Raw Confide

She thought she’d been ghosted. Three nights of unanswered texts, her tongue left dry from the things she’d said but he never replied to. She tried to let it go — locked her door, swore she’d forget his scent, his crooked grin that made her thighs press tight together under her sheets. Midnight crept in like a thief. She heard the elevator. Heard footsteps down her hallway. Then — the soft knock, twice. Her breath tangled in her throat. When she opened the door, his eyes were already dark with want. He didn’t say sorry. Didn’t explain. His mouth was on her before she could taste her own excuses. She felt the rough scrape of his jaw, the sweetness of his tongue forcing hers open. Her back hit the wall. Her hands slid under his shirt, felt the heat of a chest that hadn’t cooled since the last time he’d touched her. He lifted her, lips wet, fingers digging into her thighs. Her moan slipped past the door into the corridor — if the neighbors heard, let them. She wanted him to press her hard...

It was one of those nights when the rain doesn’t just fall — it pours, drumming on the roof like a restless heartbeat. Daniel sat by his window, phone in hand, watching the streetlights blur through the drops. He hadn’t meant to wait for her call — he told himself he wouldn’t. But when her name lit up his screen, he answered before the second ring. “Hey you,” Amara’s voice crackled through the line, soft and warm like a blanket against the storm. “Hey.” He tried to sound casual, but he knew she’d hear it — the way his voice softened only for her. “I just wanted to hear you,” she said. “Are you okay?” Daniel closed his eyes. Of course I’m okay. I’m always okay when you call. But he only said, “Yeah. Just the rain.” They talked about everything and nothing — her cat curled on her lap, the movie she fell asleep watching, the funny way her neighbor sings in the shower. And then, like she always did, she whispered, “You know I love you, right?” His heart squeezed. He wanted to say I love yo...

He always came late — always when the house was quiet, when her roommates were asleep, when the moon was bold enough to watch. She didn’t even pretend to be shy anymore. When she heard the soft knock on her door, her pulse raced with a thrill she’d never admit in daylight. She opened it half-dressed, hair messy, lips already parted for the apology she knew would never come. He didn’t say sorry. He never did. He pressed her against the door instead, the wood cool on her back as his tongue slipped past her excuses. His hands were rough — calloused from work, from lies, from holding other women’s secrets too. Tonight, he didn’t care about them — and neither did she. His mouth trailed down her neck, tasting her salt, the sweat that pooled when she waited too long for what she knew was wrong but needed all the same. On the kitchen counter, he whispered her name like a sin. She laughed when he bit her shoulder — half in pain, half in plea. When he slid inside, she pressed her palm to his mou...

She always knew he wasn’t honest. His words dripped sweetness that turned sour by morning. But that night, under Lagos’ sweaty midnight sky, she didn’t care about honesty — she just wanted him to lie to her one last time, with his hands pressed against her truth. The hotel room smelled of cheap gin and secrets nobody would dare confess in daylight. She sat on the edge of the bed, her dress hanging half-off her shoulder, her heartbeat louder than the ceiling fan creaking above. He stood by the window, silhouette sharp against the neon lights — a man full of half-promises and untamed hunger. “Tell me you love me,” she whispered, voice trembling between pride and need. He didn’t answer with his mouth — instead, he crossed the room, knelt, and kissed her knee. Slow, hungry. His fingers traced the bruises he’d left the last time, a secret language that said I’m sorry, but I’ll do it again. By the time his lips reached her inner thigh, her mind was already lost — a dizzy, messy confession sh...

