📚 Title: His Best Mistake

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,” she whispered, brushing her mouth over his jaw, “but you want to, don’t you?”

He did. He always had.
So when she pushed him against the kitchen counter, he didn’t fight her — didn’t fight himself. Her kiss was wet, messy, half apology and half promise. She tugged his shirt over his head, pressed her palms to his chest like she was learning him by heart before she wrecked him for good.

When he lifted her onto the counter, she wrapped her legs around his waist so tight it hurt. He pushed the tee up over her breasts, mouth finding her nipples, tasting the salt of her skin mixed with leftover rain. She gasped, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs squeezing him closer like she’d die if he pulled away.

He slipped his hand between her legs, felt how ready she was — hot and slick and trembling. She moaned his name, soft and broken, her forehead pressed to his as he pushed a finger inside, then another, his thumb circling until she bit his shoulder just to muffle the filthy sound she made when she came.

He didn’t even bother dragging her to the bedroom. He turned her around, palms flat on the counter, the edge biting into her hips as he pushed inside her — slow at first, savoring the stretch, the heat, the wet slide that made him swear against the nape of her neck.

She begged him not to stop, voice cracking, hips slamming back to meet every rough thrust that shook the glasses in the sink. When they both fell apart, she turned her head just enough to kiss him again — soft, sweet, dangerous.

When it was over, she slipped off the counter, pulling her tee back down like it could hide what they’d just done.

“We’re gonna regret this, you know,” she murmured, breathless.
He laughed, tasting her still on his lips. “Best mistake I’ll ever make.”

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

✍️ "Weak in the Knees"

 He had me against the wall before I could say his name — fingers digging into my hips like he’d paid for the right to bruise me. He kissed me like he was angry, tongue sliding against mine until I gasped — that sound he loved, the one that made his grip tighten. By the time he slid his hand between my thighs, my knees were gone — soft, trembling, useless. I whispered don’t stop but I didn’t need to. He wasn’t going anywhere. He knelt right there, lips on my inner thigh, mouth making promises my body already believed. And when his tongue finally found me — hot, slow, devastating — my back hit the wall and I heard him laugh into my skin. “Weak in the knees for me, baby?” All I could do was moan — and give him everything he’d come for.
Read more

✍️ Somebody’s Shoulder Is About to Give Up

 Somebody’s shoulder is tired. Not from lifting weights — but from carrying everyone else’s silence. She smiles like she’s fine, but she’s tired of being the strong one. The listener. The fixer. The one who holds everyone together — even while she’s falling apart. She answers texts when she’s the one who needs comfort. She claps for others even when no one claps for her. She gives. She bends. But she’s starting to break. You’d never notice. Because she hides it like a pro. But if you look closely, her eyes say: “I need someone to carry me now.” Somebody’s shoulder is about to give up. And the saddest part? She’ll still ask you if you’re okay — while she's quietly drowning.
Read more

I get jealous over someone who isn’t even mine.

It’s embarrassing, honestly. Feeling jealous over someone who hasn’t promised me anything. Someone who owes me nothing. Someone who might not even like me back the way I like them. But here I am — getting irritated when I see their name pop up with someone else, getting quiet when they don’t text back on time, overthinking when they post something that doesn’t include me. I act unbothered. I pretend I’m cool. I respond with “lol” and emojis like my heart isn’t acting stupid. But inside? I’m burning. Not because they’re mine but because I wish they were. I know it’s foolish. I know I have no right. But feelings don’t wait for permission. They attach themselves quietly, softly, and then violently — especially when you try to ignore them. Jealousy without entitlement is the worst kind. Because you suffer silently, pretending you don’t care, while hoping one day they’ll choose you so you can finally stop lying to yourself.
Read more