All Chapters of Forbidden collection : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

I showed up ten minutes early on Friday and walked the hallway twice before I knocked. Sienna opened the door in a soft gray robe this time. Her hair was down. She looked less like a professional appointment and more like someone who had been waiting. The same calm smile was there, but something warmer sat underneath it when she saw me. “You came back,” she said. “I said I would.” She stepped aside. The room was the same—low light, neat bed, bottle of water on the nightstand—but it already felt different. I knew what her skin tasted like now. I knew the soft sound she made when I sucked her nipple. The knowledge sat low in my stomach, equal parts nerves and hunger. Sienna closed the door and locked it. She turned to face me and untied the robe. It fell open. She was naked underneath again. My mouth went dry on cue. “Lesson two,” she said. “You’re going to learn how to make a woman come with your hands and your mouth before you ever put your cock in her. That’s the order. Unders

I showed up early again. Sienna opened the door wearing the gray robe, but this time she didn’t step aside right away. She looked at me for a long second, something unguarded in her expression, then pulled me inside by the front of my shirt and kissed me before the door even clicked shut. It wasn’t a professional kiss. It was hungry and open and lasted long enough that my back hit the wall. When she finally pulled back she rested her forehead against mine, breathing a little harder. “I’ve been thinking about you all week,” she said quietly. “That’s not supposed to happen.” I didn’t have a good answer. I just nodded, already hard from the kiss alone. She locked the door, untied the robe, and let it fall. Naked. The sight of her still made my mouth go dry even after three Fridays. She took my hand and led me to the bed. “Lesson four,” she said, voice softer than usual. “Today you learn that you can take control sometimes. I’m still going to guide you, but I want you to start tru

We had been best friends since sophomore year and roommates since the start of senior year. Camila knew almost everything about me. I knew almost everything about her—except the one thing I refused to look at too closely. She never dated men. She never talked about women either. I filled the silence with my own loud opinions whenever the subject came up in group chats or at parties. I said lesbian relationships were “just a phase” or “for attention.” I said it so often and so easily that even I almost believed it. Camila never argued. She just looked at me with that quiet, unreadable expression and changed the subject. Friday night we were both too lazy to go out. I ordered Thai food. She picked a movie. Something random and forgettable on one of the streaming apps. We sat on opposite ends of the couch the way we always did, legs tucked under us, the only light coming from the television. Halfway through the film the screen glitched, buffered, then jumped to something else entire

I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I heard Camila’s voice in the hallway again—quiet, cracked, telling me she had listened to me call women like her confused and gross for years while she was in love with me. The guilt sat in my chest like a stone. Underneath it was something hotter and more restless that hadn’t gone away even after Derek left. I got up just after six while the apartment was still dark. The kitchen was the only place that felt neutral. I filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and stood there staring at nothing while it heated. My hands were unsteady. Camila’s bedroom door opened behind me. I didn’t turn around. I heard her footsteps stop in the doorway. The silence stretched until the kettle started to click. “I couldn’t sleep either,” she said. Her voice was rough from the night. I finally looked over my shoulder. She was in the same T-shirt and shorts, hair messy, eyes tired. She looked like she had been crying, or like she had spent the whole night

The next three days felt like learning how to breathe differently. We didn’t label anything. We didn’t need to. Camila moved through the apartment with the same quiet confidence she always had, but now her hands found me without hesitation—small of my back while I made coffee, the back of my neck when she passed behind me on the couch, the curve of my waist when we stood too close in the kitchen. Every touch carried the memory of her mouth on my nipples and the slow, thorough way she had taken me apart in her bed. Derek texted twice. I left both messages unread and then blocked the number without asking Camila what she thought. She saw me do it. She didn’t say anything. She just kissed the side of my head and went back to the book she was reading. Friday night we stayed in. Camila cooked while I sat on the counter—the same one she had fucked me on—watching her move around the kitchen in an old tank top and shorts. The domesticity of it felt more intimate than some of the sex. Whe