She was supposed to be off-limits. That’s what made it so good. He knew better — everyone did. She was his best friend’s ex, the one everyone said was trouble in a tight dress. But that night, when he found her sitting alone on his porch, hair damp from the rain, eyes rimmed with secrets — he knew he’d let himself ruin everything for her. She didn’t ask to come in. She just looked at him, bottom lip trembling, raindrops clinging to her lashes like tiny confessions she couldn’t speak out loud. He stepped aside, heart slamming his ribs like a warning he’d never obey. Inside, she dropped her soaked jacket on his floor. She wore nothing under the thin white tee that clung to her in all the ways he’d tried not to imagine for months. Her nipples pressed against the cotton, teasing him, daring him to look — and he did. He couldn’t help it. “This is a bad idea,” he said, voice rough, betraying him. She stepped closer, close enough for him to feel the heat rolling off her damp skin. “Maybe,” sh...

It started with thin walls. She could hear him through the cheap plaster — late-night phone calls, soft laughter, the low hum of a movie when she couldn’t sleep. She liked the sound of him — rough, deep, the kind of voice that made her thighs press together in the dark. At first, she told herself it was innocent — neighbors passing in the hallway, sharing polite smiles, borrowed sugar and broken small talk in the laundry room at 2 AM. But tonight, the loneliness pressed harder than her guilt. She knocked on his door with bare feet and no plan. He opened it shirtless, eyes heavy with sleep and surprise that melted into something darker when he saw her in just his old t-shirt she’d never returned. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice rough. She just nodded. He stepped aside. The air between them cracked like static. Inside, the TV flickered some old black-and-white film — neither of them cared. He sat on the couch first, legs spread, eyes following her every step as she crossed the carpet. ...

He told himself he’d just drop by to talk. It was late — too late to pretend he wasn’t there for more than words. But the door was never locked, and she never said no. She opened it before he could knock — like she’d been waiting in the dark, phone in hand, ready to pull him back in. Her hair was a mess, t-shirt barely covering the tops of her thighs. No bra. No makeup. Just her mouth — soft, swollen, and already parted for him. She didn’t greet him — just tugged him inside by his collar, slammed the door with her foot and pressed him against it so hard he felt the wood crack behind his shoulder blades. Her kiss wasn’t sweet — it was hungry, reckless, her teeth scraping his lower lip as if punishing him for staying away too long. She tasted like leftover wine and something sweeter he couldn’t name — the same taste that always haunted him when he lay alone in his too-big bed. She pulled his shirt over his head, nails dragging hot trails down his chest. He tried to grab her hips, but she...

He always said he didn’t believe in second chances. The first time he left her apartment at dawn, he promised himself he wouldn’t come back. That was six months ago — yet tonight, here he was again, staring at her bedroom window from his parked car, the streetlight painting her curtains gold. He could leave. He should. But the loneliness pressed into his chest until it cracked him open, made him knock on her door like an addict looking for one last hit. When she opened it, her hair was messy, eyes rimmed with sleep and disappointment she didn’t bother to hide. She didn’t smile — but she stepped aside, letting him slip inside like a secret she couldn’t stop telling herself. They didn’t talk. They never did when he came this late. She led him to the couch, pushed him down, climbed onto his lap like she owned the bones under his skin. Her mouth tasted like stale wine and salt — he didn’t care. She kissed him so deep it felt like she was stealing air from his lungs just to keep breathing h...

He told himself he wouldn’t knock on her door again. The last time should have been the last time — the way her perfume clung to his clothes long after he’d left, the way her nails left marks on his back he had to hide under cheap shirts and cheaper excuses. But tonight, loneliness pressed heavier than pride. So he found himself in front of her door again, fist hovering, breath fogging in the cold hallway air. He knew she was awake — she always waited for him, even when she pretended she didn’t care if he came or didn’t. When she opened the door, her eyes told him everything: she’d sworn she’d block his number, swear him off like a bad habit she could kick. But here they were — her in a loose tee that didn’t hide much, him in the same jeans he’d worn three nights straight. “Didn’t think you’d come back,” she murmured. Her voice was soft, but her fingers were rough when she grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside. She didn’t kiss him at first. She just stood there, staring — like she wa...

