All Chapters of Steamy Encounters: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

He eased my legs down and pulled out, and I felt his cum and my cream slide out together. He looked down at the mess and then back at my face.“You're still going to tell me this is nothing?” “Get off me.” He did, but he kissed my hip first, and then he got up and pulled his jeans on. I stayed on the mattress with my thighs wet, and the ring-shaped warmth still ghosted on my back, and I listened to him start the coffee downstairs as he lived here, and I hated how easy it sounded. Brooke showed up in the afternoon with a bottle of wine and a bag of samples from the store she swore I needed to see, and she stopped talking the second she walked into the kitchen and saw Ethan at the island with a pencil behind his ear. “Hi,” she said, looking from him to me. “I didn’t know you had company.” “He’s the contractor,” I said too fast. “Ethan, this is Brooke. Brooke, Ethan.” “We’ve met,” Brooke said, and her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “A long time ago. At your birthday.” “Yeah,”

Synopsis: The priest, confessor, and the penitent. She’s there to confess impure thoughts. He’s having them too.Chapter 1The church always smelled the same after evening Mass, like old wood and leftover incense that clung to the pews long after everyone else had gone home. Sloane slipped into the last booth on the left because that was the one he used, and she had started telling herself it was just habit even though her hands were already shaking when she pulled the curtain shut behind her. She knelt on the worn cushion and waited, listening to the quiet of the nearly empty nave, the distant drip of a faucet somewhere in the sacristy, the faint rustle of his cassock on the other side of the thin wall.The little wooden window slid open with that familiar soft scrape.“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he said, his voice low and even, the way it always was, the way it lived in her head at night when she was trying to sleep.“Amen,” she whispered. “B

Saturday after evening Mass, the church emptied the way it always did, in little groups that talked too loud on the steps and then forgot the building existed. Sloane waited until the last of them had gone before she slipped into the booth and knelt. The cushion was worn thin. She put her hands on the little shelf and listened as he sat down on the other side. The window slid open. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said. “It’s been a week.” “Go on, Sloane.” She didn’t start with impatience. She didn’t start with a lie at work. She stared at the dark screen and let the words come out in one long breath because if she stopped, she’d lose them. “I want you to fuck me. That’s the sin. That’s the only one that matters anymore. I sit in the third pew, and I watch your hands on the chalice, and I think about those same hands holding my hips. I go home, and I touch myself thinking about your voice telling me to be quiet. I cum with your name in my mouth, and then I get dressed,

A week later, the rectory study was quiet enough that Sloane could hear the clock in the hall. She was on her knees between Father Callum’s feet with his cassock open and his cock heavy on her tongue when the front door opened two hours early. Mrs Brennan’s keys hit the bowl. Callum stood so fast he nearly knocked Sloane into the desk. He stepped in front of her, one hand already making the sign of the cross like that could rewrite the last five minutes, and Sloane stayed on the floor behind his legs with her mouth wet and her heart trying to leave her body. “Father?” the housekeeper called. “I finished at the market sooner than I thought. I brought the chicken casserole you like.” “In here,” he said, and his voice almost broke. Mrs Brennan appeared in the doorway with a covered dish and stopped. She looked at him first. Then she looked down, just far enough to see Sloane rising from the carpet with her hair wrecked and her mouth too pink. No one spoke for a second that lasted to

She followed me straight to my cottage and, without waiting for me to invite her in, walked straight in. “What the hell are you doing?!” Pissed, I stepped in behind her, determined to throw her out of my house. She took one look around and wrinkled her nose like I’d invited her into a pigsty. “Gods,” she muttered. “Do you even own a broom?”My cottage only had a room with a bed of hay and furs in the corner. It only had a fire pit and a table and chair where I sat each time I wanted to think. It wasn’t pretty, and I didn't care. I lived alone, and as long as I got around, I didn't have any issues at all with my house. “What the hell are you doing?” I slammed the door behind me. “I told you to go home.”She didn’t even flinch. She just turned, hands on her hips, and sized me up with her judgmental eyes. The red hair was stuck to her face with sweat and dirt from the fight.“My home is like three villages over,” she said flatly. “And that pig wasn’t the only thing out there tonight.