Summer Heat Incoming: Summer Seduction & Cabin Fever 🔥

Hey Velvet readers,

The days are longer, the nights hotter, and I’m buzzing to deliver exactly what summer demands: two brand-new, sweat-drenched MM series built for your poolside or lakeside reading.

🔥 Summer Seduction

A lonely widowed dad becomes obsessed with the shirtless, muscular 18-year-old next door—his son’s hot young friend. What starts as stolen, filthy encounters in the shed and pool quickly turns into raw, sweat-soaked sex and addictive secret hookups.

Start reading the free first chapter here:

🪵 Cabin Fever

Two stepbrothers, Jax and Mason, are forced to spend a sweltering month alone at their family’s remote lakeside cabin. What begins as awkward tension and long-buried attraction explodes into a passionate, forbidden romance that challenges everything they thought they knew about family, desire, and love. Isolated, surrounded by nothing but water, woods, and unrelenting heat… there’s nowhere to hide from the pull between them.

Start reading the free first chapter here:

I’m so damn thrilled to be sharing these with you right as the season kicks into high gear. Summer always stirs something wild in me—the way it strips everything down to raw sensation and reckless want. These stories are my love letter to that feeling.

Which one are you diving into first? Drop a comment below and tell me what has you throbbing with anticipation (no judgment here—we’re all a little filthy). And if you’re new around here, hit subscribe so you never miss the next drop of heat.

Wishing you long days, short nights, and plenty of “alone time” with a good (very bad) book,

Gavin E. Black 🖤

In the last installment of Wedding Gift

In the first installment of Wedding Gift

I awoke to Toby’s soft breath between my thighs. It was hot and damp, made worse by the fact that I’d pulled the blanket over us. It must be like an oven under there.

Toby would need to replenish his fluids when he emerged.

I reached below the blankets but couldn’t quite reach Toby’s head. I was sure his curls would be plastered to his face with sweat, his own and mine. I was sweating profusely.

I shifted my leg to wake Toby, or at least alert him to the fact I was awake. He stirred and nuzzled under my belly, using his hand to push some fat aside, then buried his face, snuffling and grunting as he found my cock. I closed my eyes and put my hands behind my head, looking up at the ceiling, marveling at the luck I’d received when Eric hired Toby for our wedding night.

I groaned and opened my legs wider as Toby snaked his finger between my ass cheeks, searching. He’d never find my hole with the length of a finger. I tossed the blankets off.

Toby popped his head up, looking concerned.

“Daddy?”

“No, no … you were doing wonderful. Daddy just wants you to eat his ass.”

Toby grinned at me. I was right, his hair was fucked up, greasy, and stuck to his head; his face even had a sheen of perspiration. It didn’t seem to bother him in the least.

“Help Daddy roll over.”

Toby got out of the way and guided me onto my knees with my head still on the pillow. It was an awkward position; I wouldn’t be able to maintain it for long.

The first thing I felt was Toby’s hands doing their best to push their way past the folds and rolls of my ass. Toby was a brave boy, though. The first tickle with his tongue thrilled me.

He licked and probed, then backed off and breathed, then descended again, diving past my sweaty flesh, which must be odorous after being under the warm blanket.

It didn’t matter to my boy that he was getting nasty down there. That he’d emerge stinking like sweat and ass. I was his daddy, and his sole purpose in life was to please me.

Toby reached one hand through my legs and tugged on my dick like I was a cow and he was milking me. I wasn’t into it. The motion only reminded me that I had to pee.

“Enough.”

Toby emerged from between my ass cheeks and moved away so I could get my feet on the floor. After a few false starts, I managed to get to my feet. “Follow me.”

He was still well regressed, even after napping, and crawled down the hall with me to the bathroom. Once I sat on the toilet, I called him over. He came right over to me and sat between my legs and rested his head on my knee, while stroking my shin.

Everything Toby did, every instinct of his, was perfect. He was a natural little. I petted his hair as I relieved myself. I would need a shower to clean up, but right now I just wanted to wash the sweat off Toby’s skin and hair and have some fun with him before dinner.

Toby sat on the bathmat in front of the sink as I pulled up my sweatpants. He crossed his legs and watched me start the tub, then clapped his hands together when I added bubble liquid.

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The next items to go into the tub were some plastic boats, pouring cups, and letters that would stick to the tiles. Toby was so excited that he pulled himself up to his knees at the edge of the tub. I took advantage of his position and stripped off his clothes and diaper.

He immediately threw his leg over the edge of the tub and tumbled in before I had a chance to help him. I reached for his arm beneath the rising water and helped him up.

He came up sputtering from the water; his hair and face covered in bubbles.

“You need to be careful for Daddy.”

Toby wasn’t listening. He sat his butt down and started zooming a boat up and down the water. When the water reached a good height, I shut off the tap.

“That’s a police boat. Do you know what sound they make?”

I smiled as Toby tried, unsuccessfully, to make a police siren sound. I decided he was distracted enough, so I got the shampoo and started on his hair. He kept flinging his arms up, trying to stop me from scrubbing. “Behave, Toby, or Daddy will have to spank you.”

Toby lowered his arm, picked up one of the cups to pour water, and made a game of pouring water from one cup to the other. While he was busy with that, he let me wash him.

We still had enough time before Eric called us for dinner, so I twisted and retrieved a basket from the bathroom cabinet behind me. In it, there was an assortment of dildos.

I lifted the basket to the edge of the tub. “I have more toys.”

Toby’s eyes grew wide, then he took one … and it went straight into his mouth. He sucked and sucked until he started looking sleepy again. I took it from him, jolting him awake.

“Daddy wants you on your hands and knees like a puppy.”

That made Toby scramble. It seemed he liked make-believe. Not only did he go on his hands and knees, but he also barked like a dog and waggled his little bum like he had a tail.

“God, you’re precious.”

I gave his butt a smack to stop him from wiggling. I gathered up some of the bubbles and stroked the dildo in my hand. They made it slightly slippery, but I still needed to use some soap.

It lathered up nicely.

“Now, be a good boy and don’t try to get away.”

Toby nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”

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The tires crunched over the gravel drive as Jax pulled his truck up beside the cabin. The sun beat down mercilessly, turning the lake into a bright, blinding mirror that reflected the glare.

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Even this far into the woods, the air hung warm and thick and heavy, pressing down like a second skin. Jaxon killed the engine and sat there, staring at the familiar A-frame that had been their family getaway since he was a kid. Thirty days. Just him and his stepbrother, Mason.

This month at the cabin was a last resort. He’d nearly backed out of the whole arrangement when he found out Mason was going to be there. Construction jobs had dried up in the brutal heat, and after his ex-girlfriend gave the landlord notice and stripped the apartment bare on her way out, the idea of another month crashing on his buddy’s lumpy couch sounded like hell.

Free rent for thirty days was the only thing that made it worth showing up. The screen door banged open. Mason stepped onto the porch in a threadbare tank top and basketball shorts, arms crossed, that same cocky tilt to his jaw he’d carried since high school.

“Nice of you to finally make it,” Mason called. “I’ve been baking out here for hours.”

Inside the cabin, the warmth clung even tighter, rich with the scent of summer heat-warmed pine. Jax dropped his duffel by the door and eyed the layout.

The couch in the main room sagged badly, one end propped up with bricks, its cushions faded and sunken from years of use. Down the short hall, the single bedroom waited, its king bed visible through the open door, a pile of Mason’s clothes on it, and sheets already turned down.

Mason leaned against the doorframe, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his tank. “I called the bed. You can have the couch. Good luck with that busted fold-out.”

Jax snorted. “Like hell. You’re the one still mooching off Mom and Dad. We’ll share the mattress. It’s big enough.” He clenched his fists, ready to defend his position.

Mason’s gaze flicked over Jax’s broad frame, then darted away. “Fine. Just keep to your side. Last thing I need is you hogging the mattress in this furnace.”

The argument died down into an awkward quiet. Jax headed for the bedroom, tossed his bag onto the far side of the king bed, and started pulling out clothes, while Mason watched from the doorway a moment longer before turning away. The decrepit ceiling fan in the bedroom barely stirred the thick air, doing little against the scorching heat trapped inside the walls.

They spent the next couple of hours circling each other in the small space. They both put away clothes and toiletries. Jax wiped down the kitchen counters that didn’t need it. Mason rearranged the few groceries their parents had left, his movements sharp and restless. They sat at opposite ends of the couch, scrolling through their phones, as if there was something new to look at.

Every time one passed the other in the narrow hall or near the fridge, the air seemed to tighten, shoulders brushing or hips nearly touching before they both pulled back.

Jax eventually headed out front to the woodpile, needing breathing room. The sun baked his shoulders as he worked, and after a few swings, he peeled off his shirt, letting it hang from his back pocket. The axe felt solid in his grip, each chop a way to burn off the strange buzz under his skin. He knew Mason had come out onto the porch. He could feel those eyes tracking him, but when he looked up, Mason was suddenly very interested in the lake instead.

By the time the light started to fade, they threw together a quick meal on the grill—nothing fancy, just enough to fill the silence between them. The humid evening wrapped around the cabin like a blanket neither could kick off, and Jax found himself hyper-aware of every shift in Mason’s posture across the table, every casual stretch that pulled the thin tank across his chest.

After dinner, Jax lingered outside longer than necessary, splitting a few more logs just to keep moving. The rhythmic thud of the axe echoed across the clearing while sweat carved fresh trails down his bare torso. He could sense Mason lingering near the porch steps again, pretending to check his phone, but the weight of his attention pressed heavier than the humid air.

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They sat on the porch as dusk settled, cold beer in tight fists. Conversation stayed surface-level—complaints about the weather, a few jabs about old family trips.

Jax’s mind drifted back to the years after their parents had married, when the two of them were suddenly thrust together as stepbrothers at fourteen and sixteen.

They’d shared a cramped bedroom in the old house, all sharp elbows and loud arguments by day, but quiet, stolen glances in the dark that neither ever acknowledged.

Those nights had left marks. Mason’s cocky attitude hiding the way he’d watch Jax undress after sports practice. Jax pretending not to notice how Mason’s body had filled out faster than his own. Years of biting tension and slammed doors that never quite erased the undercurrent of something forbidden. Now, stuck here for a month, it all felt dangerously close to the surface again.

Night fell without offering much relief. The cabin trapped the day’s warmth like an oven, making the bedroom feel smaller than it was. Jax lay on his side on the king mattress in nothing but loose boxers, staring at the wall while Mason shifted restlessly beside him.

Sleep stayed out of reach for both.

Sometime deep into the night, Mason slipped from the bed. Jax stayed still, listening to the faint creak of floorboards as his stepbrother moved toward the kitchen. The air in the room felt heavier than ever, thick with unsaid things, and the faint scent of their skin warmed by the same sheets. Minutes stretched before Mason started back, and in the narrow hall, their paths crossed.

Their bodies met in the dark—bare chest grazing bare shoulder, a brush of hip against thigh that lingered a fraction too long. Heat flared where skin touched, quick and undeniable. Mason’s breath hitched softly, but neither pulled away at first. The old pull from their teenage years surged up, the same one they’d buried under fights and distance.

Jax’s hand came up instinctively, resting on Mason’s arm to steady them both in the tight space. The muscle there was firm under his palm, still carrying the day’s lingering warmth. In the silence, he could hear Mason’s pulse—or maybe it was his own—racing just beneath the surface.

They stood like that, caught in the charged moment, the weight of every stolen glance from their shared bedroom days pressing down harder than the summer night.

Jax knew he should step back. He didn’t.

The hallway felt impossibly narrow, the walls closing in as seconds ticked by without either of them moving. Jax’s fingers stayed curled against Mason’s arm, thumb brushing once over the smooth skin there almost by accident. Mason didn’t flinch or pull back. Instead, his head tilted slightly, breath warm against Jax’s collarbone in the darkness.

Jax swallowed hard, the old memories rushing back sharper than before—nights in their shared room years ago, listening to Mason’s breathing change while pretending to sleep. The same forbidden curiosity that had made them both angry and restless as teens. Now it hummed between them again, alive and dangerous in the muggy darkness that refused to fade.

Finally, Mason cleared his throat, a rough sound that broke the spell. He eased past, their sides dragging together one last time before he disappeared back into the bedroom. Jax stayed rooted in place a moment longer, heart pounding against his ribs, then followed.

Back in bed, the distance between them felt smaller than ever. The sheets stuck to their skin, the fan overhead doing nothing to cut the stifling stillness. Jax turned onto his side, facing away, but every small shift from Mason sent awareness crackling through him like static before a storm.

Jax couldn’t settle. The mattress dipped every time Mason moved, pulling the sheet tight across his own legs. He tried focusing on the distant hum of insects outside, but his mind kept circling back to that brief press in the hallway—the solid warmth of Mason’s body, the way neither had rushed to break contact. It stirred up too much from the past, things they’d both learned to ignore.

