I write emotionally intense dark romance centered on obsession, devotion, power dynamics, and morally gray love stories.My work focuses on atmosphere, psychological depth, and the kind of connection where passion feels consuming — but always consensual and intentional.Each story is written exclusively for the client and tailored to their fantasy, preferences, and desired dynamics.

I specialize in:• Possessive / Obsessive & Sadist / Masochist
• Consensual power imbalance dynamics
• Mafia and criminal underworld romance
• Billionaire control dynamics
• Supernatural intensity (vampire, demon, etc.)
• Slow-burn tension with strong emotional payoff
• Kink-friendly relationships
• Age gapI do not write:• Underage content
• Scat

The HuntHer lips parted. She was trembling, a fine, delicious shiver. “What game?”I leaned in, my mouth a hair’s breadth from her ear. I inhaled her scent—vanilla, cranberry vodka, and something uniquely, intoxicatingly her. My cock was painfully hard, straining against my zipper. The fantasy was no longer in my head. It was here, in this grimy alcove, embodied in this beautiful, bratty woman.“The hunt,” I whispered.I felt her whole body jolt.I pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. They were wide, pools of dark, terrified excitement. My grip on her wrist tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to show her I could.“Run.”The word was a soft command, a released breath.She blinked, uncomprehending for a second.“If I catch you,” I continued, my voice dropping even lower, a rough, possessive growl that came from somewhere deep in my chest, “I fuck you. You’ll have five minutes.”The words hung in the dusty air between us, irrevocable. The contract was offered. Her choice. Her consent. The thrill of the moment wasn’t in taking. It was in her choosing to play.I saw the understanding dawn in her eyes, followed by a wave of sheer, unadulterated fear… and beneath it, a thrilling, answering hunger that mirrored my own. Her brattiness was gone, burned away by the raw, primal reality of the proposition.I released her wrist.“Five minutes,” I repeated, pulling my phone from my pocket to bring up the timer. I didn’t start it. Not yet. “The clock starts when you push that door open. It leads to the back lot. Chain-link fence on the north side is broken. Beyond that are old warehouse grounds. Plenty of places to hide.”She was just staring at me, her chest heaving. Her drink was forgotten, clutched in a death grip.“Or,” I said, taking a half-step back, giving her space, an out. “You can finish your drink, call me an insane bastard, and go back to your life. Your choice, Ange.”The silence stretched. The muffled bass from the bar thumped like a distant heartbeat. I watched the war play out on her face—sanity versus savagery, safety versus the most intense thrill she would ever know.Her gaze flicked to the heavy metal door, then back to me. To my eyes, my mouth, the evident bulge in my jeans. A slow, wicked smile began to spread across her lips. It wasn’t her sarcastic smirk. It was something wilder, more feral. She was in.Without a word, she placed her full drink carefully on the crate next to mine. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her eyes locked on mine, blazing with challenge.Then she turned, her hair whipping through the air, and slammed her hands against the metal push-bar of the emergency exit.The door flew open with a screech of protesting metal and a blast of cold, wet night air.She didn’t look back.She ran.The sound of her footsteps—first a frantic scramble on the concrete steps outside, then the crunch of gravel—echoed into the alcove.A laugh, dark and full of hunger, bubbled up in my throat. I held my phone up, my thumb hovering over the start button on the timer. I watched her figure, a pale blur in the darkness, sprint across the broken asphalt of the back lot toward the gap in the fence.Run, little brat. Run.I tapped the screen.05:00.The hunt was on.

