Wet Confessions

I shouldn’t have come home for the summer.That was the first thing I thought when I saw Liam standing in the kitchen shirtless, barefoot, and sin wrapped in skin. The house smelled like lemons and spice, but all I could breathe in was him. Musk, heat, and a hint of sweat. Not the kind that turned your stomach but the kind that made you want to lean in.He didn’t flinch when I walked in. Just looked over his shoulder like I wasn’t the same girl who used to throw popcorn at him during movie nights or cry when he pranked me with fake spiders.Except I wasn’t. And neither was he.His voice dropped like it belonged in a darker hour. “Didn’t think you’d show.”“You mean Mom didn’t tell you?” I tried to keep my tone light. Unbothered. But my legs were already crossing unconsciously. Tight.He turned fully then. The muscles on his chest tensed as he leaned back against the counter. I stared for too long. His abs were a map of sins I hadn’t studied yet. And the towel hanging dangerously low o

The incense in the chapel always made me dizzy.Or maybe it was the guilt.My heels clicked too loud on the marble floor as I crossed the nave. I wrapped my coat tighter even though I was burning from the inside.Sunday Mass had ended. Everyone else had gone. The silence swallowed me whole as I made my way to the confessional booth, heart hammering like a drum in a hollow church.I shouldn't have come back here.But I couldn’t stop dreaming of it this scent, this space. The wooden screen. The idea of being on my knees.Of someone listening as I confessed the filthiest parts of me.I knelt slowly. My bare thighs met the cushion, cold and worn from years of prayers.The tiny screen between the booths lit softly from the other side.A pause. Then, a voice, smooth as velvet but low and deep, settled like a storm behind the lattice."My child,” he began, steady and commanding, “you’ve come to confess?”That voice wasn’t old. It wasn’t weary or soft or gentle. No, this wasn’t Father Reynold

I’d always wondered what his hands would feel like without the gloves.Day in, day out, Nolan wore them. Sleek, black leather over fingers I imagined were rough from work and discipline. His jaw stayed tense, his eyes never lingered too long, and his voice when he rarely spoke was firm and low enough to ruin me.He was thirty-eight. Stoic. Private. My father’s chauffeur for six years.I was twenty-one. Barely allowed to drink, let alone climb into the front seat with the man I had undressed with my eyes since I was sixteen.Tonight, I climbed in anyway.It started with my voice. Whispered and syrupy, a little too close to his ear as I leaned forward from the backseat.“Drive the long way.”His eyes flicked up to the mirror. A pause.“Yes, Miss Arden.”Miss Arden. My last name. Cold. Detached. That mask he wore like skin.I wasn’t wearing any underwear. And my dress was tight cut just high enough that if I crossed my legs the wrong way, he’d notice.And I wanted him to.Ten minutes int

He was the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.Or a girl like me.Everything about Mr. Wolfe was sharp and clean his jaw, his suits, the way he never looked at me for too long, as if staring too hard would make something snap.But I noticed everything.The way he came home and loosened his tie with one hand. The way he watched his daughter like she was all that kept him grounded. And the way he never let his gaze linger on my bare legs when I wore shorts around the house.He was trying to be good.I wasn’t.Not anymore.The ShirtThat night, I wore his white shirt on purpose.The one he left folded on the laundry table, freshly pressed but forgotten.I should’ve just hung it back up.Instead, I wore it buttons halfway undone, sleeves rolled, hem just covering the lace of the pink panties I hoped he'd never seen me wear.Except, I wanted him to see them.I told myself I was just relaxing after Ellie fell asleep.But when I sat on the couch, legs parted, s

I don’t know if I fell for her when she bent over in a sundress with no braOr when she pressed a glass of lemonade into my hand and said, “You’ve got such soft lips. Ever use them for anything bad?”Mrs. Landon had been my best friend’s mom for years. A perfect wife in public lipstick flawless, pearls always on, smile tight as a ribbon. But beneath the surface?She watched me.Lingering looks.Little touches.I was biting her lip when I stretched by the pool.And I started imagining things things I’d never imagined before.Until one night, she stopped pretending.It began with a textHer message came at 6:17 p.m.“Closet needs organizing. Come over. Wear something easy to take off.”My heart stopped.Was it a joke?Was she flirting?Was I dreaming?I stared at it for three minutes before texting back.“On my way.”And I didn’t even put on a bra.The Door Opened, and So Did IShe answered in a black silk robe that slid open just enough to hint at danger.Her lips were wine dark.Her e