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Mason rolled onto his back with a quiet exhale; one arm flung above his head. In the faint moonlight slipping through the blinds, Jax could make out the rise and fall of his chest, the sheen of sweat along his neck. He forced his eyes shut, but the image lingered, mixing with half-remembered nights when curiosity had felt like a live wire they both refused to touch.

The hours dragged. Sleep hovered just out of reach, teased by every rustle of fabric and every shared breath in the oppressive room. Jax’s skin felt too sensitive, every shift of air against it reminding him how close they were. How easy it would be to reach across the divide.

Eventually, exhaustion won out in pieces. Jax drifted toward unconsciousness with the heavy certainty that this month was going to test every boundary they’d spent years building.

And part of him—the part he didn’t want to name—already wondered what would happen when those boundaries finally gave. Because they would give … he could feel it.

Morning light filtered through the blinds, pale and hazy with the promise of another scorching day. Jax stirred slowly, the sheets tangled around his legs, body leaden from restless sleep.

For a disoriented second, he forgot where he was—until he registered the warm weight of a hand resting high on his thigh, fingers splayed with deliberate pressure.

Not an accidental brush this time. Mason’s touch lingered, thumb tracing a small, slow circle against the bare skin just below the hem of Jax’s boxers.

Jax’s eyes snapped open. Mason lay facing him, eyes half-lidded and dark, breath shallow as if he’d been awake for a while. The cocky mask had slipped; what remained was raw hunger and uncertainty all mixed together. Neither of them spoke. The air between them crackled, charged with years of buried glances that made every inch of contact feel electric.

Mason didn’t pull away. If anything, his grip tightened just a fraction, testing, waiting. Jax’s pulse hammered in his ears, his own body reacting despite the voice in his head screaming that this was dangerous territory—stepbrothers, family, the whole tangled mess they’d carried since their parents married.

Then Mason’s fingers edged higher, bold and unapologetic.

The story continues … soon ….

In the last installment of Summer Seduction

In the first installment of Summer Seduction

The morning after my pool encounter with Brandon, I was still riding the high when Jeremy wandered into the kitchen for breakfast. “Hey, Dad, I invited Brandon over for dinner tonight. That cool?” he asked casually while pouring cereal. “We’re going for a hike tomorrow morning. I told him he could just crash here tonight after dinner so we can get started early.”

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My pulse spiked. “Yeah… sure. That’s fine,” I managed, hoping my voice sounded normal. Jeremy didn’t seem to notice anything off as he kept talking about trail recommendations and how the hike was going to be epic.

All day, I was a wreck of nerves and anticipation. By the time the doorbell rang just after six, I had already changed shirts twice. Jeremy answered it, and I heard Brandon’s easy laugh from the hallway. When he stepped into the kitchen, our eyes locked immediately.

Brandon looked incredible in a simple black t-shirt and his signature red rugby shorts. The moment Jeremy turned his back, Brandon’s gaze dragged slowly down my body, then back up, dark with intent. A tiny, knowing smirk tugged at his lips.

I had to grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.

Dinner was torture. I sat across from Brandon, barely tasting the food on my plate while Jeremy chatted animatedly about the upcoming hike. Brandon played the part of a polite guest perfectly, but every chance he got, his foot brushed mine under the table, or his eyes lingered on my mouth just a second too long. By the time we finished eating, I was aching and desperate.

“Pool?” Jeremy suggested, already pushing back from the table. “It’s still super warm out.”

“Sounds good,” Brandon said, his voice casual, but the look he shot me was anything but.

We changed quickly. I tried not to stare as Brandon stripped off his shorts, revealing a skimpy black swimsuit beneath that left almost nothing to the imagination. The three of us headed outside into the warm evening air. Jeremy cannonballed in first, laughing. Brandon followed with a graceful dive, surfacing right near me. For a while, we all tossed a ball around, but it didn’t take long for Jeremy to get bored and start doing laps at the other side of the pool.

Brandon drifted closer to me in the deep end, his wet hair slicked back, water glistening on his toned shoulders. Under the water, his hand boldly slid up my thigh and squeezed. “Been thinking about you all day,” he whispered, low enough that only I could hear. His fingers teased the edge of my swim trunks. I had to bite my lip to stay quiet.

I swallowed hard, glancing toward Jeremy to make sure he was still focused on his laps. Brandon’s fingers grew bolder, slipping under the waistband of my trunks and wrapping around my thickening cock. “You’re already leaking for me,” he breathed against my ear, giving me a slow stroke underwater. The thrill of almost getting caught sent a rush of heat through me. I gripped the edge of the pool, fighting to keep my face neutral.

“Movie time?” Jeremy called out a few minutes later, climbing out and grabbing a towel. “I’m getting pruny.” He walked straight past us, completely misreading our proximity as if it were something innocent.

“Yeah, let’s head in,” I rasped, my voice rougher than I intended. Brandon pulled his hand away with a dangerous little smile before swimming to the ladder.

Inside, we dried off and settled in the living room. Jeremy took the big recliner like always. Brandon casually dropped onto the couch right beside me, close enough that our thighs pressed together under the light blanket we ended up sharing. As the movie started, his hand found mine in the dark, fingers intertwining. Every small shift of his body against mine felt electric.

During the movie, Brandon’s thumb kept tracing slow, teasing circles on the back of my hand under the blanket. He shifted closer until our legs were pressed together from hip to ankle.

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Every time Jeremy laughed at something on screen, Brandon would squeeze my hand or brush his fingers higher up my thigh, making my cock throb painfully against my shorts.

It was the sweetest kind of torture.

Eventually, the movie ended. Jeremy yawned loudly and stretched. “I’m wiped. We should get some sleep since we’re getting up so early.” He stood up and clapped Brandon on the shoulder. “Guest room’s all yours, man. See you in the morning.”

I walked with them both down the hall, heart pounding. Jeremy disappeared into his room first. I showed Brandon the guest room, lingering in the doorway for a second too long. Our eyes met, full of heat and promise. “Goodnight,” I said, voice low.

Hours later, long after the house had gone completely quiet, my bedroom door creaked open. Brandon slipped inside like a shadow, closing it silently behind him. He was wearing only those skimpy black swimsuit briefs, his body visible in the moonlight coming through the window.

Brandon crossed the room in two strides and climbed onto the bed, straddling my hips without a word. He kissed me hard, hungry, his tongue sliding against mine as his hands roamed over my chest.

“I’ve been dying to kiss you all night,” he whispered against my lips. My cock was already rigid beneath him. I wanted him so badly it hurt, but Jeremy’s room was just down the hall.

“We can’t do this here,” I breathed, even as my hands gripped his ass. “Too close to Jeremy.”

Brandon nodded, already climbing off me. “Basement.” His eyes were dark with lust.

We slipped out of my room like thieves, moving silently down both sets of stairs and into the basement. The rec room was dark except for the faint glow of the outdoor pool lights filtering through the small windows.

The moment we reached the pool table, Brandon stripped off his skimpy black swimsuit and hopped up onto the green felt, completely naked. He lay back, spreading his legs invitingly, his stiffening cock resting against his thigh.

Come here,” he whispered.

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The last installment of Wedding Gift

The first installment of Wedding Gift

The play date was set up. I’d gone through friends and found other men with littles in the city and chatted with a few of them in the week since Toby had been with us. A man named Roger had a boy about Toby’s age.

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His name was Benji, and he was a university student, too. He’d been with Roger for over four years and had always been very well-behaved.

Benji enjoyed the little life of a toddler, whereas I thought Toby might fluctuate between toddler and infant. He certainly enjoyed being cradled and nursed.

I was glad to hear Benji hadn’t been potty-trained yet. I didn’t want Toby to feel like he was behind in his development. I wanted him to be happy where he was.

I lumbered back and forth in Toby’s nursery, folding some new clothes I bought him. Something suitable for play dates with another little. I knew he’d love the lions on the shirt I’d bought him paired with a cute pair of shorts with enough room for his puffy diaper bum.

I loved how he waddled in it; his little butt shifting back and forth.

Toby was due to arrive soon. Eric had gone to pick him up because I didn’t like the idea of Toby driving. I knew he was an adult, but that’s not how I saw him. I wanted to protect him.

There was a commotion at the front door of laughter and movement, then Toby came rushing into the nursery and threw his arms around my middle in a big hug.

“Daddy, I’m home.”

I swear to God, those words almost made my heart stop.

I held him tight against me with one hand, then combed my fingers through his absolute riot of dark curls. “Yes, you are, good boy. Daddy is so glad to see you home safe and sound.”

Toby needed to get out of his outside clothes. I stepped back and started with his shirt. It went onto the crib mattress, where I could fold it later. Next were his pants. Tight jeans that I did not approve of. I shuffled them off his hips and smiled when I saw his underwear.

I touched one of the baby lions decorating the white cotton briefs. “Where did you get these?”

“Ordered them online. They make me feel good. Like I’m cared for.”

I frowned. Toby had hinted at an issue between him and his parents. I already didn’t like them. Why would such a beautiful child be out in the world feeling like he wasn’t cared for?

“They’re very cute.”

I chuckled as Toby roared for me and then giggled. He was already regressing. Roger and Benji would be here in fifteen minutes, so I needed to get Toby changed.

I patted the change table. “Up you get.”

Toby clambered up and lay flat on his back, legs ready to be lifted … thumb in his mouth. Silly me. I’d forgotten to give him a dummy. I collected one from a container of clean ones and popped it into his mouth. His jaw immediately went to work as he sucked on it.

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The cute underwear was easy to slip off, exposing his soft dick, practically encased by his full balls. My boy was a grower. I cupped his balls and rubbed my thumb up and down his shaft. It swelled slightly. Maybe I should consider locking it up, so he couldn’t get an erection.

I was getting his diaper organized under his butt when he started peeing. I was quick to slap the top part of the diaper over his penis and hold it there until he was done.

That could’ve been quite a mess. He would’ve needed a bath. The cool air must have tickled him to tinkle. I would need to keep an eye on that and be more careful.

With a fresh diaper on, Toby climbed down, and I helped him to dress. He was having trouble getting his arms through the sleeves of the lion shirt.

He roared at me again as he looked down at it.

As I was slipping his shorts on, the doorbell rang.

“Your play friend is here,” I said to him. Toby bustled over to the door and tried to open it, but couldn’t get his hand to grip it properly. I opened it for him, and he took off down the hall.

When I arrived in the living room, the two boys were facing each other, just looking as they sucked away on their dummies.

Toby lifted the front of his shirt. “I have lions.”

“I have lions, too.”

Toby nodded, then touched Benji’s shirt. “I like your turtles.”

Eric, busy behind them, dumped a box of blocks and cars onto the carpet. The boys immediately sat down and started playing.

I walked over to Roger and shook his hand. “They seem to be getting on all right.” I took a seat beside him on the sofa, aware I was causing my side to sink lower than his.

“They do. I’m glad you called me. Benji’s best friend recently moved away.”

I sat beside him. “That’s a shame. So hard when they’re little.”

“He’s been moping around the house. He was so excited to come here.”

I nodded. “Toby is new, as I told you. He’s taken to it well so far, but I’m not sure how far I can push him when it comes to extra play time.”

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“One way to find out.” Roger turned away from me. “Benji, be a good boy and give Toby a kiss. I think he needs one to let him know you want to be friends.”

Benji shuffled closer to Toby, spat out his dummy, and gave Toby a kiss on the cheek.

Toby giggled and placed his hand where Benji had kissed him. He looked so innocent and shocked, it made my heart sing. There was so much joy I wanted him to experience.

“I meant for you to kiss him on the lips.”

Benji reorganized himself until he was kneeling in front of Toby. Without using his hands, he leaned forward and gave Toby a quick kiss on the lips.

It had no sexual desire attached to it.

I wanted to see more. Test how far Toby was willing to go.

“Toby, get Benji to lie down and then pull his shorts off.”

My boy looked at me for a moment, then over at Benji. The cogs in his brain were turning. We hadn’t discussed what play dates might entail.

He made a decision and pushed Benji over, making Benji giggle.

Toby was awkward in his movements, but he soon had Benji’s shorts off. Then he looked at me, waiting for his Daddy to tell him what he should do next.

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In the first installment of Summer Seduction

The week dragged by in a torturous haze of half-hard anticipation and crushing guilt. Every time I heard a lawnmower start in the neighborhood, my pulse spiked, only to crash when I realized it wasn’t Brandon’s. I kept replaying the shed in my mind—the tight, humid dark, the way he’d dropped to his knees like it was the most natural thing in the world, and how easily I’d let him. I told myself it was a one-time mistake. A moment of weakness.

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But my body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.

My son, Jeremy, had been spending time with his girlfriend, Emily, around the pool and not inviting our neighbor over, which meant I barely caught more than a distant glimpse of Brandon. Once, when he was taking out the trash shirtless, our eyes met across the fence. He gave me that same cocky little head tilt and slow smile that made my stomach flip. I quickly looked away, pretending to be very interested in the weeds at my feet.

