All Chapters of Sinful Affairs (MM Erotica collection): Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Marshall’s POV The morning after the kiss felt heavier than any other morning in prison. I woke up before the first bell. The light coming from the window was gray and weak, the kind that makes everything look colder than it already is. Francesco was already up, sitting on the edge of his bunk with his head down, elbows on his knees. He didn’t look at me when I moved. My chest ached the moment I remembered what had happened the night before. The kiss. The warmth. The silence after. I thought maybe he would say nothing and we’d just pretend. But then his voice came, low and tight. “I’m sorry,” he said. Those two words were sharp enough to cut. I swallowed. “For what?” He finally turned to me, eyes full of guilt. “For last night. It shouldn’t have happened.” I forced a small shrug, even though my heart was pounding again. “It was nothing. You were upset. It’s fine.” He frowned. “It’s not fine.” “Then forget it,” I said, trying to sound calm. “We were tired. People do strange

Marshall’s POV The cell is dark, the only sound the soft breathing of my fellow inmates as they sleep. I lie on the hard cot, staring up at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts of Francesco. We've been together for months now, sharing this small space, this tiny piece of the world. And yet, every moment with him feels new, exciting, full of possibilities. I roll over, my gaze falling on his sleeping form. He's curled on his side, his back to me, his chest rising and falling with each breath. I reach out, trailing my fingers along his arm, savoring the feel of his skin against mine. He stirs at my touch, rolling over to face me. "Marshall?" he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. "Sorry," I whisper. "Didn't mean to wake you." He smiles, pulling me closer. "It's okay," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "What's wrong?" I hesitate, unsure of how to voice the thoughts swirling in my head. "I was just thinking," I begin, my voice soft. "About us. About how much I love you

Marshall’s POV I knew something was different the moment the guards called Francesco out that morning. Usually, they yelled his name like it was a warning. But this time, the tone was calm. Firm, but not sharp. One of the guards even told him to bring his jacket, something they never bothered saying unless it was serious. He shot me a quick look before leaving. “Back soon,” he said under his breath. I nodded, but the quiet way he said it made my chest tighten. Hours passed. I tried reading, cleaning, even counting the tiles on the wall, but nothing worked. My head kept circling back to him to that uneasy look in his eyes before he walked out. When he finally came back, it was close to evening. His steps were slow, almost unsure, and there was a strange look on his face, not anger, not relief, but something caught between the two. I sat up on my bunk. “What happened?” He didn’t answer right away. He stood in the doorway, staring at the ground like he didn’t know how to start.

Marshall’s POV It had been six months since Francesco left. Six months of quiet mornings, silent meals, and nights that dragged on like years. The cell felt bigger now, but not in a good way. Empty space had its own kind of weight. His bunk stayed untouched, and I never asked for another cellmate. Maybe the guards understood. Maybe they just forgot. I tried not to count the days, but I did. Each one felt the same dull, slow, cold. I kept busy with cleaning shifts and reading anything I could find in the library. The other inmates stopped asking about “the model guy.” Most of them didn’t care. But sometimes, late at night, I’d still hear whispers about him, “That rich guy who got out.” I pretended not to listen. Most days, I convinced myself I’d imagined what we had. That the warmth between us had only been something prison loneliness had built. But then I’d wake up from a dream, his voice calling my name, his hum in the dark and I’d know it wasn’t imagination. It was a memory.

Richard’s POV The words hung in the air long after Paul said them. I slept with my sister’s husband. They seemed to echo through the booth, through the church, through me. I could still hear the storm outside, pounding on the roof, scraping at the stained-glass windows. The candle had gone out when the thunder struck, leaving only the faint smell of smoke. The booth was dark now, the only light coming from the distant glow of a few altar candles through the cracks of the confessional door. I swallowed, trying to find my voice. “Paul,” I said softly, “you’ve done something that has hurt many, but you came here tonight. That means something. It means you haven’t given up.” He didn’t answer at first. I could hear him breathing, short and uneven, as though every breath scraped against his ribs. “I didn’t come here for hope, Father,” he said finally. “I came because I can’t live with what’s left of me.” The way he said it made the hairs rise on my neck. I leaned slightly toward the