She always booked the same cheap hotel, far from the places where someone might know her name. The check-in clerk never asked questions anymore — he just handed her the key and avoided her eyes. Tonight, she made him wait in the hallway. He stood there, leaning on the faded wallpaper, listening to the soft rustle of her dress hitting the carpet inside. He could already feel himself harden at the thought of her bare skin against the scratchy sheets. When she finally cracked the door open, she didn’t smile. She never did at first. She liked control — liked to see him stand there, wanting, wondering if she’d change her mind. She tugged him inside by his tie, her perfume hitting him like a slap — sweet and heavy, clinging to his throat when she pushed him against the door. She didn’t speak. She never did at first. Her fingers worked his shirt buttons open, one by one, nails grazing his chest just enough to leave tiny scratches he’d trace tomorrow when he lay alone, waiting for her to call ...

She hated how easily he could make her feel weak. When she first met him in the city library, she thought he was shy — all glasses and gentle smiles behind stacks of old books. But that night, when he knocked on her door at midnight, he wasn’t shy at all. She let him in without a word — already half undressed in her thin silk robe. He barely looked at her face before pressing her against the hallway wall. The books he brought clattered to the floor, forgotten, as his mouth found her neck — warm lips trailing down to the swell of her breasts. “You left me waiting all week,” he growled softly, voice dark and low in her ear. His fingers pulled the robe apart like tissue — palms rough on the softness beneath. She gasped when his teeth grazed her collarbone. He lifted her easily, pinning her thighs around his waist. She could feel him already — hard, demanding — pressing right where she needed him most. “Say please,” he whispered, teasing her. She tried to move her hips but he held her stil...

She knew he would come home late — he always did. Some nights he blamed work, other nights he blamed the world. But tonight, she decided, she wouldn’t wait in silence. The soft light of the bedroom spilled across her bare shoulders as she sat on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but the perfume he once said drove him mad. She heard his keys fumble in the lock — the tiny sound that always brought hope and disappointment all at once. When he stepped in, she didn’t greet him with words. She just looked at him — eyes half-lidded, thighs crossed, one finger tracing lazy circles on her neck as if to remind him of everything he used to crave. He dropped his bag — stammered something about a long day — but she wasn’t here for his excuses. She stood, walked up to him slowly, pressed her lips to his ear and whispered, “You think I’ll always be here. You think I’ll wait.” Her hands found his shirt buttons, but her eyes told him this wasn’t forgiveness — this was a warning. He wanted to speak, ...

She liked to say her mouth was a weapon — soft, warm, sweet enough to make any man drop his guard. I knew that the first time she kissed me in the club bathroom, lipstick smudged on my throat like blood she’d wipe clean before sunrise. We weren’t supposed to meet again. One kiss — a dare, a secret she’d bury under her tight dress and high heels. But she called. And I answered. Tonight, she let me pick the room — cheap hotel, same as always. She wore red, same as always. Her perfume hit first, then her nails dragging across my jaw, tugging my lips down to hers before I could ask why me? She tasted like sin — cinnamon vodka, cheap cigarettes, and lies. Her tongue slid past my lips like a promise she’d never keep. I should’ve known. Maybe I did. She pressed me down on the bed, straddling my hips, grinding so slow I almost forgot my own name. She liked it when I begged — liked the way my hands trembled when I traced the curve of her hips under that dress. “Tell me you love me,” she breathe...

He knew he shouldn’t answer when she called at 2 a.m. Her name flashing on his cracked phone screen was a sin by itself — her husband’s friend, his boss’s wife, the woman with the gold ring she never took off, except maybe when her lips were busy with secrets. He opened the gate for her himself — barefoot, boxers hanging low, half hoping she’d turn back when the streetlight caught her face. She didn’t. She brushed past him like she’d done this before, her perfume staining the stale hallway air. “Don’t turn on the light,” she whispered, pushing him against the wall before he could find a lie to stop her. Her mouth tasted like gin and a promise he was too weak to keep. He could feel her wedding band scraping his jaw as her hands cupped his face, demanding more, demanding everything. He should’ve stopped her. Should’ve told her to go back to the car idling on the street. Should’ve reminded her that he liked his job — that he liked not being dead when her husband found out. But her mouth w...