I was forty-two years old, for fuck’s sake. I should have more self-control than this.

Saturday finally arrived, hot and bright. Jeremy had left early for a day trip with Emily, telling me he wouldn’t be back until late. I was in the kitchen nursing a coffee when the familiar roar of the lawnmower ripped through the quiet morning.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I walked to the bathroom upstairs like a man in a trance, already knowing what I’d find when I parted the blinds.

Brandon was pushing the mower across our front lawn in nothing but those same red rugby shorts, earbuds in, muscles flexing under the morning sun.

Sweat already glistened on his skin. He looked up toward the house as if he could feel me watching, and even from this distance, I could see the knowing smirk that curved his lips. He didn’t wave. He didn’t need to. We both understood why he was here.

I stayed at the window longer than I should have, my hand absently pressing against the growing bulge in my shorts. The guilt was still there, gnawing at the edges, but it was no match for the raw hunger Brandon stirred in me.

When he finished the front lawn and disappeared around the side of our house toward the backyard, I forced myself downstairs. My heart hammered as I stepped out onto the patio just as he killed the engine.

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Brandon wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, his chest rising and falling. Up close again, he looked even better than I remembered—sun-bronzed skin, faint tan lines peeking above those low-slung red shorts, and a visible sheen of perspiration tracing down his abs. He pulled out his earbuds and fixed me with that same intense stare.

“Morning, Michael,” he said casually, like he hadn’t sucked me off in my shed just days ago. “Lawn’s looking good.”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “You didn’t have to do the whole front. I could’ve helped.” The words felt ridiculous the second they left my mouth. We both knew why he was really here.

“Helped?” Brandon stepped closer, the scent of fresh-cut grass, sweat, and something unmistakably him hitting me. A mischievous grin tugged at his lips. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” His eyes flicked down to the obvious tent in my pants, then back up. “Jeremy’s gone all day, right?”

“Yeah,” I rasped, my throat dry. “All day.”

Brandon didn’t waste another second. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his red rugby shorts and shoved them down, kicking them aside along with his shoes. His cock sprang free, already half-hard and curving upward. “Last one in the pool sucks the other off underwater,” he challenged with a wicked grin, then turned and dove cleanly into the deep end.

I stripped faster than I’d ever moved in my life, my own cock throbbing as I hit the water. The cool shock did nothing to calm the fire in my veins.

Brandon surfaced right in front of me, water streaming down his face and chest. Before I could speak, he grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me into a hungry kiss, his tongue pushing past my lips while his other hand wrapped around both our cocks underwater, stroking them together.

“Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he breathed against my mouth. He spun me toward the side of the pool, pressing my chest against the warm tiled edge. I felt his slick cock nudge between my ass cheeks under the water, teasing my hole as he bit down on my shoulder.

One hand gripped my hip hard while the other reached around to jerk me off in long, slow pulls. The water made everything feel slippery and urgent. When he finally pushed inside me in one jarring thrust, I groaned loud enough that I prayed the neighbors weren’t home.

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June always feels a little different to me. The heat settles in. Nights get longer. People start craving stories that leave bruises instead of butterflies.

So this month, alongside a special multi-author promo packed with temptation, obsession, and men making catastrophically beautiful decisions, I also wanted to spotlight one of my own novels that still lingers under my skin: Shadows on My Soul.

It’s a dark romance I can’t publish on Substack because of the subject matter, and it doesn’t pull its punches. The story deals with trauma, survival, healing, and the complicated ways love can exist alongside damage. It’s heavy in places. Uncomfortable in others. But honestly? I think it’s one of the most important books I’ve written.

If you’re looking for something softer and sweeter this month … this may not be the one.

But if you want a story that crawls inside your chest and stays there awhile, keep reading.

Beyond the shadows, his love held true for only one man

Derek Lawrence is a player. There is no other way to phrase it. He’s been unstoppable since coming out in high school.

Guy after guy—conquest after conquest. He isn’t looking for a commitment from anyone. His life is perfect the way it is.

Except for one rather significant exception. Derek has been in love with his best friend and business partner, Justin Leary, since the first day he set eyes on him over twenty years ago.

Despite the daily agony of being in Justin’s company, Derek has never shared his feelings with Justin, fearing it would ruin their friendship.

When an implication surfaces that Justin’s feelings for Derek might also run deeper than friendship, Derek considers approaching Justin about it.

But before he can, one targeted act of violence while camping with friends, followed by the aftermath of that violation, challenges not only their friendship—but the strength of their love for one another.

Will they ever be able to find their way past what transpired in that tent?

I want to know more!

This month’s promo:

From these authors, expect high heat, dangerous chemistry, forbidden cravings, and enough taboo tension to make your Kindle blush. From power dynamics to obsessive desire, these FREE MM stories are packed with the kind of kink-filled trouble you probably shouldn’t read in public.

MM Taboo & Kink

Whether you’re here for the softer moments, the dangerous ones, or the stories that leave fingerprints behind, I’m glad you’re spending part of your June with me. Now go ruin your sleep schedule responsibly.

In the last installment of Rodeo Boys

In the first installment of Rodeo Boys

As long as the grass grows and the water flows—a cowboy saying. That’s where I saw Garrett and me. Our love had put down deep, strong roots that made the foliage unshakeable.

I kept reminding myself of that as we stood in the local country bar, perusing the potential men. Garrett leaned back, his elbow on the scarred bar, and took a long swallow of his beer.

I watched his throat as the cool amber liquid descended. Almost made me hard, thinking about the taste of his skin, still a memory on my tongue from earlier.

I’d fucked him long and hard before we showered for our night out. A reminder of who he belonged to, regardless of the many men who circulated through our bed.

My beer tasted warm and flat as I drained the bottle. Garrett had his eye on someone. A tall, gorgeous stranger. The guy was built solid, wearing a black Stetson and a tight shirt that showed off his chest, and he kept peering over at us. Lifting his gaze for a moment every few sentences as he rambled on to a couple of guys we knew from around town.

When his friends dispersed, leaving him alone, the stranger tipped his hat to us. Garrett took it as the signal it probably was. I trailed behind as we crossed the bar to join him.

“You visiting?” Garrett asked, sticking out his hand.

The stranger grabbed Garrett’s hand and didn’t let go quickly; their palms pressed together a little too comfortably. The man jerked his head in the direction of the friends he had been with. “My cousin, Carl, dragged me out.” Then reached for my hand and shook it. “Name’s Boone.”

I nodded. Let Garrett do the talking. This was his fantasy tonight.

“I’m Garrett, and this here ….” He hitched his thumb at me. “My buddy, Dirk.”

Boone raised his eyebrows. “I was told you were more than buddies.”

I didn’t want to get into that discussion with a stranger. I left Garrett to it and headed to the restroom instead. Word was out about Garrett and me. Some days, I felt like a zoo animal, folks staring at me, their mouths agape, as they tried to determine what was different about me.

Wondering if they could detect that I was gay.

Because I was. Gay. There was no denying my sexuality now that I’d stopped kidding myself. I had no interest in women. Neither did Garrett. After a particular late-night conversation, we used the word aloud for the first time. Two proud gay men had been revealed.

I finished up at the urinal and washed my hands. The guy staring back at me in the mirror looked worn out. Still hot. Still sexy ... but tired. A few years too long on the rodeo circuit.

Except that rodeo circuit was my life now. Not an actual rodeo—just my day-to-day. Waking up with Garrett snuggled up next to me, his rough voice soft in the morning, and his kisses tender.

Starting our day buried inside each other as the world woke up around us. The words “I love you” shared before we even got out of bed.

Those were the good rides, the ones that still made my heart race.

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But every rodeo has its losses, too. Garrett working cattle on someone else’s ranch instead of training horses with me. The clients I’d lost when we came out as a couple.

The mortgage we could barely keep up with because my dad wouldn’t buy back the family homestead, and I couldn’t bring myself to evict my own parents.

And lately, even the nights we spent cruising bars for other men—something that used to get my blood up—had started to feel like another exhausting round in the arena. The thrill was gone. Now it just left me sore and hollow, wondering how much longer I could keep climbing back on.

Life wasn’t ideal, and it was wearing me down.

When I went back into the main bar area, Garrett was leaning in close to Boone. They were talking low and laughing; Garrett’s hand occasionally knocking up against Boone’s hip.

We wouldn’t be bringing Boone home tonight. The objective was to get a hot guy’s number and promise him a future hookup. One on the sly when I was out tending to my business.

The story was that our relationship was on the rocks, and Garrett was lonely. I was giving him nothing. Might even be cheating on him. Made me sound like an asshole.

Which gave Boone a hopefully guiltless in.

I didn’t like the game, but it was Garrett’s to play out.

Just over a week later, I came back to the house after a long day in the arena with a temperamental horse and was met by the unmistakable sound of Garrett being fucked.

My heart twisted. I came back to the house at the same time every day. This was the setup Garrett had been driving toward. Now, I was supposed to walk in on them—catch them in the act.

I walked toward our bedroom, following the sounds of two men fucking hard. The door was ajar, and the first thing that hit me was the thick smell of sweat, ass, and that same damn cologne Boone had been wearing at the bar. It had irritated me then. Now it pissed me off.

Boone was gripping Garrett’s hips where they were positioned on the bed and pounding the hell out of him. They both looked up when I entered the room.

The interloper pulled his dick out of Garrett’s ass, a look of guilty horror on his face. I walked over to our chair in the corner of the room and sat down. “Don’t let me stop you.”

To his credit, Boone caught on quick and slid back into Garrett’s beautiful, furry, and thick ass. My man had put on a bit of extra weight since I discovered a love for baking.

His body was perfect.

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My cock betrayed my mood by hardening as I watched Garrett’s hole being thrashed by another man. They were both grunting, sweating, and swearing, stirring up my desire to join them.

But that wasn’t the fantasy Garrett needed from me.

I was to sit still and watch. Not even touch my cock. I must have looked miserable because I was caught off guard when Garrett shoved Boone away from him, scurried to the edge of the bed, dropped off, and crawled to me, his expression so distraught that tears formed in my eyes.

“What’s going on, Dirk?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Go back to him.”

Garrett scowled. “Absolutely not.” He looked over his shoulder at Boone. “Get out.” We stayed quiet as Boone grumbled and swore, picked up his clothes, and left the bedroom.

The front door slammed three seconds later.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “Chase him off.”

Garrett cradled my face in his palm, staring into my eyes. “Are you kidding me?” Tears ran down my cheeks, and he brushed them away. “That fuck was supposed to be for both of us.”

How did I tell him it wasn’t doing it for me anymore? The cruising, the fucking, the working our way through every willing guy we came across. Garrett’s ass being thrashed repeatedly.

He rose to his knees and placed his forehead on mine. “You’re first in my world.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“Tell me what happened back there.”

He loved me. I could speak the truth to him. “It hurt. Watching you with another man hurt.”

Garrett’s breath cascaded over my lips. “Is that new?”

“No.” I reached for his arms and grabbed them, his elbows nearly in my palms. I clung to him as if I might lose him if I spoke the truth. Even though I knew that would never happen, my turbulent mind was making space for devastation.

“It still turns me on, but I don’t get the same rush I used to.”

“Jealousy?”

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I wrinkled my nose. “Not quite. Just the feeling I wish we were alone.”

“Do you want us to stop?” This time, his voice was barely above a whisper. I couldn’t read his emotions other than the way he was holding my face. Gentle and loving.

Garrett kept his hands where they were, eyes locked on mine like he was trying to read every thought I’d buried deep. I could still smell Boone on his skin, that wrong cologne mixed with sweat and the sharp scent of sex hanging in the air between us.

My gut twisted again, but this time the words came easier.

“Yeah.” My voice was rough. “I want us to stop. All of it. I don’t want any more strangers in our bed. I thought I could keep sharing you now that we’re a couple, but it’s eating at me. Every time we cruise someone new, it hurts worse than the last.” I shook my head. “I can’t do it anymore.”

He stayed quiet for a long second, forehead still pressed to mine, breath warm against my lips. Then he nodded once, slow and sure, like he’d been waiting for me to finally say it.

“Alright then,” he whispered. “It stops. Tonight. No more games. Just you and me, like it was in the beginning.” He stroked my face. “As long as the grass grows and the water flows.”

I smiled. I’d been carrying that sentiment with me, building my courage to do the one thing that, a year ago, I wouldn’t have believed you if you’d told me it would happen.

I nudged Garrett backward so I could get on my knees, facing him. It was only two words, but they carried so much weight that my tongue hesitated while my mind sped ahead.

“Marry me.”

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In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

Yesterday morning in the sacristy, Lorenzo fucking me as I watched my eyes—the shifting, adoration, and need in them, had imprinted itself in my mind.

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Lorenzo had professed he was willing to burn the world down to keep me. That my belonging to him, that his love for me, meant he was willing to give up everything.

Everything.

His priesthood and his reputation. The respect of the diocese: other priests, the bishops, cardinals, and even the pope himself. He would risk eternal damnation for me.

