Semua Bab Wet Confessions: Bab 101 - Bab 110

The steam was unbearable, thick and heavy, clinging to every inch of my bare skin. I shifted on the wooden bench, tugging at the towel knotted under my chest, but it was useless heat slid down me in beads, trickling between my breasts, over my thighs. Then the door creaked. He stepped in, his towel hanging low on his hips, his chest gleaming with sweat. My breath caught not from the heat, but from the way his eyes locked on me like I was prey cornered in his den. “It’s too hot in here,” I whispered, half to myself, half begging him not to notice the way my thighs pressed together. “Then leave,” he said, voice low, rough. He sat across from me, leaning back, spreading wide, the heavy bulge in his towel impossible to ignore. His gaze burned through the steam. “Or stay. But if you stay, you follow my rules.” My throat went dry. The door was right there. But my body stayed rooted. “Rule one,” he said, leaning forward. His eyes never left mine as a bead of sweat slid down his ja

The Exam Table The paper crinkled under me with every shift, too loud for a room meant to be calm. I pretended the noise was what made me nervous, but it wasn’t. It was him. The doctor moved like authority in a white coat, clipboard in hand, voice steady. But his eyes, God, his eyes betrayed him. They skimmed too slowly over my gown, lingered where the thin tie barely held the fabric shut. I tugged at the edge, making it gape wider. Innocence on the outside, fire underneath. “Breathe in,” he said, placing the stethoscope on my chest. Cold metal kissed warm skin, and I did as told slow, deep, deliberate. His jaw flexed, the faintest crack in his professionalism. He leaned closer, listening. His breath brushed my collarbone, too soft, too intimate. My pulse raced under the instrument, but it wasn’t my heartbeat he was hearing it was want, shameless and sharp, begging to be caught. I shifted again, legs dangling over the exam table, gown parting further. The paper crackled ben

The Encounter I swore I’d never step foot in that house again. His son had made sure of that every smirk, every insult, every deliberate little jab meant to remind me I didn’t belong in his world. He was cruel in the way only men born with too much money and too little decency could be. And yet, here I was, seated across from him at the long mahogany dining table, pretending the champagne in my glass was enough to numb the sting of his barbs. But then I felt it. That stare. Heavy, deliberate, burning into the side of my face. I looked up and met his father’s eyes. God. He was nothing like his son. Older, yes. Sharper. The kind of man whose silence demanded attention, whose slightest movement commanded a room. His salt and pepper hair only made him look more dangerous, more devastating. And those eyes they lingered on me too long, as if peeling back layers no one else dared to touch. When his son sneered something cruel about the dress I wore, I felt my throat tighten. The

The Arrival The black car rolled up the long gravel driveway, every crunch of stone under the tires echoing in her chest like a warning. The mansion rose from the shadows, all sharp lines and shuttered windows, too grand to be welcoming, too cold to be a home. A storm brewed above, and for a second she swore even the sky disapproved. Inside, he was waiting. Her new guardian. He didn’t rise when she entered. Didn’t even glance at her like a man greeting a guest. He sat sprawled in a leather chair, broad shoulders relaxed, long fingers tapping the armrest in a rhythm that was both impatient and deliberate like a judge preparing to deliver a sentence. His gaze slid over her like a blade, slow, cutting, assessing. She suddenly felt too exposed in her fitted jeans and travel sweater, as if he could see through the fabric to the defiance burning under her skin. “Rule number one,” he said, voice deep and smooth, unhurried but dangerous. “You don’t keep me waiting.” The words co

The Rain in the Library The storm had scattered the palace gardens into chaos. Branches cracked against the glass atrium, rain lashed the stone like a hundred impatient fists, and the guards abandoned their posts to seek shelter from the wind’s fury. She hadn’t meant to end up inside the royal library. The truth was simpler: she was lost. A servant wasn’t supposed to linger here. Not among the towering shelves of leather-bound tomes and gilded spines that smelled faintly of dust and history. Yet here she was, clutching her shawl against her soaked dress, droplets of rain leaving a forbidden trail on the marble floor. Then she heard it the low scrape of a chair against stone. Her heart stuttered. He was there. The crown prince. Not in his throne room or with his advisors, but here half in shadow, a book abandoned in his hand. His dark eyes found her immediately, sharp as a blade unsheathed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just looked at her as if she’d trespassed into his mind