All Chapters of Hot Desire( A Collection of Steamy stories): Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

139 Chapters

Speeding Into Trouble V

Liam’s mouth was on mine hard, hungry, no holding back. His tongue pushed past my lips, claiming me with slow, deep strokes that made my head spin. I moaned into him, loud and needy, hands gripping his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping me upright. My bikini bra was shoved up to my neck, breasts bare and bouncing with every desperate grind of my hips. His jeans were unzipped, thick cock freed and pressed flush against my soaked pussy shaft sliding through my folds, head bumping my clit on every roll. I was riding him on the armchair—legs spread wide over his thighs, shorts kicked somewhere across the room—wetness coating his length, dripping down his balls. He wasn’t inside me yet—just rubbing, teasing, the veined underside dragging along my swollen clit until I was shaking, whimpering against his lips. “Fuck, Emma,” he growled into my mouth. “You’re dripping all over me. So fucking wet for a stranger who pulled you over.” I rocked harder—clit throbbing against his c

Speeding into Trouble VI

Liam texted me the next afternoon. Movie tonight at 8 pm, I will pick you up Dress nice. No question mark, no if you want, just a command wrapped in velvet. I stared at the message for ten full minutes, my heart racing, pussy already clenching at the memory of his cock sliding through my folds on the couch last night his hand over my mouth while Sarah slept upstairs I should have said no Should have blocked him Should have remembered he was a stranger a cop who pulled me over and turned my life upside down in forty eight hours. Instead, I replied. Okay. I spent two hours getting ready showering, shaving everything smooth lotioning until my skin glowed I chose the red dress short tight low cut the kind that made my breasts look fuller, my ass rounder No bra No panties Just black strappy heels and a fresh coat of red lipstick I told myself it was for me, not him. He picked me up at 7 45 sharp black SUV tinted windows engine purring like a threat He stepped out dark butto

Forgive me, Father

The confessional smelled of old wood and incense, the kind that clung to your clothes long after you left the church. I sat on the hard bench in the dim booth, knees pressed together under my skirt, heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it through the lattice screen. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” My voice came out smaller than I wanted. I cleared my throat, tried again. “It’s been… three weeks since my last confession.” Silence on the other side. Then his voice low, calm, with that faint Irish lilt that made every word feel like a caress. “Take your time, child. God is listening.” I swallowed. My palms were damp. I wiped them on my skirt. “I’ve had… impure thoughts, Father.” A pause. Not judgmental. Just waiting. “About a man.” Another pause. Longer this time. “Go on.” I licked my lips. The screen between us was thin carved wood, little holes. I could see the shadow of his profile: strong jaw, dark hair falling sl

Forgive me, Father II

The next evening I arrived at the church twenty minutes early. The side door was unlocked just as he said it would be. The hallway smelled of incense and polished wood—familiar, comforting, and tonight dangerously intimate. My heels clicked too loudly on the stone floor as I walked toward the confessional. My heart was already racing, pulse beating between my legs. I had obeyed him: no touching myself since last night. The ache had built all day slow, torturous—every brush of my thighs together, every accidental graze of fabric against my nipples, reminding me of his voice in the dark. I reached the booth. Empty. No shadow on the other side. No soft breathing. No low “I’m here, child.” I waited five minutes, ten—knees pressed together under my skirt, panties already damp from anticipation. The church was silent except for the distant hum of the city outside and the occasional creak of old beams settling. Finally, I stepped out hesitant, and walked toward the sacristy doo

Forgive me, Father III

I woke up soaked. The sheets clung to my legs damp between my thighs from dreams I could still taste. Father Declan had been there again not in the confessional this time but in my bedroom cassock open hands pinning my wrists above my head while he whispered Latin against my throat. His voice had been low and rough the same voice that had said Save it for me last night. I had come in my sleep thighs clenched clit pulsing against nothing his name a silent sob on my lips. Now it was late afternoon. The rectory was quiet. I had showered twice scrubbed my skin until it was pink and sensitive but the ache remained. Deep. Persistent. My pussy felt swollen lips puffy even without touching them. My nipples were tender every brush of fabric against them sending sparks straight to my core. I had not touched myself since his command and twenty-four hours of denial had turned my body into a live wire. I dressed carefully. A simple black dress knee length but fitted low enough at the ne