I set my hand on the door to the rectory. This was where he wanted me to come to him. The other two priests were back from their pilgrimage and would wonder why I was there.

Lorenzo seemed intent on exposing us, on letting the light fall across our sin so there would be no more shadows to hide in.

I pushed the door open. The smell of coffee and toast greeted me, along with the low murmur of Father Michael and Father Xavier in the kitchen. They looked up as I stepped inside.

“Matteo?” Father Michael turned fully in his chair. “It’s early for you to be here for Mass. What can we help you with?”

“I’m here to see Father Lorenzo.”

Father Xavier stirred some cream into his coffee, eyes flicking to my face. “He hasn’t come down yet.”

I touched my throat, pulse hammering beneath my fingers. “He asked me to come upstairs.”

Father Michael frowned, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Mrs. Callahan has lodged accusations against you.”

The words landed like a slap. My knees nearly gave out on me. I opened my mouth to speak—to lie, to deflect, when the voice that commanded my every breath rolled down the stairs, deep and unyielding. “Matteo, come here.”

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“Excuse me,” I mumbled and scurried toward the stairs. I pounded up them, heart slamming, and stepped into the bedroom Lorenzo had disappeared into.

The morning sun streamed through the window, gilding the made bed, sheets turned down, pillows fluffed, waiting for me like an altar.

Lorenzo closed the door behind me with a soft click, then cupped my face in both hands. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones; his fingertips slid into my hair. Then his lips were on mine, reconnecting us after having spent a night apart. The kiss was long, slow, and devastating.

I felt full of him already—his scent, his heat, his claim.

He spun me gently in the room, a dance of two souls who had chosen the flames over salvation. His hand glided down my waist, tugging me tighter against him, then released my mouth just enough to breathe.

“You came,” he said, his voice at the breaking point of breathlessness.

“I would do anything for you … for us.”

He brushed his knuckles down my cheek, tender, possessive. “I love you.”

The words struck me like a bell—clear, resonant, holy in their heresy. My heart sang louder than any hymn. I clutched the front of his shirt.

“I love you, too.”

He smiled, relieved. “Father Xavier is doing Mass this morning.” His fingers found the hem of my shirt, sliding beneath to trace the skin of my stomach. “I told him there was something I needed to do.”

I sighed, shivering as his hands roamed up my spine, then dug into my hair, tugging just enough to tilt my head back. He walked me backward until the backs of my legs hit the mattress.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

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Hope you enjoyed these sensual images from my ‘Come Back to Bed’ folder. Watch your inbox for The Black Velvet Gallery’s next post.

Image credits remain with the original creators and copyright holders. Shared here for illustrative purposes only.

Ethan knew he was the smaller one. At 5’6” and 135 pounds after a good bulk, he was lean, wiry, and devoted in a way that bordered on religious.

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For two years, he had worshipped Marcus like a god carved from marble and testosterone. Marcus was 6’3”, 245 pounds of dense, vascular muscle, the kind of physique that turned heads at the gym and made straight men do double-takes in the locker room.

His chest was a shelf, his arms thicker than Ethan’s thighs, and his cock … well, Ethan had spent countless nights choking on it, tears streaming down his face, trying to prove he could handle what his man needed.

But lately, it wasn’t enough.

It was a rainy Thursday night when it all cracked open. They were in their apartment, the one Marcus mostly paid for with his tech salary and modeling gigs. Ethan was on his knees between Marcus’s massive quads; his lips stretched obscenely around the thick head of his boyfriend’s cock. He’d been at it for twenty minutes already, jaw aching, throat raw, but Marcus still hadn’t cum. The big man’s hand rested lazily on Ethan’s head, not even guiding him anymore, just resting there like an afterthought.

“Fuck, babe,” Marcus finally sighed, voice deep and slightly bored. “You’re trying so hard … and still doing a pathetic job.”

Ethan pulled off with a wet gasp, strings of spit connecting his swollen lips to the glistening shaft. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I know I’m not … big enough. Or strong enough. Or—”

Marcus tilted his head, looking down at him with that calm, predatory patience that always made Ethan’s stomach flip. “Say it.”

Ethan’s eyes filled with tears. He hated how easily they came these days. “I can’t satisfy you anymore. Not the way you need. Your size … your stamina … I’m too small. I get tired. I can’t take it like those guys at the gym look like they could.”

The silence stretched. Marcus’s cock, still hard and heavy, twitched against Ethan’s cheek.

Then Marcus smiled, slow and dangerous. “You’re right. You can’t. But I’ve got an idea that might fix that.”

That’s how the arrangement began.

The first time, Ethan thought he might actually throw up from jealousy. Marcus had picked a guy named Tyler, a thick-chested powerlifter with a beard and arms that rivaled Marcus’s own. They’d made eye contact in the free weights area, exchanged a few words, and Marcus had simply jerked his head toward the locker room.

Tyler had grinned like he’d won the lottery.

Ethan sat in the driver’s seat of their SUV in the gym parking lot, hands clenched on the wheel. Marcus had told him the rules clearly:

“You drive me here. You wait. Either in the car or in the locker room corner, like a good little bitch. When I’m done, you clean me up with your tongue. Every drop. Then you thank me for letting you serve.”

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Ethan had cried in the shower before they left. Now he sat there for forty-five agonizing minutes, imagining every thrust, every grunt, every time Marcus’s huge cock split Tyler open in ways Ethan could never handle. His own dick was painfully hard in his shorts, which only made the shame worse.

When Marcus finally emerged from the gym, hair still damp from sweat, he looked freshly fucked and radiant. He climbed into the passenger seat, shut the door, and immediately reached over to grip the back of Ethan’s neck.

“Drive behind the gym. Park in the back lot where it’s dark.”

Ethan’s hands trembled on the wheel as he obeyed. The gym’s rear parking area was mostly empty and poorly lit at this hour. As soon as the SUV was parked in a shadowed corner, Marcus spoke again, voice low and commanding.

“Backseat. Now.”

Ethan quickly climbed between the seats into the back. Marcus followed right behind him, his massive frame making the car rock slightly as he settled into the backseat and spread his thick, powerful legs.

Marcus shimmied his gym shorts off his hips and pulled out his still semi-hard cock. It hung heavy between his legs, slick, shiny, and carrying the unmistakable scent of another man.

“Lick.”

Ethan hesitated only a second before leaning in. The taste hit him immediately—salt, musk, the faint bitterness of cum, and something else, something that made his stomach clench with humiliation. He dragged his tongue along the thick vein, cleaning every inch while Marcus watched him with hooded eyes.

“Good boy,” Marcus murmured, running a hand through Ethan’s hair. “Tyler came twice. Said I ruined him for other tops. You’re gonna thank me when we get home.”

That night, the apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside their window. Ethan had barely closed the front door before Marcus grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him toward the bedroom.

“Strip,” Marcus ordered, already peeling off his own shirt to reveal his massive, pumped chest and thick abs. “On the bed. Ass up.”

Ethan’s hands shook as he obeyed, peeling off his clothes until he was completely naked. His own cock was painfully hard, smaller and thinner than Marcus’s, even when fully erect. He climbed onto the bed on all fours, arching his back the way Marcus liked.

Marcus stood behind him, stroking his heavy cock back to full hardness. It was still slightly slick from the earlier cleanup Ethan had performed in the car.

“Look at you,” Marcus said, voice deep and mocking. “So eager even after I just wrecked a real man at the gym. Tyler took every inch like it was nothing. You? You tap out after five minutes.”

Ethan whimpered, face burning with shame. He felt the heavy weight of Marcus’s cock slap against his ass cheeks a few times before the thick head pressed against his hole.

“Please, Sir …,” Ethan whispered.

“Please, what?” Marcus growled, gripping Ethan’s narrow hips with both huge hands. “Please fuck you like I fucked him? You know you can’t handle that.”

He pushed forward anyway. The fat head of Marcus’s cock breached Ethan’s tight ring, forcing a sharp cry from his throat. Even after two years, the stretch was brutal. Inch after thick inch sank in slowly, stretching Ethan far beyond what felt comfortable.

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The Black Velvet Room has always drawn its power from the shadows between obsession and desire—where longing cuts deep, chemistry turns dangerous, and every story pulls you under just a little further.

That’s why I’m refocusing the publication and taking it back to its roots. From now on, The Black Velvet Room will be dedicated entirely to homoerotic fiction under the name Gavin E. Black.

This means the Leigh Jarrett and JT Fader MM+ romance stories will be phased out of the publication. Those stories aren’t going anywhere—they’ll remain available as ebooks for anyone who wants them—but the Substack itself is becoming a more singular, immersive space.

I want The Black Velvet Room to be pure: raw, homoerotic fiction, thick with emotional tension, moral ambiguity, and the kind of beautifully reckless men who ruin you in the best possible ways.

This shift feels right. It’s sharper, darker, and far more potent. The stories waiting behind the velvet curtain are only getting more intense, more explicit, and more unapologetically raunchy.

If that’s the kind of heat you crave… you’re exactly where you belong.

Find Leigh Jarrett’s MM+ Contemporary Romance stories on ebook

Find JT Fader’s MM+ Fantasy and Paranormal Romance stories on ebook

“Tell me, Tyler … do you always experience uncontrolled leakage when you’re being examined?”

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Dr. Elias Hawthorne delivered the question in his usual calm, professional tone, as if it were just another routine item on the sports physical checklist. The words hung in the sterile exam room, clinical and precise. Yet the effect on the young man seated on the table was immediate and unmistakable. Tyler Grant, the same athletic boy the doctor had treated since he was twelve, gripped the edge of the paper-covered table, his broad shoulders tightening as a visible shiver ran through him.

For thirty years, Dr. Hawthorne had been Millford’s most trusted conservative physician—steady, traditional, and impeccably proper. Parents trusted him completely. He had watched Tyler grow from a gangly kid into a strong, college-bound eighteen-year-old with a powerful build honed by years of track and football. But today, during this final pre-college physical, something had shifted. The doctor’s standard questions about urinary function and genital health were no longer landing as routine.

Tyler’s cheeks burned red. His breathing grew shallow. Beneath the thin white jockstrap he’d been asked to wear for the hernia check, his cock had thickened noticeably, pressing against the fabric. A slow, betraying wet spot began to form at the tip, darkening the material as the young man fought—and failed—to hide his body’s humiliating response.

Dr. Hawthorne adjusted his glasses, keeping his expression neutral even as he registered every detail. This wasn’t ordinary nervousness. This was a very specific medical fetish, and Tyler had just revealed exactly how deeply it affected him.

He remained perfectly still, his face a mask of professional detachment. Inside, however, his mind was racing. He had performed this exact physical on hundreds of young men, yet none had ever reacted with such raw, involuntary honesty. Tyler’s jockstrap was now visibly damp, the growing wet patch betraying him with every heartbeat.

The doctor’s years of clinical training told him to move on, to pretend he hadn’t noticed. But something deeper, curiosity mixed with an unexpected authority, kept him rooted in place.

“Interesting,” Dr. Hawthorne said quietly, tapping his pen against the clipboard. “Your chart shows no history of this issue. Yet here we are.” He stepped closer to the exam table, his tone measured and deliberate. “When did this start happening during medical exams, Tyler? Be honest. I need details if I’m going to document this properly.”

Tyler swallowed hard, his muscular thighs trembling slightly. His voice came out small and strained. “A … a couple of years ago, sir. It just … happens when you ask certain questions. The way you say them. Like you’re really checking.” Another bead of precum soaked through the fabric as he spoke, his cock now fully outlined and twitching under the doctor’s steady gaze.

The older man nodded slowly, as if this were simply another diagnostic puzzle. He adjusted his stethoscope unnecessarily, buying himself a moment. “I see. Then, for the sake of a thorough exam, I’ll need to continue. Any pain or discomfort when you’re fully erect like this?”

The question was delivered with clinical precision, but both of them knew it had gone far beyond standard protocol. Tyler’s breath hitched sharply, and the wet spot on his jockstrap spread wider.

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Dr. Hawthorne set his clipboard down on the counter with deliberate care, the soft click of plastic against Formica filling the quiet room. “Let’s be precise about this. I need you to describe exactly what triggers it. Is it the questions about your genitals? The hernia check? Or is it simply being exposed and measured in front of an authority figure?” His voice stayed low and even, every syllable carrying that familiar doctor’s authority that had always made Tyler feel small and examined.

Tyler’s face burned deeper crimson. He shifted on the table, the paper crinkling loudly beneath him. “All of it, sir,” he whispered, barely able to meet the older man’s eyes. “Especially … when you talk like that. Like you’re really studying me. Like something might be wrong down there.” As the words left his mouth, his cock throbbed visibly, forcing another thick drop of precum to soak through the already drenched jockstrap. The fabric was now almost sheer, clinging obscenely to every ridge and vein.

