Guilty

The Secret Slut with a Kindle

She looks composed.

Legs crossed, her Kindle balanced in one hand, her thumb idly flicking to the next page. Anyone glancing at her might assume she’s reading something respectable—a self-help book, a memoir, maybe a novel about a woman finding herself in some quaint little town.

But no.

She’s reading filth.

And she loves it.

Not soft, tame, carefully phrased romance. No. This is smut. The kind of book that doesn’t fade to black. The kind that lingers on the moment a body is laid bare, touched, spread, taken apart piece by piece. The kind that makes her feel it, deep in her belly, between her legs, in the way she can’t quite sit still.

It could be The Erotic Tales of Sleeping Beauty, where a girl kneels, aching for permission, wrists bound, thighs trembling. Where pleasure is trained into her, teased out of her in slow, torturous waves, until she doesn’t know where submission ends and desire begins.

Or The Court of the Vampire Queen, where fangs graze against skin, teasing, waiting, promising a pleasure so sharp, so deep, it feels like breaking. Where a woman is pinned beneath something stronger, something primal, something that drinks her moans like the sweetest thing it’s ever tasted.

Or maybe The Dragon’s Bride, where a woman isn’t just claimed—she’s devoured. Stretched wide, overcome by something too big, too strong, too insatiable, taken like she was made for it, meant to be bred by a beast who won’t stop until she’s shaking.

And she feels every word.

That’s the best part.

She doesn’t need to touch herself—not yet, not here. But she knows her body, knows the way her thighs tense, the way her nipples tighten under her shirt, the way her breath slows as she sinks deeper into it. A subtle shift of her hips, a press of her thighs, and her own little secret pulses through her, making her wetter, making her ache.

No one around her knows.

Or do they?

The thought thrills her.

Could they smell it on her skin? The faintest shift in her scent, that electric heat that lingers between her legs? Could they sense it, the way she’s holding herself so perfectly still, so carefully contained, as if any wrong move might push her too far?

The espresso machine hisses. A chair scrapes against tile. Someone settles into the seat across from her.

A man.

She doesn’t look up, but she feels him now—the way his presence shifts the air, the way his knee brushes too close to hers.

And then, his gaze lingers.

Just a second too long.

Does he know?

Would he know if he looked closer? If he could see past her stillness, past the way her fingers tighten around her Kindle, past the way her chest rises just a little too slow, too measured?

If he were a man from her books, he wouldn’t just know.

He’d act.

If this were The Dragon’s Bride, he’d growl against her throat, tell her she was made for this, made to be taken, bred, filled.

If this were The Court of the Vampire Queen, he’d pin her right here in this café, slide a knee between her thighs, and whisper against her pulse, "I can smell how wet you are."

But it’s not a book. It’s real life.

And yet…

Her breath catches.

He looks at her again.

Let him wonder.

She turns the page.