บททั้งหมดของ Hot Desire( A Collection of Steamy stories): บทที่ 31 - บทที่ 40

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

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

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

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

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