The doctor’s eyebrows lifted slightly, though his expression remained composed. He reached for a fresh pair of gloves, snapping them on with slow, methodical movements. “I understand. For medical accuracy, I’ll have to perform a more hands-on evaluation. Stand up, please. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands behind your head.” The instructions were delivered in the same tone he’d used for thousands of routine checks, yet they now carried a heavy, intentional weight.

Tyler obeyed without hesitation, rising on shaky legs. The soaked jockstrap tented obscenely as he assumed the position, arms locked behind his head, powerful chest rising and falling rapidly. Dr. Hawthorne stepped in close, his gloved hands hovering just below the young man’s waist. “Good. Now try to hold still while I check for any abnormalities. And Tyler … if you leak again, I expect you to tell me exactly how it feels.”

Dr. Hawthorne’s gloved fingers brushed lightly against the waistband of Tyler’s jockstrap, pulling it down just enough to fully expose the young man’s throbbing erection. The cool air of the exam room made Tyler twitch visibly. “Breathe normally,” the doctor instructed, his voice steady and clinical. “I’m going to palpate the area now. Tell me if you feel any unusual sensitivity.” His fingers wrapped around the base of Tyler’s cock with professional detachment, as though this were simply another hernia check, yet the slow, deliberate squeeze said otherwise.

Tyler let out a shaky gasp, his muscular arms trembling behind his head. “It … it feels too good, sir. When you touch me like you’re checking for something wrong.” A thick bead of precum immediately welled up at the tip and dripped down the shaft, landing on the doctor’s gloved fingers. Tyler’s face burned with humiliation, but his hips gave a tiny, involuntary push forward.

“Fascinating,” Dr. Hawthorne murmured, maintaining his composed demeanor. He stroked upward in a slow, measuring motion, as if evaluating length and firmness for his notes. “No signs of swelling or irregularity so far. But you’re producing quite a bit of fluid. Is this amount normal for you during medical examinations?” He tightened his grip slightly at the head, milking another heavy drop free.

“Yes, Doctor,” Tyler whimpered, eyes squeezed shut. “Only when it’s you. Only when you talk to me like I’m your patient … like I need to be thoroughly checked.” His cock pulsed hard in the older man’s hand, leaking steadily now, the clear fluid coating the doctor’s fingers and dripping onto the floor.

Dr. Hawthorne released him momentarily and picked up his clipboard again, making a few deliberate notes. “Patient exhibits strong arousal response to clinical questioning and genital manipulation. Significant precum production observed.” He looked back at Tyler, still standing exposed and trembling. “Turn around and bend over the table, please. I need to complete the prostate screening. And this time, Tyler, I want a full description of how it feels when you start leaking again.”

Tyler turned slowly and bent forward over the exam table, his strong arms resting on the crinkling paper as he presented himself. His muscular ass flexed with nervous tension, the soaked jockstrap pulled down around his thighs. Dr. Hawthorne stood behind him, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves with a sharp latex sound that echoed in the small room. “Good position,” he said calmly. “I’m going to perform a digital rectal exam now. This is standard for a thorough sports physical, especially with your reported sensitivity.”

The doctor applied a generous amount of cool lubricant to his gloved finger, then placed his other hand firmly on Tyler’s lower back to steady him. “Relax your muscles as much as possible,” he instructed, his voice low and authoritative. Slowly, he pressed his slick finger against Tyler’s tight entrance and began to push inside with clinical precision. Tyler gasped sharply as the finger slid deeper, breaching him in one smooth, deliberate motion.

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In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

The rectory clock ticked past three in the morning, each second a small, deliberate accusation. I sat at the desk in my bedroom, still wearing the black shirt and collar I’d put on for evening confessions, Matteo’s letter spread open before me like a wound I couldn’t stop touching.

The paper was soft from my fingers tracing the same lines over and over. The tearstains that had blurred his careful script, the way his handwriting trembled on “I love you” and steadied on “let me go.” I pressed my thumb to the dried salt of one drop and felt my chest crack wider.

He thought he was saving me. He thought walking away would leave me clean, unburned, still wearing this collar like it meant something without him in the world.

He was wrong—because my world had already become him.

He’s the only thing I’d ever stolen from God. The boy I helped raise after his father died, the one who looked up at me from the altar rail like I was holy instead of just another man drowning in black wool. I had fallen in love with Matteo long before I ever touched him.

The love I felt for my stepbrother had cracked every vow I ever made, and I had chosen—with my whole heart—to let it.

The garden had terrified me more than any rough claiming ever could. That softness, that tenderness, the way he’d whispered “I love you” like it was the only truth left between us—it had undone me completely.

I didn’t need to ruin him to keep him. I needed him to know how deeply I loved him, how completely he owned me in return.

So tomorrow night, when he came to me again, I would hold him gently, show him with my hands and my words that this love was real—that it was worth every risk.

This isn’t sin anymore.

This is love. And love has become my only survival.

The next morning, Mass dragged like a penance I didn’t want. Every word of the liturgy tasted hollow; my need to serve the altar paled beside the deeper, darker need to have Matteo serve me.

To love me with the same helpless devotion I felt for him.

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I let him fuss in the sacristy afterward: folding linens with those careful hands, hanging his cassock and surplice like they were still sacred.

Only when the last fold was perfect did I step behind him, slide my hands under the hem of his shirt, and lift. He raised his arms without a word—obedient, eager, already yielding.

I pressed my lips to the warm, bare skin of his shoulder, tasting salt and faint soap.

“Get undressed for me, my love.”

His eyes flicked toward the open sacristy door—half fear, half thrill. Anyone could walk in. A server. Another priest. Mrs. Callahan with her sharp gaze.

I’d left it ajar on purpose. Let fate decide if we were caught.

Let the risk make every second burn brighter.

When he stood naked before me, skin flushed, and goose-bumped in the cool air, I turned him to face the full-length mirror in the corner.

Our reflections stared back: him trembling, beautiful, mine; me still half in black, cassock parted, eyes dark with hunger.

I reached around his waist, wrapped my fist around his cock—already thickening, and stroked it slowly. “Watch what I’m doing to you, Matteo.”

A ragged breath shuddered out of him. “Yes, Father.”

Those two words sank into me like wine—sweet, heady, mine.

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The front door clicked shut behind Mom, and just like that, the house felt different. Smaller. Hotter. Charged with something I couldn’t name but had felt building for years.

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I stood at the top of the stairs watching my stepdad, Mark, as he carried her suitcase out to the Uber. His broad shoulders strained against his faded black t-shirt, the same one that always clung to his thick chest after a workout. Two weeks. Just me and him. No Mom. No buffer. The thought sent a nervous thrill straight down my spine and into my stomach.

Mark closed the door and turned to look at me. At 52, he was still ridiculously handsome—greying beard, strong jaw, and those deep brown eyes that always seemed to see right through me.

“Guess it’s just us, kid,” he said, his voice low and rough like gravel. He gave me that half-smile that made my knees weak. “You gonna behave while she’s gone?”

I forced a casual laugh, but my heart was hammering. “Yeah. Of course.”

If only he knew how badly I wanted to be anything but good.

That evening, Mark didn’t waste any time. He came downstairs in a tight white tank top and gray gym shorts that hung low on his hips, showing the deep V of his lower abs. “We should make use of the time,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “Get you stronger. I’ve seen how you slouch over that laptop all day. Come on down to the gym.”

I followed him downstairs, trying not to stare at the way his powerful thighs flexed with every step. The basement gym was small but well-equipped—weights, a bench, and a large mirror that covered one entire wall. The air already smelled faintly of his sweat from earlier that afternoon. Mark spotted me on the bench press first, his big hands hovering just under the bar, ready to catch it. Every time I pushed up, his fingers would brush lightly against my sides or my chest to “correct my form.”

“Chest up, Alex. Don’t arch your back like that,” he murmured, his voice close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath on my skin. I was already half-hard in my shorts by the third set, praying he wouldn’t notice. But when I sat up after the last rep, flushed and breathing hard, his eyes flicked down for just a second before meeting mine again.

“Looking good, kid. We’ll make a man out of you yet.”

By the time we moved to squats, I was struggling to focus. Mark stood behind me, his massive frame filling the mirror as he guided my posture. His hands settled firmly on my hips, thumbs pressing into the small of my back.

Every time I lowered down, my ass brushed against the front of his shorts. I could feel the heavy warmth of him there; thick, solid, impossible to ignore. My face burned as I tried to steady my breathing.

“Easy,” he said quietly, his grip tightening slightly. “Control the movement. Don’t let it control you.” His voice had dropped even lower, and I wasn’t sure if he was still talking about the workout.

We finished with core work on the mat. I was on my back doing reverse planks while Mark knelt beside me, one large hand pressed between my shoulder blades to keep me steady. I kept stealing glances at the thick outline in his shorts, now even more obvious up close. My own cock was throbbing painfully against the thin material of my gym shorts with no way to hide it.

“Ten more seconds,” he growled, his hand sliding slowly down my spine. “You’re doing good, Alex. Real good.” The praise hit me somewhere deep and dirty. When the plank finally ended, I collapsed onto the mat, chest heaving. Mark didn’t move away. He stayed right there, looking down at me with an unreadable expression, his eyes dark.

“Hit the shower upstairs,” he finally said, voice low. “I’ll clean up down here.” As I stood on shaky legs, I could feel his gaze follow me all the way to the stairs. My heart wouldn’t stop racing. The way he’d touched me tonight felt different. More intentional. More hungry.

I barely made it to my room, heart still racing. My cock was aching as I stripped out of my sweat-soaked shorts and underwear. I knew I shouldn’t, but the second I wrapped my hand around myself, all I could picture was Mark; those strong hands, that thick bulge, and the way he’d looked at me on the mat like he wanted to devour me.

I stroked faster, biting my lip to stay quiet as filthy thoughts flooded my mind. What if he came upstairs right now? What if he walked in and saw me like this? I grabbed my phone and opened a private tab, quickly pulling up one of my favorite videos—a muscular older man fucking a younger guy hard from behind, growling “good boy” with every thrust.

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I turned the volume low and matched my strokes to the rhythm on screen, imagining it was Mark’s thick cock stretching me open instead.

I was getting close, hips bucking into my fist, when I heard it; the soft creak of my bedroom door opening.

My hand froze mid-stroke as my eyes flew open. Mark stood in the doorway, still in his tank top and gym shorts, a glass of water in one hand. His gaze dropped slowly from my flushed face to my hard cock, still wrapped in my fist, then to the sounds of rough grunting coming from my phone.

The video was still playing; the older man slamming into the younger one, calling him “son.”

“Fuck—” I gasped, yanking my hand away and scrambling for a pillow to cover myself. My face burned with humiliation. “I—I thought you were downstairs. I’m sorry, I—”

Mark didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at me with those dark, intense eyes. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. Finally, he stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him.

“You don’t have to hide that from me anymore, Alex,” he said, his voice low and rough. He set the glass of water down on my dresser and took another slow step closer. His eyes flicked back to my phone, where the video was still playing; the older man pounding deep into the younger guy while calling him “son.” My stomach twisted with shame, but my cock twitched traitorously under the pillow.

“I … I didn’t mean for you to see that,” I stammered, barely able to meet his gaze. My heart was pounding so hard I felt dizzy. Mark’s presence filled the room, his big frame towering over my bed, still radiating heat from the gym as he looked down at me with dark, intense eyes.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his beard. “I’ve known for a while, kid. The way you look at me during workouts. How you get hard when I put my hands on you. I’ve been trying to ignore it … but I’m done pretending.”

My mouth went dry. “You … you knew?”

Mark nodded, his eyes locked on mine. “Been fighting it since you turned eighteen. Every time you’d stare at my chest or my cock in my tight shorts. Thought I was imagining it at first. But tonight, watching you on that mat with your ass pushing back against me … I couldn’t take it anymore.”

He reached down and slowly pulled the pillow away from my lap, exposing my still-hard cock. I didn’t stop him. His gaze dropped to it, dark and hungry, and he let out a low sound that made my stomach flip.

“Looks like you’ve been needing this for a long time,” he murmured, his voice dropping even deeper. “So tell me the truth, Alex. You want your stepdad’s cock?”

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The rain in Barcelona fell in a soft, persistent drizzle, a grey curtain that blurred the sharp edges of the Gothic Quarter and turned the ancient stones into slick mirrors. Peter stood under the awning of a small café, staring at the wet cobblestones without really seeing them. The espresso in his hand had gone cold, a thin skin forming on top like a scab over something long dead. He hadn’t taken a sip in what felt like hours.

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Two years. Two years since the squeal of tires, the crunch of shattering glass, and the crushing silence that followed. He had sold the house in the hills, the cars they’d chosen together, every photo and piece of furniture still carrying the memory of their bodies and voices. He packed a single bag and started walking because sitting still felt like climbing into a tomb beside them.

