All Chapters of Wet Desires [An Erotic Collection]: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

Sunlight sliced through the half-closed blinds in sharp, golden bars across the king bed. I woke slowly, body heavy and deliciously sore in places I’d never been sore before. My ass throbbed with a dull, satisfying ache—every small shift reminded me exactly how thoroughly Mark had used me last night. Three times. Raw. Deep. No condom. No pulling out. Just thick loads pumped straight into me until I was leaking and whimpering.I was on my side, facing away from him, but his arm was slung possessively over my waist, heavy and warm. His chest pressed to my back—slow, even breaths stirring the hair at my nape. His cock, soft now but still impressively thick, nestled against the cleft of my ass like it belonged there. Cum had dried in sticky patches on my inner thighs; more of it still inside me, warm and slick whenever I clenched.I didn’t move. Didn’t want to break whatever this was.Then his hand tightened—just a fraction—fingers splaying across my stomach, thumb brushing the sensitive

The rain hammered the roof like an insistent lover, relentless and unyielding, mirroring the pulse between my thighs that hadn’t quite faded since Riley’s mouth had wrecked me earlier. We lay there in the tangled sheets—sweaty, sticky with whipped cream remnants and our mingled juices—her body draped over mine like she owned it. And fuck, maybe she did. Her dark hair fanned across my chest, her breath hot against my skin as she traced idle circles around my still-hard nipple with her fingertip. The string lights cast a warm, golden haze over us, turning the room into our private den of sin.I shifted slightly, feeling the damp spot on the mattress grow beneath us. “Shower?” I suggested again, my voice lazy, though my body was already stirring at the thought of her under the water—slick, soapy, pressed against me.Riley lifted her head, that wicked smile curling her lips. “Only if we make it interesting.” She rolled off me, standing naked and unashamed, her full breasts swaying slightl

The next day dawned like any other in the convent: the toll of the bell for Lauds pulling me from a fitful sleep, the cold stone under my knees as we gathered in the choir stalls, the murmur of thirty voices reciting the Psalms in unison. But nothing was the same. My body remembered her—every ache between my thighs, every faint bruise where her claws had grazed my hips, the sticky residue of her release that I’d scrubbed away in the pre-dawn dark, whispering frantic Hail Marys over the basin. I knelt now in the chapel, habit smoothed, wimple starched, rosary threaded through my fingers like a barrier. The others sang around me: “O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth shall declare Your praise.” My lips moved, but my mind wandered to forbidden places. Her taste lingered on my tongue, phantom and sweet. My sex throbbed faintly with every shift on the kneeler, a reminder that I’d been filled, stretched, claimed. Guilt twisted in my gut, but beneath it—deeper, hotter—was hunger. I pres

As I stepped into the dimly lit confessional booth of St. Michael’s Cathedral, the familiar scent of polished wood and incense wrapped around me like a shroud. I was Father Elias, the young priest who’d been assigned to this parish only six months ago, fresh from seminary with vows of celibacy still burning in my veins. At 28, I looked the part—tall, lean, with dark hair cropped short and piercing green eyes that parishioners often said made them feel seen by God Himself. But tonight, as the clock struck midnight and the church emptied after the late Mass, I felt anything but holy.The confessional was my sanctuary, or so I told myself. But lately, it had become a stage for my unraveling. I’d heard whispers from the altar boys—no, not boys, young men in their early twenties who assisted during services. Twins, actually: Luca and Marco, identical in their olive skin, tousled black hair, and mischievous grins that could melt the frost off a saint’s statue. They were 22, orphaned and tak

I’ve hated Ethan since the day our parents shoved us under the same roof four years ago. Not the normal sibling hate—the kind where you steal each other’s snacks or fight over the remote. No, this was deeper. Hotter. The kind that made my skin flush and my thighs clench whenever he walked into a room smirking like he owned the place.He was twenty-three now, I was twenty. He’d moved back home after dropping out of his second college program—something about “finding himself” while working construction and coming home smelling like sweat and sawdust. Mom and Dad were thrilled. Their golden boy was back under their roof. Me? I was the problem child who’d just finished her associate’s degree and was “figuring things out” by waitressing and saving every penny to get the hell out of this house.Ethan never let me forget I was the little stepsister. The brat. The tease who wore too-short shorts around the house because it was hot, not because I wanted his eyes on me. (Okay, maybe a little be