All Chapters of Forbidden Thoughts: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

“No! Not again!” Blake’s voice cracked with frustration as the defeat screen lit up, mocking him with rainbow-colored confetti and that damn celebratory jingle. He stared blankly at the TV, controller slack in his hands, legs stretched out on the floor of Reid’s room.Another loss. Back-to-back. Not even close this time.“Looks like I won again,” Reid said, his voice low and annoyingly smug, like he was savoring every second of Blake’s failure.Blake groaned and flopped backward with a dramatic exhale, the worn carpet itching his neck. He didn’t dare open his eyes, he didn’t have to. He could feel Reid’s smirk like heat on his skin.It made his chest burn. Not with rage. Not just rage.That smirk did things to him. Dangerous things. It curled at the edge of Reid’s lips like a promise. And his eyes—God, those eyes. Green like envy, mischief, springtime, and every bad decision Blake wanted to make all at once.Blake pressed his palms over his eyes, trying to block out the image. But his

It had started as an innocent night—candles lit, soft music playing, the kind of quiet intimacy that wrapped around Bella like silk. She had just finished her slice of birthday cake, lazily sprawled on the bed with a sleepy smile and chocolate smudged at the corner of her lips. Jaxon had been feeding her bites between kisses, fingers sticky with frosting, until things dissolved into playful teasing and soft giggles. She didn’t even remember falling asleep after—but the warmth of his presence had made it easy.What she didn’t expect… was to wake up like this.Bella’s eyes fluttered open, roused by the unmistakable sound of slurping. She blinked blearily, the haze of sleep giving way to confusion—until she glanced down and saw a familiar mop of brown hair nestled between her thighs.Her eyes went wide. Her face went red.“Jaxon?” she croaked, half-scandalized.He looked up at her with a wicked grin that said Happy Birthday, indeed.Her face flushed crimson as her boyfriend paused to loo

It was a quiet Sunday in church. As always.Too quiet, if Rum were being honest, which he usually was, to a fault and to everyone’s discomfort. The Pastor's family sat in their regular pew, picture-perfect as ever. Daddy Pastor up front, all scripture and sanctimony. The wife beside him, pearl earrings and piety. And then there was him—Elijah.Rum’s eyes were locked on the pastor’s son the moment he walked in, late and unrepentant, hair messy, shirt rumpled, not even bothering to hide the hickey from the night before under his collar. He didn’t care. He never did. He was the wrong kind of familiar here, like a stray cat that pissed on the altar and dared someone to stop him.He dipped his fingers in the holy water, made the sign of the cross like it didn’t burn.Rum had grown up in this town. Baptized in this very church. His mother dragged him here every Sunday like it would fix him. It never did. If anything, it made him worse.Take today, for example.He was standing three pews bac

She shouldn’t still be in the chapel. Not this late. Not alone. But Sister Eliana's guilt is a cage, and she kept locking herself back inside it. The white of her habit clung to her skin, damp with sweat and midnight heat. She was kneeling in front of the altar, again, praying so hard her voice trembled. Her eyes shut tight, hands clenched in prayer, rosary beads digging into her fingers until they left bruises. “Deliver me from temptation,” she whispered. “Deliver me from evil.” Sister Eliana's words moved silently across her lips like ghosts, asking forgiveness for thoughts she hadn’t even acted on yet. Thoughts of him. 𝘏𝘪𝘮. The one no one dared name. The one her mother superior told her not to dream about. The one whose name was purged from every holy book in the convent library. Sister Eliana begged God to take the thoughts away. He didn’t. --- The first time he appeared, she thought it was a trick of the candlelight. The second time, she thought it was her soul brea

The lecture hall smelled faintly of rain and wet pavement, the kind of damp chill that made people huddle into their jackets. Ezra stood at the front, nails painted a glossy black that caught the pale fluorescent light as he flipped through his notes. He wasn’t dressed like most guys in their third year, today it was a soft cream cardigan that slid just off one shoulder, a pleated skirt that skimmed mid-thigh, and sheer tights that made his legs look like they belonged in some perfume ad. The outfit was deliberate, and from the way his green eyes kept flicking toward the middle row, it was clear who it was for.Adrian sat there, pretending to be absorbed in his laptop screen, but his fingers were still on the same line of notes for the past five minutes. He kept telling himself to focus on Ezra’s presentation—but the way Ezra moved was a constant distraction. The way he leaned a little too far over the podium, voice dipping low at certain phrases, or the casual tug at his cardigan hem