All Chapters of 100 NIGHTS OF SIN: EROTICA SHORT STORIES : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60



I couldn’t sleep.
2 AM and I was staring at the ceiling, body still humming with the ghost of his touch. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that bathroom. His hands gripping my hips. His mouth hot against my throat. The stretch of him pushing inside me.
The way he’d looked at me in the living room after. Like he wanted to devour me in front of everyone.
I needed water. Something cold to shock my system back to reality.
The AirBnB was silent as I crept downstairs. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the creak of old floorboards under my bare feet. Moonlight pooled on the kitchen floor, turning everything silver and shadow.
I opened the fridge. Grabbed a water bottle. Pressed it against my flushed cheeks.
“Couldn’t sleep either?”
I spun around, heart slamming against my ribs.
Adrian stood in the doorway. Shirtless. Gray sweatpants riding low on his hips, revealing the cut of muscle at his pelvis. Hair mussed like he’d been fighting his sheets.
Looking like every fantasy I’d b



Six weeks later.
I stared at my phone, at the message I’d typed and deleted for the seventeenth time.
I can’t stop thinking about the way you tasted. Too explicit.
I need you. Too desperate.
I miss the way you fucked me. Too honest.
I deleted it again, my thighs clenching at the memory. Six weeks since the wedding. Six weeks since I’d had Adrian’s hands on me, his cock inside me, his mouth saying filthy things against my skin. Six weeks of touching myself to memories that never quite satisfied.
Jake had texted twice—both times I blocked him. Work was good, I’d even gotten a promotion. My friends kept trying to set me up, and I kept declining. Because no one would compare. No one would know exactly where to touch me, how hard to bite, when to be gentle and when to be rough.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
I know we said we wouldn’t contact each other. But I can’t do this anymore. I’m going insane. I need to see you. Touch you. Taste you. Please.
Heat flooded through me. My hand actu



I woke up shaking.


Not from anger this time. From cold.


The fire had died to embers. The temperature had plummeted, and my breath fogged in the darkness. I tried to sit up, to add wood, but my hands trembled too violently to grip the blankets.


“Aria?”


Nate’s voice, thick with sleep.


Then he was beside me, hand on my forehead, swearing.


“Jesus. You’re ice.” He moved fast—threw logs on the fire until it roared, then came back and pulled at my blankets. “These are frozen through. Come here.”


“I’m f-fine—”


“You’re hypothermic.” He didn’t ask permission.


He hauled me across the bed, wrapped himself around me from behind bare chest to my back, arms circling my waist, legs tangling with mine.


“Body heat,” he said roughly. “Don’t argue.”


I couldn’t argue. Could barely think.


I just pressed into his warmth like he was the only heat left in the world.


His hands moved—rubbing my arms, my sides, my stomach. Friction. Warmth. His palms rough against the thin fabric of m

Monday morning, 7 AM. I arrived at the coffee shop first, ordered my usual vanilla latte, and claimed the back corner table where we couldn’t be seen from the street. Where no one from the office would spot us together and start asking questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
Nate walked in at 7:03. The moment he saw me, he hesitated, his hand still on the door. Something flickered across his face, too quick for me to read, before he crossed the coffee shop and slid into the seat across from me.
We stared at each other in loaded silence. God, he looked good. Too good. The memory of his hands on my body, his mouth on my skin, his voice rough in my ear flooded back, making my pulse quicken.
“So,” I said finally, my throat tight.
“So.” His eyes held mine, dark and unreadable.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we’d done and everything we weren’t saying. My fingers tightened around my cup.
“This is stupid,” he said, leaning forward. “We’re adults. We can talk about what h

Getting the private cell took every favor I had and a lie I’d probably go to hell for.“Final psychiatric evaluation,” I told Warden Matthews. “Death row protocol requires it. One hour, private consultation room, no observation.”He’d looked at me strangely but signed the transfer order anyway. Maybe he knew. Maybe he didn’t care. Either way, forty minutes later they brought Cain to a cell in the isolated medical wing and locked us inside together.The guard’s footsteps faded down the hallway.The lock clicked.We were alone.Cain stood against the far wall, uncuffed at my request, watching me like a predator watching prey. The cell was small. A cot bolted to the wall. A metal sink and toilet. Concrete floor. Eight by ten feet of space that suddenly felt impossibly intimate.“You actually did it,” he said. His voice was different without the phone distorting it. Deeper. Richer. It went straight between my legs.“I told you I would.” I set my bag down, fingers trembling as I locked the