All Chapters of Forbidden Sinful Desires: A Steamy Spicy Erotica Collection : Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

The bedroom smells like vanilla candles and the rain that’s tapping soft against the windows. Ten years. I still can’t believe we made it here.You’re already in bed when I step out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but the black silk slip you bought me last summer—the one that clings everywhere and hides nothing when the light hits right. Your eyes find me immediately. That slow, hungry look you’ve had since our first date. The one that says you’re already undressing me in your head even though there’s barely anything left to take off.“Happy anniversary, baby,” you murmur, voice low and rough from the whiskey we shared at dinner.I crawl onto the mattress, slow, letting the slip ride up my thighs. “Happy anniversary, love.”You don’t rush. You never do on nights like this. Instead you reach for me, fingers trailing up my calf, behind my knee, along the inside of my thigh until I’m shivering and we haven’t even kissed yet.When I finally straddle your hips, you sit up to meet me. Our

The fire crackles, but I barely notice it over the laughter and chatter buzzing around us. It’s our last school trip—senior year, everyone hyped up on cheap beer smuggled in thermoses and the thrill of no more exams looming. I’m sitting cross-legged on a log, knees brushing against Mia’s. She’s been my lab partner all year, the quiet one with the curly hair and that smile that hits like a gut punch. We’ve flirted in class, stolen glances during study hall, but nothing real. Tonight feels different.Across the circle, Jake’s holding court like always—loud, cocky, arm slung around Sarah, who’s giggling too hard at his dumb jokes. Sarah’s Mia’s best friend, or was, until last month when rumors flew that Jake hooked up with her behind Mia’s back. Mia had a crush on him forever; it crushed her. Now she’s ignoring them, but I see her jaw tighten every time Sarah leans into him.“Pass the marshmallows,” Mia says to me, her voice soft, fingers grazing mine as she takes the bag. Her touch ling

I never meant to become obsessed with the woman on the other side of the thin wall that separated our apartments.Her name was Misha. I learned it the first week she moved in—heard it shouted through the plaster when her friends helped her carry boxes. She had a low, smoky laugh that carried, the kind that made my skin prickle even when I was trying to concentrate on work. Then came the sounds.At first it was just music—darkwave, synth-heavy, vibrating through the shared wall at midnight. Then the occasional sharp crack of leather against skin. A woman’s gasp. A murmured command. Always female voices. Always late.I told myself I was imagining things. I was twenty-eight, single, overworked, and clearly projecting. But one night the moans turned into something unmistakable: a long, broken whimper followed by a firm “Good girl,” and then silence. My hand was already between my legs before I could talk myself out of it.After that, I started noticing her in the hallway.Misha was tall,

The sun hung low over the bustling campus of the University of Lagos, casting long shadows across the cracked pavements where students hurried between lectures. It was the kind of afternoon that promised rain—thick clouds gathering like unspoken worries. For Amaka, a 22-year-old final-year student in Business Administration, those worries had just become a storm.She clutched her result slip in her trembling hands, the paper crinkling under her fingers as she stared at the failing grades glaring back at her. Marketing: D. Accounting: F. Business Law: E. How? She had studied hard, pulled all-nighters in the library, sacrificed weekends with friends. But the numbers did not lie. No signing out ceremony for her. No cap and gown, no tossing her mortarboard into the air with the rest of her class. Instead, an extra year—maybe more—if she did not fix this.Tears blurred her vision as she sat on a bench near the faculty building, the chatter of excited final-year students around her feeling

I had always been the responsible one, the girl with plans and dreams. But everything shattered the night my parents died in that horrific car crash on the icy Austrian highway. One moment, I was a university student with a loving family; the next, I was an orphan with nothing but grief and a suitcase of clothes.My uncle, my father’s brother, wasted no time. He swooped in like a vulture, claiming the family home under some obscure clause in my father’s will that no one had ever mentioned. He made my life hell—constant belittling, locking me out in the cold, treating me like an intruder in my own childhood home. I endured it for months, hoping things would improve, but they only worsened. Finally, I packed what little I could and fled to Vienna, the city where my old friend Zara lived.Zara had been my classmate back in school, before my family moved. We’d reconnected online, and when I poured out my story, Zara didn’t hesitate. “Come stay with me,” she’d said. “I have plenty of space