She shouldn’t be here — he shouldn’t touch her like this. But the door’s locked and the blinds are drawn and his hands are already under her dress, pulling the fabric up in greedy fists. Her breath hitches, a soft laugh escaping her as her back hits the wall. “Wicked,” she murmurs, her fingers tracing his jaw, her nails leaving faint red trails down his neck. “You’re wicked for this.” He doesn’t answer — he just slides his mouth over hers, swallowing the lie she tries to choke out. Her lips are sweet but her tongue is filthy, curling around his, tasting every secret he tries to keep buried. Her dress slips to her waist. She’s bare under it — he feels the heat of her, the slick proof of just how badly she wants this wickedness. She grinds against his thigh, a soft curse breaking in her throat when he squeezes her ass, lifts her up just enough to pin her harder to the wall. “Say it,” he growls into her mouth, his breath ragged against her cheek. “I want you,” she pants, biting his lip ha...

Her skin is warm under his tongue — warm and shivering. Every lie he spills soaks into her, makes her body hum like a wire pulled too tight. “I need you,” he whispers, voice breaking as his lips close around her nipple through the silk. The fabric dampens quickly under his mouth. She gasps, fingers fisting in his hair, pushing him closer, grinding his cheek against the softness of her breast until he moans into her. “Say it again,” she demands, but her voice trembles this time, the lie cutting into her like a needle slipping under skin. “I need you,” he repeats, slower now, letting the words melt over her nipple as his teeth catch it, roll it gently. She squirms, hips rolling up, heat gathering where their bodies don’t yet touch. His hand slips under the silk, finds the other nipple, pinches it just enough to make her whimper — that soft, helpless sound she hates giving him but can’t swallow back. He drags his mouth to it, tongue flicking fast and cruel before sucking it hard, pulling ...

When I woke up that morning, the mirror didn’t lie — two perfect, fleshy nipples sat where my cheeks used to be smooth. They were small at first, like little pink secrets stitched into my skin, but by the time the sun touched the window, they were fully there, sensitive, alive. I poked at one. A shiver ran down my spine. I tried to cover them with makeup, then with bandages, but each brush stroke only made them perkier, more insistent. They tingled when the air from the fan hit them. They ached when I laughed. Outside, the world pretended nothing had changed. But I felt eyes linger too long, felt whispers brush against me like a lover’s breath. There was shame, yes — but beneath it, a thrill bloomed, wicked and warm. I caught myself in bathroom mirrors, gently tracing circles with my fingertips until I had to bite my lip to stay quiet. By dusk, they’d become my secret crown. An obscene rebellion stitched to my skin. I thought about cutting them off, but something inside me hissed no. I...

It wasn’t at first sight. That’s the lie people love — the easy story about eyes locking across a room and everything catching fire in an instant. But that wasn’t us. At first sight, you were just another face in a place I didn’t want to be — another stranger laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny, eyes flicking past me like I was furniture. You didn’t see me, and I didn’t care to be seen. You annoyed me, if anything — that careless grin, that restless energy, the way you leaned too close when you talked to people, like their space was yours by default. You were magnetic in that messy way that draws everyone in — everyone but me. I thought I was immune. I was wrong. It started slowly. A brush of your shoulder against mine at the bar. The way you’d catch my eye when you thought I wasn’t listening. A joke thrown my way that made me smirk when I should’ve rolled my eyes. One night turned into three, turned into every damn night. I’d tell myself I was just bored — that’s all. But ...