Forgive me, Father IIII

When I woke, the other side of the bed was empty. Declan was gone. Last night flooded back in soft, heated flashes—his broad shoulders pinning me down, the thick veins running along his length, the way he stretched me until I couldn’t think straight. He was huge. Perfect. My body still hummed with the memory, a lazy, satisfied ache between my thighs. I sat up slowly, sheets pooling around my waist, and realized I wasn’t in my own apartment. This bedroom was too big, too expensive—dark wood, floor-to-ceiling windows, the faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne. His house. I tugged on the nearest shirt I could find (his, of course—soft cotton that swallowed me) and padded barefoot down the hallway, following the low murmur of voices. In the open-plan kitchen, two people stood frozen mid-conversation. A pretty girl with glossy dark hair and a tall guy with messy curls. Both of them turned at the same time. Their mouths fell open. I blinked. Was there something on my face?

Forgive me, Father V

I stared at Declan as he’d shape-shifted in front of me. Priest to CEO? How? The collar I’d imagined, the quiet confession booth, the forbidden glances, it had all felt so real. My mouth hung open, words stuck somewhere between shock and embarrassment. This wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be. What were the odds? “I can explain, Zoey,” he said, voice low and steady, stepping closer. “No.” I shook my head, already backing away. “You don’t owe me anything. I feel stupid enough already.” My throat tightened. “I should go.” I turned and marched toward the bedroom, heart hammering. Behind me, Elisabeth’s voice cut through: “Declan, you should explain things to her.” I didn’t wait to hear his reply. I yanked on my jeans, my top, my shoes anything to get out fast. No one followed. No knock. No pleading. Just silence that stung worse than words. Downstairs, he reached for my hand as I passed. I dodged, slipped past him, and slammed the front door so hard the frame rattled. My fin

Forgive me, Father VI

Matteo clapped his hands together, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the kitchen like a fog. “Alright, kids. Looks like you two need some space to hash this out. We’re not here to play referee.” He shot Declan a pointed look, one eyebrow arched in that knowing way of his. “Don’t screw it up, man.” Elisabeth nodded, wiping her hands on a dish towel before looping her arm through Matteo’s. “Yeah, we’ll head out. Zoey, call me if you need backup or bail money.” She winked, but her eyes held a flicker of genuine concern. “And Declan? Be honest. For once.” I watched them go, the front door clicking shut behind them with a finality that made my pulse spike. Suddenly, the apartment felt too small, too quiet. Just him and me. Declan, the mafia boss disguised as a priest, was standing in my kitchen, as he belonged there. He turned to face me fully, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. “Zoey—” “Save it,” I cut him off, crossing my arms to hide how my hands trembled.

Rent due: Landlord inspection

The eviction notice came on a Tuesday, slipped under my door like a coward’s whisper. “Final Warning: Rent Past Due.” I stared at it for hours, heart pounding, stomach twisting. At 23, I was already drowning in student loans, a part-time barista gig barely covering ramen and bus fare. The apartment was crappy: leaky faucets, peeling paint, but it was mine. Or had been. Mr. Harlan Vance my landlord, 38, silver-streaked hair, always in tailored shirts that hugged his broad chest had been patient at first. “Take your time, sweetheart,” he’d said last month, his deep voice smooth with that faint Southern drawl, eyes lingering on my legs a beat too long. Now patience was gone. Not until I texted him there was a leak in the house, which wasn't entirely true, I didn't call him for any of that but to get into his bed. He texted that night: Inspection tomorrow. 9 PM. Be there. I paced the tiny kitchen all day, nerves frayed. The place was clean, scrubbed top to bottom but I knew it

Rent Due: Landlord’s Inspection II

The next twenty-four hours crawled like they were dipped in molasses. I woke up on the kitchen floor sometime after midnight, shorts still tangled around one ankle, fingers sticky, thighs slick, the taste of my own desperation still on my lips. Harlan’s name had been the last thing I moaned before I passed out. I hated how good it felt. Morning came too bright. I dragged myself to the shower, stood under the spray until the water ran cold, trying to rinse away the shame and the want. It didn’t work. Every time I closed my eyes I saw him, silver-streaked hair falling forward, dark eyes pinning me, that thick ridge pressing against my stomach like a promise. My nipples pebbled under the cold water just thinking about it. My pussy gave a weak, greedy flutter. Traitor. I spent the day pretending to be normal. Went to the café for my free breakfast (still riding that giveaway win), ordered avocado toast and black coffee like I wasn’t counting down hours until 9 p.m. I scrolled my

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