All Chapters of Dirtiest Desires (Steamiest Short Stories): Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Before he can protest, I crash my lips against his.My left hand wraps tightly around his neck, anchoring him to me while my right hand firmly strokes his cock through his pants.For a second, he freezes. “Mrs. Stockholm.” His voice falters.“Yes, Father?” I fake a moan.He closes his eyes for a moment, visibly wrestling with himself.“You’re sure your husband and kids won’t come back anytime soon?” He asks quietly.Hmm. He’s giving in faster than I thought he would.“Yes, Father. I wouldn’t be running around naked if they were.”Then, with a low, animalistic grunt, his restraint shatters.His large hands grip both my ass cheeks, pulling me fiercely against him as he returns the kiss with a desperate hunger.The room shifts as he drives us backward, guiding me blindly toward the dining table—the exact spot where I usually serve his meals.The edge of the wooden dining table hits the back of my thighs. In one swift, powerful motion, he lifts me up and sits me on the table.This wasn't

~ Josh ~The billboard stands over the road, faded and peeling under the hot sun: WELCOME TO CLIFTON TOWNI ease my foot off the gas, my gaze tracking the faded letters. It’s an old habit of mine.Whenever I’m driving into unfamiliar territory—places I’ve either never seen or only visited once in a blur—I read every signpost like it’s a warning.Cliffton Town definitely feels like a warning.I’ve only been here once before, which was the day Elder Jonathan Monroe summoned me to the local clinic to rewrite his will.The email detailing his passing arrived just a week ago, stating that his funeral and cremation would take place today.A sharp curve catches me off guard.I wheel the car around the bend, barely glancing at my side mirror. There’s no need to.Very few people own a car in Clifton, and they treat them like museum pieces. I still remember the old man scoffing from his hospital bed, swearing that his neighbors would rather walk ten miles to church or school in the pouring rain

I let him walk behind me, my steps slow and deliberate.Other women in this town fight to be called virtuous. But virtue is boring. I prefer unforgettable.And every piece of clothing I own has a purpose: to make people look twice.I know what must be running through Josh’s head. The word widow makes people picture an old, fragile woman.Not me.I’m in my early forties, though I add a few years whenever I need a little more authority. But every morning, when I stand before the mirror to paint my lips, the glass whispers the same truth back at me: Devastating.Even for my late husband’s funeral mass and cremation, I refused to wear plain mourning clothes. I chose a classic black gown—fitted tightly through the bodice to accentuate my waist before flowing into a soft floral skirt.I lead him toward the estate’s ranch. Most visitors never make it this far. They’re too distracted by the manicured gardens and fountains at the front of the property.But the ranch is where the real history l

“What are we having for dinner?” I ask, stepping into the drawing room.Melissa, my maid, stands near the tall mahogany cabinet by the fireplace where my late husband’s urn is sitting.My eyes briefly settle on the urn.Jonathan always hated being ignored.Funny. Now he has no choice.Melissa looks as if she’s paying her respects to her former master, but the moment my voice echoes through the room, she turns around with a quick, practiced smile.No tears. No mourning.“Pasta,” she says, her gravelly voice dropping on the last syllable. “Italian standard.”I roll my eyes.She loves tagging countries to her cooking, a pathetic little habit to convince me she used an authentic recipe rather than throwing random ingredients into a pot.I sink onto the leather sofa. “Which means you drowned it in tomatoes and cheese?”She nods with quiet pride. “Italian standard.”“Good.” I stand back up, smoothing the front of my gown. “Father Romanus is coming over. Make sure you serve him a generous po

I burst into laughter while he spits frantically onto the floor.He springs to his feet, his face red with fury.“What kind of insult is this? Why are you laughing?” he snarls, his jaw tight. “You should confront her for desecrating—”“She desecrated nothing, Father,” I interrupt smoothly.Beads of sweat break out across his forehead as realization dawns on him. Betrayal flashes in his eyes.“I’m sorry if you feel insulted, Father.” I rise from my seat and step slowly toward him, closing the distance until I can feel the heat radiating off him. “She didn’t serve you poison, did she?”His chest heaves as he glares at me. “Did you know?”“Yes,” I say, placing a hand against his chest.His jaw tightens.My fingers find his rosary, sliding slowly along the beads until they reach the silver crucifix. “It’s just pussy. And pussy isn't poison.”His gaze drops to my hand.Then back to my face.His eyes turn ice-cold. I can almost see the dark thoughts racing behind them.“And tell me,” I cont