Dripping Confession

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 mouth to quiet the growl that broke his chest.

No love. No promise. Just skin on skin, confession by confession — a drip of truth every time he sank deeper, until her toes curled and her back arched and the truth spilled out between her thighs and onto the cold marble.

When he pulled away, zipping up like nothing happened, she almost asked him to stay. But the clock glowed 3:07 AM — too late for saints, perfect for sinners.

She cleaned herself up, bit her lip at the red marks he left. Tomorrow, she’d act pure again. But tonight, she’d sleep with the taste of his lies still dripping between her legs.

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