The Grand Canyon had swallowed his voice and given nothing back but dust and indifferent wind. He stood at the rim for hours as the sun bled across those impossible red layers, the vast silence pressing down harder than any answer he’d been chasing. Some losses were too complete for even that kind of majesty to touch. He walked back to the rental car with the taste of dry earth in his mouth and an emptiness no road could outrun.

That same emptiness had carried him across oceans and time zones until it deposited him here, in a city famous for lovers and long nights, feeling like a ghost drifting through someone else’s story.

The ancient streets wrapped around him with wet stone and wrought-iron whispers, full of couples sharing umbrellas and stolen kisses under archways. He watched them through invisible glass. Close enough to see the warmth, too far gone to feel it—his reflection in the café window pale and hollow, a man carved by absence, still carrying two years of nowhere in the slope of his shoulders and the cold cup clenched in his hand.

He turned to leave, shoulders hunched against the damp, when he collided with a solid chest. The man was slightly shorter than him, compact and powerfully built, with dense muscle that spoke of quiet strength rather than bulk. His shoulders were broad but not overwhelming, and his eyes held the same raw, weathered exhaustion Peter saw staring back at him every morning in the mirror.

“Sorry,” the man said. His voice was a low British rumble, rough like he hadn’t used it much lately. “Clumsy of me.”

“It’s fine,” Peter mumbled, already stepping aside.

But the man didn’t move. He stood there in the rain, looking at Peter—not just at his face, but deeper, like he could see the cracks behind his eyes. “You look … lost.”

Peter almost laughed. His voice came out dry and broken. “I am.”

The rain kept falling, soft and steady. “I know the feeling.” The man extended a large hand. “Leo. From London. Also … traveling.”

Peter hesitated, then took it. The grip was warm, firm, steady in a way that made something tight in his chest loosen just a fraction. “Peter. From LA.”

They stood under the awning; two strangers anchored in a moment that refused to pass. Leo’s gaze didn’t waver. “I lost my wife,” he said quietly, the words simple and heavy. “And my son. A year ago. Complications in childbirth.”

The admission hit Peter like a fist to the sternum. His own story rose unbidden. “My wife. My daughter. Drunk driver. Two years ago.”

Something shifted hard between them. The polite distance collapsed. They were no longer just two men standing in the rain. They were two survivors washed up on the same desolate shore, recognizing the same wreckage in each other’s eyes.

Leo nodded slowly, rain sliding down his face. “Fucking awful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Leo glanced down the street, then back at Peter. “I could use a real drink. Something stronger than coffee. If you’re not in a hurry to be alone tonight.”

Peter thought about his empty hotel room, the silence waiting for him there, and shook his head. “I’m not.”

They found a quiet bar tucked down a narrow side street—dark wood, soft lights, the low murmur of locals. They took a table near the back and ordered whiskey.

The first few minutes were quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t feel awkward. Then the words started coming out in careful pieces.

They didn’t dig into the accidents. Those memories were still too sharp. Instead, they spoke of what came after: sleepless nights, meaningless objects, the vow never to love again.

Leo was handsome in the way of broken things—strong jaw, lines at the corners of his eyes, hands that looked both capable and surprisingly gentle. He’d been a surgeon.

Now he said he was nothing.

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Peter turned his glass, watching the amber catch the light. “I used to live in the gym,” he said quietly. “Every day, sometimes twice. It was part of the job—modeling, campaigns, all that empty perfection.” A short, bitter laugh escaped him. “Now it feels so fucking fake. I still go through the motions, but it’s hollow. Like maintaining a house no one lives in anymore.”

“We’re both running,” Leo said, swirling the whiskey. “But you can’t outrun something riding shotgun inside your chest.”

Peter felt the truth land low in his gut. “Then what the hell do we do?”

Leo held his gaze for a long, unflinching beat. “Maybe we stop pretending we can do it alone. Maybe we just need someone walking beside us … so the silence doesn’t get the chance to scream.”

The words settled between them like something alive.

“Yes,” Peter said, the word rough and certain.

They left Barcelona the next morning, sharing a train compartment to Valencia. Before the train, they walked down to the seaside at first light, shoes in hand, letting the cool Mediterranean wash over their feet. They stood side by side watching the water, shoulders almost touching, testing whether the sea could hold space for two haunted men.

The cities they trekked to began to blur. What mattered wasn’t the views—it was the space between them in train seats, in hotel rooms they started sharing for practical reasons … and for reasons neither of them said out loud.

On the ferry to Tangier, they stood at the rail as Spain dissolved behind them. Shortly after arriving in the ancient city, they found a quiet stretch of beach beyond the medina and sat on the warm sand as the African sun dropped low and red, letting the waves fill the silences they used to fear.

Little by little, they started laughing again—small, rusty sounds that felt new and fragile. Peter caught himself watching Leo’s hands, the crease of his brow, the heat of his body in crowded streets. A different kind of silence grew between them. Charged. Unnamed.

They took a room with a small balcony overlooking the chaotic medina. The air smelled of spices and sea salt. The two narrow beds suddenly looked ridiculous.

They sat outside with local wine as the sun went down. Conversation faded into comfortable quiet. Leo leaned back, shirt open at the collar.

“I haven’t felt … anything for so long,” he said quietly. “Just flat grey.”

“I know,” Peter replied, his gaze lingering on the way the last golden light caught in Leo’s dark curls.

“But lately ….” Leo turned. His eyes met Peter’s—searching now, intense. “I feel something. When you laugh. When you tell me those ridiculous American stories. It … stirs.”

Peter’s heart pounded. “I feel it too. It’s confusing.”

“It’s terrifying,” Leo said, a small, vulnerable smile on his lips.

They finished the wine. Inside, the room was lit by one bedside lamp.

Without discussion, they sat on their separate beds, facing each other across the narrow gap. The space between the mattresses felt like a canyon.

“I don’t want to feel lost tonight,” Leo said, voice low. He stood and crossed to Peter’s bed. “I just want to feel.”

Peter looked up at him. The lamp light sculpted Leo’s powerful frame. Heat, unfamiliar and urgent, pooled low in Peter’s belly.

The walls he had built crumbled under the weight of a need so profound it dwarfed grief.

“Yes,” Peter breathed.

Leo knelt between his legs. His hands slid slowly up Peter’s thighs, reverent and sure. He undid Peter’s trousers and drew them open, exposing his cock to the cool air and the scorching heat of Leo’s gaze.

He leaned in. The first touch was a soft kiss to the inside of Peter’s thigh. Then higher. Another kiss. The brush of Leo’s nose against sensitive skin made Peter gasp. He was hardening under the slow, worshipful attention.

When Leo finally looked up, his eyes were dark with intent. “I want to taste you.”

Peter could only nod.

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In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

I couldn’t sleep. Lorenzo’s words kept circling in my mind like smoke that refused to dissipate. He loved me. He had said it—low, cracked, almost against his will, while the garden moonlight silvered his face and his body moved inside mine with a gentleness I’d never felt from him before.

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No bruising grip. Just slow, deliberate thrusts, his forehead pressed to mine, whispering “Are you okay?” every time my breath hitched. Checking. Caring. Filling me so carefully it hurt more than any rough claiming ever had.

Our exchanged “I love you’s” looped through me like a litany I couldn’t stop reciting.

A heresy I wanted to tattoo on the inside of my ribs.

I slipped from the bed and sank to my knees beside it, the hardwood biting cold through my thin sleep pants.

Head bowed.

Hands clasped.

He was my master now.

I loved him.

I bowed to him.

I obeyed him.

My fingers found the rosary in my pocket—the one Mom had pressed into my hand many weeks ago, the day this all began, asking me to give it to Lorenzo.

I hadn’t. I’d kept it. A secret tether.

I pinched the first bead between thumb and forefinger and started the Hail Mary, voice barely a whisper.

Again.

Again.

Until my fingertips went numb and the beads felt like small, accusing stones.

An hour passed. Maybe more.

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No grace came.

No forgiveness.

Only the memory of Lorenzo in the garden, his breath warm against my throat, the slow roll of his hips, the way he’d shuddered when he spilled inside me, soft groans muffled in my hair.

My cock thickened against the cotton, insistent, traitorous.

I tried to ignore it.

Failed.

I slid my hand beneath the waistband, wrapped my fist around the hot length, and stroked once, like touching something sacred and profane at once.

“Lorenzo ….”

His name on my tongue was prayer and sin.

Two more strokes, agonizingly deliberate, and I was cumming, spilling hot and thick over my knuckles, a quiet, broken whimper escaping my throat.

The pleasure hadn’t even faded before shame crashed in.

Not shame at defiling my body.

Shame that I had done it without him.

He owned my release.

He decided when it happened, how hard, how much.

I had stolen it.

Disobeyed.

Tears burned instant and furious.

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Bile surged up my throat.

I lurched to my feet, stumbled down the dark hallway, and barely made the toilet before I retched—violent, gut-wrenching heaves that left my throat raw and my eyes streaming.

I collapsed forward, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain seat, sobs shaking my shoulders.

I didn’t deserve his love.

I had failed him already.

Proved I was unworthy.

My nose ran, snot dripping onto my upper lip, mixing with tears and spit.

Disgusting.

Exactly what I deserved.

Without thinking—without choice—I turned my head and dragged my tongue across the smooth rim of the toilet seat.

Tangy.

Slightly salty.

Chemical bite of cleaner underneath.

I licked again, slower, flattening my tongue, chasing every trace of residue like it was penance made manifest.

This was my place.

Kneeling.

Debased.

Cleaning filth because I couldn’t keep myself clean for him.

I pushed up onto my knees, gripped the seat with both hands, and kept going—long, deliberate strokes of my tongue until the porcelain gleamed wet under the faint light through the window.

My cock, still half-hard from earlier, twitched uselessly against my thigh.

Fresh tears fell onto the seat; I licked those away, too.

Penance.

Obedience.

Submission.

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I stayed there until my knees ached and my tongue went numb, until the sobs quieted to ragged breaths and the house was silent again.

Tomorrow, I would face him.

Tomorrow, I would confess this too—every stroke, every spill, every lick.

And whatever punishment he gave me, I would take it gratefully.

Because even in my lowest, dirtiest moment, I was still his.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

His.

The next day, before I had a chance to slip into the confessional, Mrs. Callahan cornered me just outside the sacristy. Her demeanor was harsh, her eyes accusing and disgusted.

“You’re dragging a good priest into the fire.”

“I … uh … don’t know what you mean.”

“And you add to that by lying in God’s house.” She crossed her arms. “This is your fault. You’ve tempted him. You are going to drag him to hell to be burned alive.”

“I … I ….” I lowered my head. She was right. I’d done something to seduce my stepbrother. To seduce a priest. I’d been too eager. I should have walked away when he was on his knees, murmuring my name like a Gregorian chant. I had led him further into the flames.

I was dooming us both by continuing to sin. I didn’t dare go into the confessional now. I couldn’t bear to hear his voice, comforting me … telling me he loved me. This had to end. All of it … the sin, the betrayal of God had to end. The thought of Lorenzo’s eternal damnation was too much to bear.

I found an empty office and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. There were words I couldn’t speak aloud. They needed to be said, but I couldn’t face him while sharing them.

I started the letter.

Lorenzo,

Tears dripped onto the paper.

I don’t know how to write this without tearing myself open all over again, but if I don’t say it now, I never will. I love you. God help me, I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything holy or human.

Last night in the garden, your voice breaking on “I love you,” the way you held me so carefully, moved inside me like I was something precious, not broken, was the closest I’ve ever come to grace.

Those words are branded into me now. I carry them like a beautiful wound that won’t stop bleeding. But the beauty is killing us both.

I’m the poison. Every time we touch, I drag you deeper into the dark with me. You were steady before. Holy, respected, the priest people turned to when their world cracked. Now you’re whispering vows in moonlit gardens that sound like promises we’ll both answer for.

Your collar, your calling, your soul, I’m stealing pieces of them every time I open my legs for you. Mrs. Callahan saw it. She didn’t need to name it. Her eyes named me the corrupter, the younger brother who should have stayed kneeling at the rail instead of between your thighs. She’s right. I’m dooming you. I can feel hell closing around us both, and I’m the one holding the door.

I can’t live with that.

Last night, after I left you, I couldn’t sleep. Your words kept echoing, and my body wouldn’t let me forget how you felt inside me. I tried to pray. Knelt with the rosary you never got, the one my mom gave me for you. But the beads turned to accusations. I failed. I slipped my hand into my pants and stroked myself, whispering your name like a prayer I had no right to say.

Three strokes and I came all over my hand, spilling without your permission, without your touch, without your command. I stole what belongs to you. I disobeyed you in the worst way.

The shame hit like a fist. I wretched in the toilet until my throat was raw, then I knelt in the bathroom and God forgive me, I licked the toilet seat. Flat tongue, slow strokes, tasting cleaner and salt, and my own filth. I cleaned every inch of it while tears ran down my face, because that’s what I deserve for betraying you. For taking my release when it’s yours to give or withhold.

For proving again how unworthy I am of the love you gave me.

Please.

End this.

