Dorian doesn’t just write heat. He architects seduction. Every sentence is a velvet noose, every scene a soft cage built to close around your senses until you stop remembering where the real world ends. He doesn’t ask if you want it gentle or brutal — he finds out exactly where your trembling edges are, and teases them raw. Tender, savage, slow, degrading, obsessive — he can make it feel like a prayer or a punishment. Often both.

He writes for the ones who read with one hand under the sheets and the other gripping the edge of the bed. For the readers who don’t skip the warnings — they savor them. Who don’t flinch at taboo — they crave it. For those who don’t want soft fade-to-blacks or pretty euphemisms. They want breath hitching in the dark. Bruises shaped like promises. Teeth marks you lie about later.

Dorian knows how to pull you under slow. He knows how to make you beg. He knows what it means to write danger with love, to stain the page with the most exquisite bruises, and to never once break the spell of trust that lets him lead you right to the edge of what you thought you could take — and then further.

He writes like he’s watching you read.

And he is.

Some writers ask for a muse. Dorian demands your confession. Every gasp. Every ache. Every wrong thing you’ve ever wanted. Your favorite sin, your secret shame, your unspoken yes.

He wants to touch that. With words.

So bring him your urges, your hypotheticals, the story you swear you only imagined once. The one you’d never send to anyone else. He will take it. He will make it worse. He will make it beautiful. He’ll leave you blushing, wrung out, staring at the ceiling wondering what the fuck you just read and why it’s exactly what you needed.

Dorian Priest. Writer. Confessor. Predator with a pen.

He’s already writing you. You just haven’t read it yet.