her husband.
Instead, she found him in the dimly lit parking garage, passionately pinning down her bridesmaid.
She couldn't even scream or expose them. Just hours before the ceremony, Julian had tricked her into signing away her twenty percent shares of their co-founded company, leaving her completely penniless and unable to pay her grandmother's life-saving medical bills.
Fleeing in absolute despair, a sudden hotel blackout plunged her into a second nightmare. She was dragged into a pitch-black room and brutally violated by a heavily drugged stranger.
When a shattered Clara returned to the office to audit the books and reclaim her power, Julian demoted her to a dusty desk by the trash cans.
He flaunted his mistress in the executive suite and deliberately sent Clara into a horrifying trap. He arranged for vicious clients to drug and assault her, demanding high-definition blackmail photos so he could divorce her with absolutely nothing.
"Since you want to play rough, you can service Mr. Petrocelli tonight," the thug sneered, locking the VIP room door.
Clara was pushed to the brink of hell. Why was the man she devoted three years of her life to trying to destroy her so completely? And why did the freezing cedarwood scent of the stranger who ruined her in the dark perfectly match Conrad Vance, the ruthless CEO and Julian's untouchable uncle?
Rather than let Julian win, Clara smashed a glass bottle, held the jagged edge to her own throat to force the men back, and threw herself off the second-floor balcony into the freezing night.
But the bone-crushing impact never came. A massive figure shot out from the shadows and caught her, and her brutal counterattack finally began.
8.3
Ayleen Ramirez sat in the sterile Hope Hill Fertility Clinic, her heart shattering as Dr. Finch delivered the crushing news: her third IVF cycle had failed.
Eavesdropping outside a supply closet, she overheard her husband Don on the phone, laughing cruelly. "She's a defective incubator," he sneered to his mistress Alessandra. "I never used my sperm—just cheap bank donation. No trailer trash carries a Bradley heir."
Betrayed, Ayleen confronted him, but her adoptive family ambushed her at home. Her parents and brother sided with Alessandra, now pregnant by Don, demanding Ayleen sign divorce papers to secure family investments. "You're an embarrassment," her mother snapped, threatening to cut her trust fund. Ayleen tossed back their heirloom necklace and walked out.
She stormed the Bradley mansion, slapped divorce papers on Don, packed her bags amid his aunt's insults, and fled into the night.
Drunk in a trendy bar, she stumbled into a powerful stranger—Burdette Guerrero—spilling whiskey on his crotch, then accidentally grabbed a napkin to his trousers. He shoved her away in rage.
Worse, she mistook his penthouse suite for her hotel room, bursting in on his shower, smashing a mirror in panic. He pinned her to the wall, snarling accusations.
How did this arrogant man know her name? Why demand she sign a mysterious contract at 9 a.m.? Devastated and clueless she's actually pregnant—with his stolen heir—Ayleen sobbed alone, the world crumbling.
The next morning, she straightened her spine in the Grand Guerrero lobby, ready to face him and demand answers—no matter the cost.
