All Chapters of UNHOLY CRAVINGS: Dirty Shorts : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

The wind hit harder at this height. It came in cold, steady gusts that tugged at clothing and stole the heat from exposed skin the moment either of them stepped onto the open roof. The skyscraper rose sixty floors above the city, the concrete ledge running the full length of the west side with nothing but a low metal rail between solid ground and empty air. Midnight left the streets far below in a grid of sodium lights and moving headlights. Up here the only illumination came from the red aviation beacons and the spill of the moon. She was already there when he climbed through the service door, backpack still slung over one shoulder, hair whipping across her face. Black tank top, tight jeans, boots planted wide on the gravel. He recognized the type immediately—same restless energy, same way of standing too close to the edge as if the drop itself were a dare. He let the door close behind him and walked out to meet her. “You’re late,” she said without turning. Her voice carried clear

The steam hung so thick in the communal showers that the far wall disappeared into a white haze. Hot water poured from the open heads in steady streams, filling the tiled space with heat and the sharp clean scent of soap. The late-evening session had emptied the gym floor; only the two of them remained, still buzzing from the heavy lifts and the last set of sprints. She stepped under the nearest spray first, peeling off the damp sports bra and tossing it onto the bench outside the open stall. Water hit her shoulders and ran in rivulets between her tits, over the flat plane of her stomach, down the strong lines of her thighs. Her skin still carried the flush of exertion, muscles defined under the sheen of water and residual sweat. He followed a moment later, already naked, the hard planes of his chest and the thick muscle of his arms glistening as the spray caught him. His cock hung heavy between his legs, already thickening from the simple sight of her. They had trained together for

The taxi dropped them at the curb under the hotel’s bright canopy. Neon from the bar they had left still clung to their skin—her lipstick slightly smeared, his collar open, the shared heat of three hours of increasingly direct conversation still humming between them. She had his room key already, the plastic card warm in her fist. They crossed the lobby without speaking, the elevator doors opening on an empty car as if the building itself understood the urgency. The moment the doors sealed, the last of the restraint snapped. He had her against the mirrored wall before the car even began to rise, mouth open on hers, one hand already shoving the hem of her dress up her thigh. The kiss was all tongue and teeth, the kind that left lips swollen. She shoved his jacket off his shoulders; it hit the floor with a soft thud. His cock pressed hard against her lower belly through the trousers, thick and ready. The elevator chimed. They barely managed to separate before the doors opened on the q

The rain had been falling since noon, a steady gray curtain that turned the quiet suburban street into a blurred watercolor and kept the house sealed in its own damp silence. Their parents had left that morning for a weekend conference three states away. The place felt larger without them—too many empty rooms, too much shared air. Leo stood in the upstairs hallway, towel around his neck, hair still damp from the shower. Twenty-six, broad-shouldered, the kind of restless energy that never quite settled. Mia blocked the bathroom doorway, arms crossed over a thin tank top, black leggings clinging to her legs. Twenty-four. Sharp-eyed. They had been step-siblings for eight months, ever since the wedding that welded two broken households into one awkward new shape. Eight months of careful distance, of polite conversation at dinner, of pretending the air did not crackle every time they passed each other in these same halls. “You used the last of the hot water again,” she said. “You take f

The confessional stood in the side aisle of the old stone church, a narrow wooden booth divided by a carved screen whose lattice cast thin stripes of dim light across the kneeling bench. Evening Mass had ended an hour earlier. The main lights were out; only the votive candles near the altar still flickered, throwing restless shadows across the empty pews. Rain whispered against the high stained-glass windows. The air smelled of wax, old incense, and damp stone. She entered quietly, the hem of her modest dress brushing the floor. Twenty-two. Devout since childhood. The kind of young woman who still genuflected without thinking and kept her eyes lowered during the consecration. She had come to confess the thoughts that had kept her awake for weeks—images of the young priest who heard confessions on Thursdays, the one with the quiet voice and the hands that never quite stayed still when he spoke of temptation. Father Michael. Twenty-nine. Ordained three years. The collar still felt new