Sinful Shirt Novels & Stories

"My closet is full. I don't need anything more." Tessa rolled her eyes. "All of it bought by Julian. Don't you want to surprise him with something unexpected? Something he hasn't seen?" I thought for a second, and my eyes drifted to the window of a shop called Sinful Pleasure. Extremely sensual lingerie was displayed on the mannequins — and by the look of it, there was more than lingerie inside. I rolled my bottom lip between my teeth, hesitating. But as Tessa and Fiorella grabbed an enormous pile of dresses and headed for the fitting rooms, I made my way toward the shop. Five warriors walked with me, and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Show the court your remorse." His fingers trembled as they worked the remaining buttons of her shirt. Each one gave way to reveal more of her: smooth, warm skin, the delicate lace edge of a black bra, the deep, enticing valley between her breasts. When the shirt fell open, he let out a shaky breath. She was magnificent. The contrast of the severe, unyielding uniform with the soft, vulnerable femininity beneath was utterly intoxicating.

Not now. Her breath hitched. The shirt. Where was it? Panic shot up her throat. If they had it... If it was mixed with the ritual... If Aurek touched it... The shirt would kill him before the runes got the chance. She looked around the room. There – on a stone stand near the wall. The silver shirt shimmered. Untouched, but close to the magic. And the runes around it were getting brighter. Maris saw where she was looking, and laughed.

“Show them.” Nathan knelt up, undid his shirt buttons slowly, and let them see the collar. He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. He just exposed the truth. And he saw it in their eyes — arousal, amusement, envy. Simone leaned forward and tugged the collar gently. “This belongs to me,” she said, stroking his hair. “He wears it under his suits, even in meetings. It keeps him desperate.” “Does it work?” one of the women asked.

" I hurried to meet him holding a white shirt. But my lips immediately parted because she was not wearing any top. His broad chest welcomed me, the slice of his damn abs protruded, as if I was watching a fashion show at the famous clothing line in the country. "What is this?!" I blinked my eyes, and carefully examined his polo shirt. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to burn that. "I lowered my lashes, and both cheeks flashed with fear. "You don't mean to? Look what you've done to my shirt, don't you know how important this shirt is toe?!" he angrily said.

Another drawer was filled with expensive-looking jewelry and no doubt they were all diamonds. Emma was rendered speechless. On the right side was his clothing with everything. Her mind was processing the things as she immediately grabbed a loose shirt and sweats as she wore sweats, finally breathing a sigh of relief after getting free from that dress. Emma was about to wear the shirt when she felt someone standing right behind her and she froze. She clutched the shirt tightly to her chest as she didn't dare to turn around knowing full well who was standing behind her. A cold shudder ran down her spine when she felt his wet hard chest touching her back.

The air inside the confessional was thick with the scent of old wood, incense, and something far more dangerous—desire. I knelt on the threadbare velvet cushion, my knees already aching in the most delicious way. The black lace dress I’d chosen clung to my body like a second skin, the hem riding dangerously high on my thighs. At twenty-six, I knew exactly what I looked like: a sinner wrapped in temptation, dark waves of hair cascading over one shoulder, full lips painted blood-red, and eyes that had stopped pretending to seek forgiveness years ago.

“The moment I remembered your blood on my hands.” My jaw tightens. “That wasn’t your fault.” He laughs once. Short. Sharp. “Nicholas. They shot me because I was yours.”Alright. Picking it up exactly where we left off—no soft reset, no tonal shift. Rafe The suit still fits. That’s the first thing that scares me. Black, tailored, clean lines—nothing like the café apron folded on my bed like a quiet accusation. I haven’t worn this version of myself in over a year, but my body remembers. Muscle memory is a curse. It tells the truth before your heart catches up.

I wanted it enough to ignore everything else, at least for tonight. Seconds later, the door swung open. And there he was. Adrian. He stood in a loose black silk shirt, unbuttoned almost entirely, fabric hanging off him like he didn’t care who saw. My gaze slipped down before I could stop it, and I swallowed hard. Why did he always look like that? Like trouble dressed up as something I should run from, but never did. His hair was still wet, dark strands clinging to his forehead. His skin too, like he’d just stepped out of a shower. The clean, warm scent of his body wash drifted toward me, soft but impossible to ignore, and something in my chest reacted before I could stop it.

The party is louder than I expected music thumping, people shouting over it, lights spinning across sweaty faces. Chiara pulls me straight to the dance floor, shouting, “Tonight, no thinking, okay?” I try. I really do. For a while, it works — laughing, moving, pretending I’m not waiting for a text that won’t come. Then I see her. Valentina. Dressed like a sin in red silk. And next to her him. Ricardo. My chest freezes. He’s in black, no tie, hair a little messy. His hand rests at the small of her back, not tight but there.