The Forbidden NeighborAnd there it is, Kamila thought, a sarcastic smirk touching her lips. The real issue. It wasn’t just the high school stuff. It was the way Selene moved through the world—a tall, elegant column of confidence in sleek black pants and silk blouses, her own jet-black hair a stark, perfect frame for a face that was all sharp angles and knowing amusement. It was the way Kamila’s own heart did a stupid, traitorous little flip every time she saw her taking out the trash or gardening in that tiny, overgrown courtyard they shared.“She’s trying to get to me through you, I just know it!” Elena’s voice wavered. “Promise me you’ll stay away from her.”“Uh-huh,” Kamila called down, noncommittal. Her thumb paused on her phone. She’d just gotten a notification.It was from an unknown number. A text.A picture.Her breath hitched. It was a close-up, artistic shot of a single, deep purple orchid, glistening with what looked like rain… or something else. The petals were open, vulnerable, intricate.The text below read: The rain makes everything in the garden so much more… interesting. Don’t you think? The conservatory door is unlocked. -SThe conservatory. The dilapidated glass-walled room that jutted out from Selene’s side of the house, filled with strange, lush plants Kamila had only glimpsed through the foggy glass. Her mother had expressly forbidden her from going near it.Predator, her mother’s voice echoed in her head.Kamila’s pulse, however, was thrumming somewhere else entirely. A warm, heavy curl of anticipation settled low in her belly. It was a feeling she’d been trying to ignore for weeks. A curious, hungry ache that her sarcasm couldn’t quite shield her from. Selene’s gaze, when it landed on her, didn’t make her feel small. It made her feel… seen. In a way her mother’s worried glances never did.Without really deciding to, she found herself pulling on a hoodie, the fabric swallowing her slim frame. She moved with the quiet, practiced stealth of a teenager evading a parent. Down the back stairs, through the creaky kitchen, and out the side door into the damp, misty evening.The conservatory door was, as promised, unlocked. It opened with a sigh of humid, fragrant air. Inside was another world. The rain was a muted drumroll on the glass ceiling. The air was thick, sweet, and earthy. Vines curled around wrought-iron frames, and strange flowers bloomed in violent bursts of color. And in the center of it all, standing by a small wrought-iron table, was Selene.She was pouring a dark liquid into two crystal glasses. She wore a simple, black silk robe, loosely tied. It did little to hide the elegant lines of her body—the slim shoulders, the subtle curve of her hips, the long legs. Her hair was down, a waterfall of black against the pale silk.“I was wondering if you’d come,” Selene said, her voice a low, smooth contralto that seemed to vibrate in the humid air. She didn’t turn around.“My mom’s currently composing your villain origin story in the living room,” Kamila said, her signature snark returning, a defense mechanism. She shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket. “Something about you being the devil who eats pretty girls for breakfast.”Selene finally turned. Her smile was slow, devastating. “Your mother always had a flair for the dramatic. And such a limited imagination.” Her eyes, a dark, impossible shade of green in the gloomy light, traveled over Kamila, from her sneakers to the hoodie to her face. The look was a physical touch. “She never understood that corruption… is a willing act. A choice to embrace something more… flavorful.”She held out a glass. “Port. It’ll warm you up.”Kamila took it, their fingers brushing. A spark, real or imagined, zipped up her arm. She took a gulp, the rich, sweet wine burning a path down her throat. “So is this the part where you try to torment my mom by seducing her daughter? Because, plot twist, I’m kinda into it.”Selene laughed, a genuine, rich sound. “Direct. I like that.” She took a slow sip, watching Kamila over the rim of her glass. “Your mother sees torment. I see… education. She spent her life running from anything that felt too good, too deep. She’s passed that fear on to you, wrapped you in it like that bulky hoodie.” She set her glass down. “But I can see the curiosity underneath. It aches, doesn’t it?”Kamila’s breath caught. It was like Selene had reached inside her chest and squeezed that exact, secret feeling. She said nothing, her sarcasm failing her.Selene stepped closer. The scent of her—expensive perfume, clean skin, and that earthy greenhouse smell—enveloped Kamila. “Let me show you,” Selene murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper that was almost lost in the rain. “Let me show you what it feels like when someone isn’t afraid of your hunger.”

1. Send your concept, preferred dynamics, and tone.
2. We refine the details together.
3. Payment either up front or 50% deposit and 50% after.
4. Writing begins.
5. Delivery within the agreed timeframe.
6. One minor revision included.

Commission Rates• 0.05$ per word
• 1,000 words — $50
• 2,500 words — $125
• 5,000 words — $250
• 10,000 words — $500Custom lengths available upon request.All commissions are written exclusively for the client and are not resold.