WET CONFESSIONS

I shouldn't have come home for the summer.

That was the first thing I thought when I saw Liam standing in the kitchen shirtless, barefoot, and sin wrapped in skin. The house smelled like lemons and spice, but all I could breathe in was him. Musk, heat, and a hint of sweat. Not the kind that turned your stomach but the kind that made you want to lean in.

He didn't flinch when I walked in. Just looked over his shoulder like I wasn't the same girl who used to throw popcorn at him during movie nights or cry when he pranked me with fake spiders.

Except I wasn't. And neither was he.

His voice dropped like it belonged in a darker hour. "Didn't think you'd show."

"You mean Mom didn't tell you?" I tried to keep my tone light. Unbothered. But my legs were already crossing unconsciously. Tight.

He turned fully then. The muscles on his chest tensed as he leaned back against the counter. I stared for too long. His abs were a map of sins I hadn't studied yet. And the towel hanging dangerously low on his waist didn't help my resolve.

"She said you were coming," he said. "Didn't say you'd look like that."

I swallowed. Hard. "Like what?"

His gaze dipped low, then dragged back up slowly. Intentionally. "Like you've been kissed by trouble."

I laughed. Nervous. Stupid.

"I've been studying. Not sinning."

He moved toward me. Slow. Controlled. A panther scenting weakness.

"That's the thing about sin," he whispered, stopping just a breath away. "It doesn't need your permission."

I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Fast. Heavy. I hated how quickly my thighs clenched. How wet I felt already.

"Liam," I warned.

"Still saying my name like that?" he said, low and dangerous. "Like you did that night after prom?"

My breath caught.

He remembered.

That night, two years ago. I was drunk on cheap champagne and lies. He was newly eighteen. We kissed. Just once. Behind the garden shed. No one knew. I swore I'd forget. He swore he didn't care.

But clearly, he did.

"I was stupid," I said.

"No," he replied. "You were honest. For once."

His hand reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. My skin betrayed me. Goosebumps rose instantly.

"You should go put a shirt on," I whispered, stepping back.

He didn't follow. Just smirked like he'd won something.

"You should go put something on under that dress."

I turned, pretending to be unaffected, even though I knew. I knew he saw the outline of my nipples through the thin cotton.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

My room felt too hot. The air felt too tight. And when I heard the shower turn on down the hall, I was already peeling off my dress before I even made the choice.

I padded down the hallway, barefoot and reckless. The door was ajar.

He didn't lock it.

Steam curled from the bathroom like fingers, beckoning me in. I stood at the doorway, watching. Liam's back was to me, water cascading down his muscles. His hand was wrapped around himself. Slow. Rhythmic. Controlled.

I should've walked away.

Instead, I moaned.

Soft. Barely audible. But it was enough.

He froze. Then turned.

His eyes met mine. No shock. No anger. Just hunger.

I stepped in.

Neither of us spoke as he reached for me. My nightgown was thin. It fell off like water. My skin was already dewed with sweat and need.

He pressed me against the fogged glass.

"You're sure?" he asked, voice hoarse.

I nodded. "Don't make me beg."

He kissed me then. Deep. Bruising. A kiss that said this would be our undoing. His fingers found me slick and ready, and the first time he slid inside me, I cried out his name like a prayer.

He took his time. Teasing me with slow strokes until I begged for more. When I tried to move, he pinned me back against the glass, lifting my leg, owning me. His tongue tasted every whimper. My orgasm came like a storm shaking, violent, and real. He didn't stop. He made sure the next was harder. Louder.

He whispered all the filthy things he'd imagined since I left.

And when I came again, he grunted my name like he was worshipping it.

There was nothing soft about it.

He fucked me like he hated me for coming home. Like he hated himself for wanting it as much as I did. His teeth sank into my shoulder. My nails raked down his back.

It was filthy. Loud. Everything we promised not to be.

When it was over, he rinsed the steam from my thighs with the showerhead.

Then, he kissed my temple.

And whispered, "We're not done. We'll never be done."

I believed him.

Because sin never ends with one confession.

And this was only the beginning.