Sometimes I think the worst part isn’t how recklessly I want you — it’s how recklessly you want me back. We tried to be careful, once. We told ourselves it was just a spark — a one-time burn we’d snuff out before it set our lives on fire. But now, I see it in the way you look at me across crowded rooms, your fingers drumming on your glass like you’d rather be tracing lines down my spine. We’re reckless in small ways first: a text that should never be sent, a hand on my back that lingers too long when no one’s watching. Then we’re reckless in bigger ways — shadows tangled in the stairwell at 2 a.m., your mouth at my throat while I try not to make a sound. You’re bolder than I ever thought you’d be. You press me into walls like the hallway is ours alone, you bite my shoulder just to see me gasp, your breath hot in my ear as you whisper all the filthy promises you’ll make true when we’re finally alone again. And I let you. God, I let you. Because hunger like this doesn’t care about conseq...

Ethan knew he shouldn’t want her the way he did. Not her — not Camille Hayes, the woman whose signature could make or break his future with a flick of her pen. His boss. His untouchable boss. She was two years older, but it felt like more. She had this polished calm about her — the kind that made boardrooms go quiet when she walked in. Sharp suits, sharper mind. And that smile — warm enough to keep him close, distant enough to remind him exactly where the line was. But Ethan was terrible at lines. It started like a dare he gave himself every Monday morning — linger too long in her office doorway, let his eyes drift from her eyes to her mouth. Watch the way her lips curved around his name when she asked him to stay late. And he always did. The first time he touched her, it wasn’t even scandalous — just a brush of his fingers when he handed her a file, his thumb grazing her wrist. He felt the spark snap between them, saw her inhale like she’d just remembered she needed air. Still, she re...

It’s 2:17 a.m. The fan hums lazily above, pushing warm air around a room that’s already sticky with restless wanting. I should be asleep — I should have silenced every thought of you by now — but instead, I’m here, mouth dry, skin warm, craving you in every corner of my mind. Your voice is the echo I taste when I close my eyes — that low laugh, that secret softness that makes me ache in places I can’t name out loud. I replay the way your hands ghosted over my wrist that last time, how you lingered just long enough to set a fire under my skin, then left me with nothing but the memory to chew on. I roll over, bury my face in the pillow, but it doesn’t help. Your name is there too — pulsing in the dark, a dare pressed against my tongue. My fingers curl into the sheet, useless, desperate. The night is too long when I crave you like this — when my body whispers come back, come back, though I know you won’t knock at my door tonight. I want your teeth on my shoulder. I want your breath tangle...

He was only supposed to be inside for five minutes. She fixed laptops from her little flat above the corner store — everyone knew her as good with circuits and keys and secrets. He knocked, she opened the door wearing nothing but a loose tank top and soft shorts that looked more like panties. “Hey,” she said, brushing a twist of hair behind her ear. “Got your laptop working again. Wanna check it?” He stepped inside. Rain pattered against the window, the smell of solder and cheap jasmine candles hanging in the air. She bent over the table, showing him the open screen, the blinking cursor. He was trying not to look at the curve of her ass. He really was. “My girlfriend’s in the car,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “So—” “Five minutes,” she purred. “Won’t take long.” It didn’t. One kiss. One slow drag of her nails down his stomach. She sank to her knees on the threadbare carpet, tugged his jeans open. He told himself to stop her. He told himself this was insane. But her mouth w...

She shouldn’t be here. She knows it even as she steps off the main road and into the narrow alley behind the bar, where the streetlight flickers like it can’t decide whether to show mercy or not. Her boots crunch on broken glass, her breath ghosting in the cold night air. Somewhere, music thumps through the brick walls — the bassline of a night that pretends to be innocent. He’s waiting for her in the shadows, back pressed against the graffiti-stained wall, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. The glow catches the sharp line of his jaw, the corner of his mouth curling when he sees her. There’s no greeting — there never is. Words don’t live here. She comes closer, her pulse loud enough she’s sure he can hear it. He drops the cigarette, grinds it out under his boot. When he reaches for her, it’s not gentle. He fists a hand in her hair and drags her mouth to his — teeth first, then tongue. The taste of smoke and want. She gasps, and he swallows it down like a thief hoarding stolen...