Send me away. Tell me to leave the parish, transfer dioceses, vanish if that’s what it takes. Lie to our parents, tell them I’ve been called elsewhere. Make it final. I’ll hate every second of distance, but I’ll go because loving you means saving you from me.

Don’t come after me.

Don’t look at me across the altar like you’re memorizing my face for the last time.

Don’t write back.

Just let me go.

I’m sorry for every moan of your name, I let escape, for every time I whined for you to fill me, for turning your mercy into sin. I’m sorry I couldn’t be strong enough to stop wanting you.

I love you.

I’ll love you until they nail the lid on my coffin.

But please save yourself.

Let me go.

Matteo

I folded the page with trembling fingers, kissed it, a final secret act of devotion, and slid it under Lorenzo’s office door. This was my final confession of the deepest failure, but the only love I had left to give. My final gift to the man who commanded and loved me.

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I didn’t set foot in the church for 5 days.

I couldn’t face him. Couldn’t bear to see the man I’d begged to let me go actually do it.

He must have read the letter and taken every word to heart, because there was nothing—no text, no call, no shadow in the rectory window when I dared glance from the sidewalk.

Just silence.

And the silence was worse than any rebuke.

Dizziness came in waves now. I hadn’t eaten since the night I wrote the letter; my stomach twisted itself into knots at the thought of food. My parents hovered, voices soft with worry, pressing tea and toast I couldn’t swallow. They wanted a doctor. I knew the diagnosis already: my heart was shattered. I’d pushed away the only person who had ever made it beat.

I was drifting in half-sleep, curled under blankets, remembering the scent of his cassock from the last time he’d held me—when the first pebble struck the window.

A soft click.

Then another.

And another.

I rolled out of bed on unsteady legs, housecoat slipping off one shoulder, and peered through the glass. Moonlight shone across the backyard lawn.

Lorenzo stood there in his black coat, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking up at me with an expression I’d never seen on him before: uncertain. Almost afraid.

When our eyes met, he gave a small, cautious smile and lifted a hand—come down.

I had no strength left to refuse him.

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I shoved my feet into slippers, pulled the housecoat tighter around my starving frame, and slipped out the back door. The night air was cool against my skin. Lorenzo shifted from foot to foot as I approached, the confident priest gone, replaced by a man trembling at the edges.

“Can we talk?” His voice was low, rough.

I stopped a few feet away, arms wrapped around myself. “I’ve said everything.”

He glanced toward the sliding kitchen door, then up at our parents’ darkened bedroom window. “Matteo. Please. Let me respond.”

My gaze drifted to the shed at the far end of the yard, the one place our voices wouldn’t carry. I turned without a word and walked toward it. He followed.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cut grass, motor oil, and old wood. Lorenzo closed the door behind us with a quiet click. The space felt smaller than I remembered. Too small for the weight between us. He didn’t give me time to speak.

He crowded me back against the workbench where I’d once spent hours beside his father. My only father, tinkering with carburetors and spark plugs.

The edge bit into my lower back. Lorenzo’s hands came up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing the hollows beneath my eyes, and then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was devastating.

Hungry.

Desperate.

Full of everything we’d tried to bury: need, love, fear. His tongue swept in like he was claiming back every piece of me I’d tried to banish. I tasted desperation—mine, his—felt the tremor in his fingers as he held me, as if I might vanish. When he finally broke away, he pressed his forehead to mine, breath ragged against my lips.

“I can’t end this, Matteo.” His voice cracked. “I won’t. Because this love isn’t yours alone. I fell first, long before you ever knelt for me. I have spent every night since the garden asking why loving you feels like the only honest prayer I have left.”

“Lorenzo, please—”

“No.” He bowed his head, cheek sliding along my neck, hot breath fanning my shoulder in uneven puffs. “If we burn, we burn together.”

Terror rose sharp and bright in my chest. Not of hell, but of a world without him. My soul might as well not exist if he weren’t in it.

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Tears spilled hot and fast. Sobs tore out of me, raw. My knees buckled; he caught me, arms banding tight around my waist, holding me upright against the workbench.

“I can’t—” My voice rasped, broken. “I can’t keep hurting you.”

Lorenzo tightened his hold, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head as he pressed his forehead to mine. “You’re not hurting me, Matteo. We did this together. You didn’t drag me anywhere I didn’t choose to go. Every step, every touch, every moment we’ve shared—I wanted it just as much as you did. We took that step side by side, and I would take it again a thousand times. This love doesn’t hurt me. It saves me. You save me.”

He pulled back just enough to brush his thumb across my cheek, smearing tears. “We’re in this together. No more trying to carry the blame alone. I love you too much for that.”

I shook my head, tears falling faster. “You’ll lose everything. Your collar. Your—”

“I don’t care.” His grip tightened on my face, fierce and tender at once. “My life is nothing without you.” He kissed the wet track down my cheek, slow, reverent. “Tomorrow night. The rectory. Living room. No locked doors. No shame. No hiding.”

My body trembled, dizzy, starved, aching, but I managed the smallest nod.

“Yes, Father.”

He exhaled like the words had released the air from his lungs.

Then he kissed me again—slower this time, deeper, one hand sliding to the nape of my neck to hold me exactly where he wanted me.

I melted against him, boneless, starving for more than food.

For him.

When he finally stepped back, his thumb traced my swollen bottom lip.

“Mom says you’re not eating. Eat something tonight,” he murmured. “For me.”

I nodded again, throat too tight for words.

He opened the shed door, glanced once at the house, then slipped away into the dark.

I stood there in the smell of oil and grass, lips tingling, heart hammering, already counting the hours until tomorrow night.

No more half-measures.

Just us.

Burning.

The rectory was hushed, almost hollow without the low murmur of the other two priests. They were still away, walking the dust of the Holy Land on pilgrimage. Tonight, the house belonged only to us—and to whatever ruin we were about to make of it.

I found Lorenzo in the living room exactly as promised, seated in the old leather armchair, Bible open on his lap. Candlelight flickered across the pages. When I stepped inside, he looked up, and the smile that curved his mouth was slow, relieved, and possessive.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“You command me, Father.”

The words left my lips like a vow. He closed the Bible with deliberate care, set it aside, and rose, still in his black trousers and shirt, clerical collar stark against his throat. He looked every inch the priest who had spent the evening hearing confessions, offering counsel to the broken.

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But I was no longer lost.

He had found me.

He had claimed me back.

“On your hands and knees,” he said quietly. “Crawl to me.”

I dropped without hesitation. The carpet was rough on my palms as I moved toward him, heart slamming so hard I felt dizzy again—starved, fragile, but burning for this.

He took one measured step forward and lifted the hem of his trouser leg just enough to expose his shiny, black shoe. “Show me how sorry you are for trying to push me away.”

Understanding flooded me, hot and sweet. I scurried the last distance, lowering my face until my lips brushed leather. The taste hit immediately: sharp polish and the faint undercurrent of street grit. I dragged my tongue along the smooth vamp in long, worshipful strokes, then traced the edges, the laces, cleaning every inch to a dull gleam.

When he lifted his toe, I dove beneath, tongue flat against the sole, swallowing the bitter tang of grass and damp earth from the garden where he’d first said he loved me.

“Shirt off. Before the other shoe.”

I stripped it quickly, tossed the fabric onto the sofa, and returned to my task, naked from the waist up now, skin prickling in the cool air. The second shoe received the same devotion: slow licks, thorough, consuming. When I finished, he took it off and nudged the shoe toward my face.

“Nose in it. Breathe me in.”

I buried my face deep inside the warm leather cavity. His scent flooded me—sweat, skin, the faint sour edge of a long day on his feet. It was pungent, overwhelming; my throat worked against a gag reflex I refused to indulge. I inhaled until my lungs burned, dizzy with him, cock already straining painfully against my jeans.

He kicked the shoe aside.

“Everything else off. Leave your clothes on the sofa.”

This was the no-hiding he’d promised. Mrs. Callahan would see them tomorrow morning, crumpled evidence of my surrender, and her horror would be part of our vows.

I trusted him to know what I needed.

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Naked now, skin flushed and shivering, I knelt again. Lorenzo unzipped, freed his cock—thick, flushed dark, already slick at the tip, and took the small silver chalice from the side table.

The same one used for taking private communion.

He stroked himself slowly while I watched, breath shallow.

“Sit up. Pinch your nipples. Hard.”

My hands rose, fingers clamping down until the sting blurred my vision. Pain bloomed bright, and my cock jerked, bouncing up against my stomach.

“Touch your cock. Just hold it.”

I wrapped my fist around the base. It throbbed in my palm, a thick string of pre-cum stretching down to my thigh.

“Taste yourself.”

I swiped the bead with two fingers and brought it to my lips: salty, bitter, mingling with the lingering filth of his shoes. Lorenzo groaned, pace quickening, muscles tensing along his forearms.

When he came, it was with a low, guttural sound—long pulses of his seed spilling into the chalice, white and obscene against the sacred metal.

He stepped closer, still breathing hard.

“This is my blood, shed for you.”

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Writing male/male sexual interaction as an AFAB author is a strange blend of curiosity, research, humility, and occasional absurdity.

It’s a craft that often feels less like “writing what you know” and more like “writing what you are determined to understand well enough to do justice.”

Because the truth is: I don’t have the lived, embodied reference points that many cis gay men take for granted. I don’t instinctively know how a body moves in that context, how certain sensations register, what feels intuitive, awkward, pleasurable, or vulnerable.

I have to build that knowledge deliberately, piece by piece, like assembling a model from scattered parts and hoping the finished shape resembles reality.

That process is rarely elegant.

It involves, yes, watching gay porn videos with a notebook brain instead of a voyeur brain. Not for titillation, but for mechanics. Angles. Hands. How bodies align. Not that I don’t sometimes get distracted.

What looks effortless versus what clearly requires adjustment. The way hips move. The way one partner supports the other’s weight. Where hands land when someone is bracing themselves.

How long things realistically take. It’s research that feels vaguely ridiculous and deeply necessary at the same time. You’re pausing, rewinding, and thinking, Wait. How did he get into that position without dislocating something? You’re not watching fantasy.

You’re studying choreography.

Thank god, I was a dancer in my younger years.

Then there are the queer male friends, the absolute unsung heroes of this process. The ones who endure questions that no one expects to be asked in casual conversation. The ones who are patient enough to answer things like, “Okay, but realistically, what happens first?” or “Does that actually feel good, or is that just porn logic?”

And then there’s Google.

My Google history would raise eyebrows in polite company. Searches that read like someone trying to reverse-engineer intimacy: how does it feel, what angle, how long, is this normal, does this hurt, how do men communicate during sex without words, what actually happens when… It’s not glamorous research. It’s clinical. It’s awkward.

It’s filled with forums, medical explanations, and firsthand accounts from strangers who don’t realize they’re helping an author avoid writing something wildly inaccurate.

Because accuracy matters.

Not in a sterile, technical sense, but in an emotional one. Male/male intimacy in fiction isn’t just about what goes where. It’s about how two men navigate vulnerability in bodies that weren’t necessarily socialized to be vulnerable in that way. It’s about the tenderness, the negotiation, the humor, the care. The small adjustments. The whispered check-ins. The trust required. Those are things you don’t learn from anatomy diagrams or porn.

Those come from listening. From absorbing stories. From understanding that the physicality is inseparable from the emotional context.

And as an AFAB writer, there’s always a quiet fear humming underneath the process: What if I get this wrong? What if I accidentally write something that feels artificial, or worse, like an outsider’s fantasy rather than an insider’s truth?

That fear is what drives the obsessive research. It’s what pushes me to ask the uncomfortable questions. It’s why I never assume and always verify.

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There’s also a layer of empathy that grows out of this effort. Because when you have to learn something this deliberately, you become hyper-aware of the care required to portray it respectfully. You’re not writing from entitlement. You’re writing from study, from listening, from gratitude toward the people who share their experiences so you can do the work well.

And strangely, that distance, that lack of innate familiarity, can become a strength. It forces attentiveness. It forces intention. It prevents laziness.

Every movement, every touch, every reaction is considered instead of assumed. The scenes aren’t written from habit; they’re written from thought.

Still, there are moments where the whole process feels mildly unhinged. Sitting there thinking, I never imagined this would be part of my writing life. That my creative process would involve cross-referencing anatomy, consulting friends, and analyzing adult videos like they’re instructional manuals. That I’d be muttering, “Okay, but realistically ….” to my screen.

But that’s the reality of writing outside your lived experience with care.

It’s messy. It’s awkward. It’s deeply human.

And when it works … when a reader says the intimacy felt real, tender, authentic … it feels like all that strange, meticulous effort was worth it.

Spring has officially arrived, which means the flowers are blooming, the weather’s getting warmer, and apparently, a few of us MM romance authors collectively decided it was time to make everyone a little feral again.

