Semua Bab Forbidden Confession:- An Extra Spicy Erotica Collection : Bab 101 - Bab 107

I woke up wet. The sheets clung to my thighs, sticky from the dream I couldn’t shake. My pussy throbbed, aching for relief, and before I even made it to the bathroom, I had two fingers pumping inside me, knuckles deep, chasing the high my body craved. Steam fogged the mirror as I leaned against the tiles, my palm grinding against my swollen clit. My other hand tugged hard at my nipples, pinching until they ached and my breasts looked flushed, swollen. The sting only made me wetter. “Fuck…” I moaned, my voice echoing against the walls as the vibrator hummed against me. The buzz shot through my clit, making my hips buck, thighs trembling. I was dripping down my wrist, slick and desperate, imagining his eyes on me. Imagining him walking in and finding me spread open, begging. When the orgasm slammed through me, my legs nearly gave out. My pussy clenched tight around my fingers, juices spilling down my thighs as I cried out, shameless, reckless. Still trembling, I stepped out of the

I should’ve just ignored the knock. I should’ve stayed wrapped in steam and shampoo bubbles, dripping and safe. But I didn’t. I padded barefoot to the door in nothing but a damp towel, skin hot from the shower, hair clinging wet to my shoulders. When I pulled it open, my heart stopped. “Mr. Carter.” Our neighbor. Mid-forties. Married. Hands so big I always noticed when he mowed his lawn shirtless. The kind of man who looked at you once and made your stomach twist. He wasn’t supposed to be standing on our porch while I was half naked. He wasn’t supposed to be looking at me like that. “I just came to drop this off,” he said smoothly, holding up a brown envelope. His voice was calm, steady, but his eyes—his eyes weren’t. They slid down over me, over the towel barely covering the tops of my thighs, lingering at the swell of my breasts where the terry cloth clung damp. I swallowed, clutching the towel tighter. “Th-thanks. Um. I’ll—I’ll tell my mom you—” “Your mom’s not home.” His to

I had barely unpacked the first box when he appeared.“Need some help with that?” His voice was calm, low, confident—like he already knew I’d say yes.I froze, clutching the corner of the cardboard box like it was a shield. I’d just moved into this stupid apartment, and everything still smelled like new paint and cardboard. My chest fluttered, and my cheeks burned. “Uh… y-yes, please,” I stammered, blinking up at him.He stepped closer, broad shoulders filling the doorway, hands brushing mine as he lifted the box. My stomach lurched. He smelled… delicious. Not perfume, not like anything I knew—just him. Clean, warm, masculine. My knees went weak, and I almost dropped the box.“Careful,” he murmured, fingers brushing mine again as if it were nothing. “Don’t hurt yourself.”I nodded, too flustered to speak, thinking, He’s just being nice… right?He leaned down to set the box on the floor, and my eyes followed the movement, catching the curve of his chest under the tight shirt. “You know

The night air was thick and warm, clinging to her skin as she padded barefoot from the guest house to the main house. The old place was quiet, only a few lamps on. He was in the living room, sprawled on the couch in a loose white tee and grey sweatpants, reading.She hesitated in the doorway.“Couldn’t sleep,” she murmured.He glanced up. His eyes swept over her — tank top, sleep shorts, bare legs — and lingered. Slowly, he shut the book. “Come here.”She crossed the room, heart pounding. The closer she got, the more she felt it — the heat in his gaze, the sharp tension humming between them. She sat at the far end of the couch. He reached out, hooked a finger in the hem of her shorts, and tugged gently.“Closer,” he said softly.She moved until her thigh touched his. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face, fingertips dragging down her neck. Goosebumps rose on her arms.“You’re shaking,” he murmured.“I’m not,” she whispered — but her voice trembled.His hand slid low