If you wished Harry Potter 🪄 was written for adults, and you wanted Black Dagger Brotherhood 🗡️ to be filthy… THE DOOMSDAY BRETHREN IS FOR YOU!

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“Touch me?” she whispers, uncertainty cracking her voice.

She looks fragile as she bites her lip, her big eyes questioning.

God’s b@lls, even hating Morgana with every fiber of my being, even fearing her new ploy will enslave me, I cannot resist. Never have I felt this gnawing hunger for a woman. My need to claim her only grows the longer she lies n@ked in my bed.

“Aye. Everywhere,” I vow, my voice low and rough.

Planting my fists in her hair, I kiss her—her lips, her graceful neck, the swells of her bre@sts—losing myself in her heady female musk. ’Tis like nothing I have ever smelled, and I drown. Sandalwood tempered with vanilla. Nay, something even more compelling I cannot place.

Then she arches, thrusting her t!ts up. Her perfect n!pples seduce me.

My lips drift down. Her scent is strongest in her cleavage. I inhale, feeling drunk. I kiss her, my tongue lapping up all I can of her perfume as I become even more frenzied.

“Marrok…” she mewls, cupping her bre@sts as if they are the source of her pang, but her small hands cannot quite contain them.

The sight of her trying to provide her own relief ups my lust.

Like a man possessed, I suck one of her n!pples again, tonguing and nipping it, inflaming it until her breath catches and her back twists. She tastes achingly sweet, like the purest sugar.

Then I switch to the other, giving it my attention. She clutches me in wordless demand and lifts her hips in desperate entreaty. I sink ever further under her spell, inhaling her deeper.

When my head swims, I lap her hard tips again, one after the other, drawing each into the heat of my mouth and reveling in her high-pitched whines. Then slowly I drag my teeth up one velvety peak whilst roughing its twin between my thumb and finger. I repeat the process until both swell. Until she hisses in pleasure. Until she unconsciously spre@ds her legs for me.

Resisting her unspoken invitation is impossible.

I graze my lips across her addictively soft skin, laving the gentle swell of her belly before nibbling at her lush hip. Her round thigh I cannot help but devour.

My first night with Morgana so many moons ago, she ran me down like a parade of war horses, demanding I fVck her over and over until I felt trampled. Never did she betray her passion until clim@x hit her in a hard rush, giving me almost no time to bask in her surrender.

 Now I see pleasure slowly overtake her. Goose pimples spread across her skin. Her flush rises. The broken pleas of her whimpers ring through my dark bed chamber. Morgana’s obvious weakness to my touch—which she makes no attempt to hide—confuses me.

Another facet of her game…or could her reaction be real?

Does it matter? We are mated now. She is mine. And in this moment, she is everything I crave in a woman—honeyed, welcoming, and yielding, with generous t!ts to worship, wide hips to grip, and a juicy cVnt to plunder.

Eager to explore this new Morgana, I drag my thumb over the stiff nVb between her legs. She feels wetter than before. She has swollen to a puffy, sl!ck pink. Triumph jolts me as she gasps, her rosy lips falling open. She blinks at me as if I’m her god, and I alone can save her.

“Marrok!”

Morgana wishes me to believe she is weak to my touch? No telling why, but I intend to learn how far I can push her.

“Aye, love?”

“What are you doing to me?”

“I would make you feel good,” I murmur, breathing hot on her m0und as I slide my fingers over the ivory silk of her inner thighs.

“Marrok!”

I respond by laving my way to her cVnt. Her swollen f0lds are a temptation. I inhale her, hell-bent on driving her to a sweating, body-wracking cl!max. I want to rattle her. I want her to scream for me. I want to tear down her barriers and expose her scheme—whatever it is…