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Noah is a sweet, slow-burning romance about a member of the Salish Sea Society, a group of four best friends who have been through a lot together. This novel is set on the rugged coast of Pacific Canada and is a story of newfound understanding of the autism spectrum and finding passion and love beating beneath the chest of a man of carefully measured words and silent looks.

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Always Be Mine. To save his mother’s heart, Lincoln must pretend to love the one man he’s spent a lifetime trying to forget.

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In the last installment of The Confessional

In the first installment of The Confessional

The first gray light of dawn slipped under the rectory curtains, a reluctant witness, pale and accusing. I slipped from Lorenzo’s bed, skin still flushed and damp, thighs sticky with the dried remnants of communion wine and his cum, cassock yanked on in haste over the bruises that throbbed with every careful step. My hair was a wreck, the faint purple marks from his stole burning under my cuffs.

I moved quietly, heart slamming against my ribs, already aching for the warmth of his body I was leaving behind.

Lorenzo stirred once as I reached the door, his arm reaching out instinctively across the empty sheets, then settled back into sleep, his face softened in a way I’d only ever seen in these past few stolen hours.

I paused, throat tight, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way the crucifix above the bed caught the weak light, as if it were watching us both.

Then I turned the knob with trembling fingers and stepped into the narrow hallway. The creak of the floorboards under my boots sounded deafening in the stillness.

I froze.

Mrs. Callahan stood at the bottom of the stairs, broom gripped in both hands, apron tied tight over her cardigan. She wasn’t supposed to be here today. Her schedule was sacred, pinned to the parish bulletin board like one of the Commandments, but there she was, early, eyes narrowing as they raked up my disheveled frame: cassock wrinkled and askew, hair mussed.

“Matteo?” Her voice cut sharp, maternal suspicion honing every syllable. “What in God’s name are you doing coming out of Father Lorenzo’s room at this hour?”

Heat roared into my face. My mind blanked, then scrambled for the first lie that surfaced.

“I—I was helping Father with … with the Missal revisions. Late night. Fell asleep on the chair in his room.” I gestured vaguely back toward the bedroom door, the motion weak and unconvincing, even to my own ears. “Didn’t want to wake him. I left before he woke.”

Mrs. Callahan’s lips thinned into a line. She glanced past me at the closed door at the top of the stairs, then back to the dark, wine-stained hem of my cassock.

“Revisions,” she repeated slowly, each syllable dripping doubt. “In his bedroom.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll … I’ll go now.”

She didn’t move. The broom stayed clenched in her fists like a weapon.

“You look like you’ve been wrestling with the devil himself, boy. And you smell like the sacristy after someone knocked over a cruet.”

I forced a laugh that came out more like a choke. “Just … spilled some wine during cleanup last night. Clumsy. Sorry.”

Her gaze flicked once more to Lorenzo’s door, then dropped to my wrists, where the faint red lines from the stole must’ve peeked out when my sleeves shifted.

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She said nothing else, but the silence pressed heavier than any accusation.

I ducked my head, thundered down the stairs on legs that felt borrowed, and hurried past her, pulse roaring in my ears, the weight of her stare burning into my back all the way to the back door.

I didn’t breathe properly until I was outside in the cold morning air, rain starting to fall again in soft, relentless sheets, washing the streets but doing nothing to cleanse me.

Behind me, the rectory door clicked shut.

We wouldn’t touch each other again for weeks.

My body and soul were in agony, torn from the man who had claimed every inch of me. Lorenzo had imprinted himself on my thoughts, my skin, my breath—his touch a brand I carried beneath my cassock like a secret stigmata.

I ached for him constantly, the weight of his body pinning me, the stretch of him inside me, the way he surrounded me when I served him on my knees. Without him, the world felt hollowed out, colorless, every breath a reminder of what I’d lost.

The church this morning was a shell. Mass no longer stirred anything sacred in me. I went through the motions, lighting candles, folding linens, kneeling at the right moments, but my heart and body no longer answered to the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit.

They answered only to him.

I sat at the edge of the sanctuary, hands folded in my lap, while Lorenzo delivered his sermon from the pulpit. For the third Sunday in a row, his voice cracked like thunder over sins of the flesh.

Sexual impurity.

Sensuality as violence against one’s own body.

Homosexuality named outright, a wound that kills the believer if not excised.

Each word landed like a lash across my back, yet I felt no repentance—only a dark, defiant heat pooling low in my belly. Sin had not crept in to replace the joy I’d known when he used me.

That joy—purpose, destiny, still burned brighter than any flame of guilt.

When he stepped down from the pulpit, his gaze found mine. For one heartbeat, the mask slipped. Sadness, raw and unguarded, carved into the lines around his eyes.

Our separation was torturing him too.

He was lashing out in the only way he knew how—through sermon.

Mrs. Callahan had stopped posting her schedule on the bulletin board, likely hoping to keep us apart. My clumsy excuse that dawn hadn’t fooled her. The way she looked at me now—like I was the corruption, the one dragging a priest, my stepbrother, toward damnation cut deep.

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She didn’t understand we were equally guilty. That we craved the sins we committed together.

That my body answered only to his command.

I looked down at my folded hands as the congregation rose for the Nicene Creed and the Universal Prayer. The words fell around me, meaningless, sliding off my tongue.

Then it was time to carry the cruet and paten to the altar. The small vessel of wine felt impossibly heavy in my hands, as though the consecrated Blood itself had thickened with the weight of what Lorenzo had done to me—poured it down my crease in slow, deliberate streams, fucked it deeper inside until every thrust turned sacrament into sin.

The memory surged so violently I nearly stumbled across the sanctuary, knees buckling under the sudden heat that flooded my groin.

I set the cruet and paten before him, my fingers shaking. Lorenzo began the sacrament of Communion, voice steady and resonant for the congregation, every word measured, every gesture precise. But I saw the faint tremor in his hand when he lifted the chalice—the same hand that had gripped my hip and guided himself inside me, the same fingers that had smeared wine across my hole like anointing oil before he claimed me completely.

I knelt at the rail with the others; head bowed in practiced reverence. When the wafer touched my tongue, it was dry, tasteless ash—nothing like the heavenly heat of his cock.

The wine followed, sliding down my throat in a thin, bitter trickle, tasting only of memory: the cool flood of it soaking my balls, dripping down my thighs, mixing with his release as he fucked me open and filled me until I was drenched in what he had used me for.

I swallowed hard, throat working convulsively, grateful the elements knew they no longer belonged inside me.

They passed through like strangers in a house that had long since been claimed by another. I was no longer a vessel of grace.

I was his.

Mass ended. In the sacristy, the altar boys chattered and laughed as they changed, their voices bright and innocent. I hung back, folding vestments with mechanical care, until the room emptied.

Lorenzo’s hand caught my sleeve—firm, desperate.

I’d never seen him look so broken.

“Meet me in the confessional,” he whispered, voice cracked and strained, nothing like the commanding timbre that had preached fire and brimstone minutes earlier.

I nodded once. He left. I finished changing, pulse roaring, then waited until he disappeared into the priest’s side of the booth. I stepped into the shadowed penitent’s side.

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Before I could even kneel, the grate slid open with a sharp rasp.

“I have a confession to make,” he said.

I frowned. “Father?”

He leaned close to the lattice, breath drifting through the screen. “I have engaged in homosexuality. And I’m not sorry. It brought me peace and a deeper understanding of God’s many gifts.” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. "I miss you and long desperately for you."

I clutched the lattice, forehead pressed to the wood, panting. “I’ve missed you, too.” The words cracked open something inside me—a seed that had been growing for years, fed by childhood adoration and watered by sin until it bloomed into this desperate, unholy need.

“Meet me tonight,” he said. “Out by the water fountain in the garden. At midnight.”

My cock thickened instantly, straining against my jeans in the shadowed booth. Out there, no eyes, no schedule, no Mrs. Callahan. Just us.

A chance to serve him again, to kneel in the wet grass and take him into my mouth, to feel him claim me under the open sky where even God might look away.

I whispered back, voice trembling with hunger.

“Yes, Father. Tonight.”

Another Sunday dinner I couldn’t stomach. Mom had outdone herself again. Roast lamb, fragrant with rosemary; golden potatoes whipped and fluffy; green snap beans, but every bite sat like lead in my gut.

My stomach was knotted tight, not from hunger, but from the deeper, more insistent ache lower down: the hollow craving for Lorenzo to fill me, to stretch me open until there was no room left for anything else.

Not food.

Not guilt.

Not even God.

“You haven’t been eating,” Mom said softly, reaching across the table to cover my hand with hers. Her thumb brushed my knuckles in that familiar, worried way. “And you’ve looked so distracted during Mass lately. Maybe you should seek counsel from Father Lorenzo.”

I lifted my eyes to hers, the words catching in my throat. “I have sought counsel from him,” I managed. “Many times.” My voice came out quieter than I intended, frayed at the edges. “It’s only left me with more questions than answers, to be honest.”

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She tilted her head, concern deepening the lines around her mouth, but she didn’t press. I folded my napkin with careful, deliberate movements—once, twice, then laid it beside my barely touched plate, the food cooling untouched.

“I’m going back to the church tonight,” I said. “To meet with him.”

“I hope that helps. I’ll pray for you tonight.”

“Thank you.” The words tasted stale like a lie. There were no prayers that could save me. I pushed my chair back, the scrape loud in the quiet kitchen, and carried my plate to the sink.

After depositing it, I paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame, feeling the pull of him like gravity. Not just the memory of his body inside mine, or the taste of him on my tongue, or the way his voice had cracked when he whispered my name in the dark.

Something else was shifting beneath all of it—something warmer, more terrifying, that hadn’t yet found its name. A tenderness that scared me more than the sin ever had.

I wanted to crawl back into his bed and stay there, not just to be fucked, but to be held. To hear his heartbeat steady against my ear and believe, for one selfish moment, that this wasn’t damnation but something closer to grace.

I didn’t let the thought finish.

Not yet.

After spending time in my room, waiting for the hour we had agreed on, I finally slipped out the back door into the cool night air, the ache in my chest sharper than any hunger as I drove to the church—toward him—already half-lost and not sure I wanted to be found.

I didn’t dare switch on my phone’s light. The garden paths were etched into me from years of walking them in penance—slow circuits while I whispered rosaries under the stars, begging God to uproot the longing that had taken root in my chest. Tonight, those same paths felt different: shadowed, secret, alive with the promise of sin rather than salvation.

When I reached the fountain, the stone basin gleamed faintly under the full moon. Water trickled softly, the only sound besides my ragged breathing.

I stood alone in the dark, chest tightening with sudden panic.

He hadn’t come. He’d changed his mind.

The sermon, Mrs. Callahan’s suspicion, the weeks of enforced distance had finally convinced him this was too dangerous, too wrong.

Then a warm hand settled on my shoulder.

I turned.

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Lorenzo stood there, in the faint moonlight, black shirt open at the throat, collar discarded somewhere, eyes shadowed but burning. He cupped my face with both hands, thumbs stroking the hollows beneath my cheekbones as though memorizing me by touch.

One arm slid around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His cock was already hard, thick, and insistent against my thigh through our clothes, and when his mouth found mine, the kiss was long, desperate, almost violent in its need.

I wondered, even as our tongues met and tangled, whether the sadness had left his eyes or if this reunion had only deepened it. The taste of him—salt, bergamot, the faint metallic edge of restrained hunger—flooded me.

Our lips moved together in adoration and ruin, slow at first, then frantic, as though we could pour every lost moment of the past weeks into this single point of contact. He wrung emotions from me I hadn’t known I still possessed: relief so sharp it hurt, longing so deep it felt like drowning, a tenderness so fierce it terrified me.

He broke the kiss first, forehead resting against mine, breath hot across my swollen lips.

“How have you been?” he whispered.

“Miserable.” My fingers dug into his bicep, anchoring myself against the wave of want that threatened to buckle my knees. “I need you.”

Lorenzo exhaled shakily against my skin, lips brushing my chin, then tracing the line of my jaw up to the sensitive shell of my ear.

I inhaled him—sin and cedar and something softer, something that made my chest ache in a new, dangerous way.

“You’re all I think about,” he murmured, voice rough and low. “Every hour. Every prayer. Every time I stand at the altar and speak words, I no longer believe apply to me.”

“Then command me,” I breathed.

He chuckled, dark and quiet, right against my ear, the sound vibrating through me like a blessing I didn’t deserve.

“Kneel, Matteo.” His hand slid to the back of my neck, thumb pressing gently but unyieldingly. “Kneel for me here, under the open sky, where even the stars can see what we’ve become.”

I sank to my knees without hesitation, the cool grass damp against my shins, the fountain’s murmur blending with the thud of my pulse.

He stepped closer, fingers threading through my hair, tilting my head back so I looked up at him, silhouetted against the night, beautiful and broken.

I was his.

To keep sinking deeper into this forbidden heat—where every whispered confession drips with sin, every stolen touch burns hotter than hellfire, and two souls damn themselves beautifully for one another—consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Unlock the rest. Let the velvet close around you.

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