Sin in the Suburbs

Sweat, Skin & Sin - a steamy, erotic tale where Cian juggles a dangerous affair with his best friend’s dad and an irresistible new neighbor, Jacob, whose touch tempts him into even deeper trouble.

I beelined it to the breezeway as the final bell rang, dodging slow walkers and freshmen like a pro. The breezeway was the senior hangout—where weekend plans were made, cheap liquor was sourced, and sexting schedules were set. I wasn’t part of that club. Never got the invite.

My best bud, Aidan, stood near the oaks leaning against Dean, the resident track star and local heartthrob. I waited my turn to have an audience with the social queen of Ridge High. Small-town life was oddly progressive here. Well, semi-progressive. Pensacola, Florida—home of killer tornadoes, hurricanes, and the occasional scandalous affair.

Aidan grabbed his book bag and sauntered over. I flopped down on the steps.

“So, what’s up for tonight?”

His way of asking if I had any plans involving horizontal cardio.

“SSDD. Same shit, different day.” I swung my bag onto my lap, fishing out my tablet. The school had gone fully digital, which meant no more heavy textbooks—just a single device to house all our assignments. I still hadn’t cracked a way to send my work to Aidan for review. He was the brains of this operation. Without him, my grades would’ve been left for dead. Not cheating, just strategic outsourcing.

“Homework over spring break? Damn. Mrs. Johnson must not be getting any.”

“Guess not. She was extra batshit today. Maybe she’s finally accepted it.”

“Accepted what?”

“That her husband’s throwing it to one of her students.”

Aidan’s eyes went wide. “Cian, no.”

I smirked. “I’ll never tell.”

His jaw dropped. “Wait—no. Not you.”

“Please. He’s not my type.”

“I thought anything with a dick was your type.”

“Anyway.” I rolled my eyes.

“You should take AP classes. Better teachers. Less work.”

A gust of wind swept through the breezeway, thick with the scent of incoming rain. Aidan adjusted his shirt as a convertible pulled up. Chris—his on-and-off-again whatever—sat behind the wheel, grinning like he owned the world.

“I gotta jet. Text me.”

Aidan jogged over, sliding into the passenger seat. I watched them leave, green with envy. Chris had it all—money, looks, a car that wasn’t falling apart. Like someone had taken the best parts from Men’s Fitness and GQ and pieced together a decoupage of perfection.

I took the alley home, dodging puddles, half-watching as the school bus rumbled past, kids spilling out. My gaze drifted over the fence where a scuffle broke out. Two guys, shirtless, going head-to-head. There was something undeniably homoerotic about sports: the sweat, the tension, the raw fight for dominance.

I was staring. Probably too long.

“Heads up!”

I barely had time to register the warning before something slammed into my head.

Next thing I knew, I was on my ass, the sky spinning.

“Shit—too late,” I groaned, rubbing the back of my skull.

“You okay?”

A voice. Deep, smooth. I blinked up at a tall, dark-haired stranger. His friend stood behind him, arms crossed, looking at me like I might keel over.

“I’ll live. It's just my brain. Not like I use it.”

The stranger smirked, holding out his hand. I let him pull me up, his grip firm, steady.

“You took a good hit,” he said, inspecting the back of my head. “Does this hurt?”

I flinched. “It sure as hell doesn’t feel good.”

That damn smile again. The tension lightened, something unspoken passing between us.

“We should get something on that. I got just the thing.”

Serial killer logic said never follow a stranger home. But he was hot. And shirtless. With abs like that? There was no way he was a serial killer. Right?

His friend smirked. “Looks like you got this handled, Jacob. Rematch tomorrow, slacker.”

Jacob. Noted.

I trailed him inside, past the kitchen, where he tossed an ice pack onto the island.

“Here. Hold that to your head.”

“Thanks.”

“You want something to drink?”

“What are my options?”

“Water. Beer. Pink stuff.”

“Beer me.”

Jacob grabbed a bottle from the fridge, then hesitated, raising an eyebrow. “How old are you?”

“Relax. I’m legal.” For sexing. Drinking? Not so much.

He smirked, tossing me a bottle of water instead.

“Wow, lay off the throwing.”

“My bad.” He leaned on the counter, watching me. “I’m Jacob, by the way. And you are…?”

“Cian. Cian from down the street.”

Jacob’s grin deepened. “Cian from down the street. Long name.”

I chuckled. “I live nearby.”

“Just moved in a few weeks ago.”

“What do you do?”

“Real estate.”

“Ooh, big baller.”

Jacob shrugged. “Can’t complain.”

“Girlfriend?” The word slipped before I could stop it. My brain tripped over itself. Why did I ask that?

Jacob’s expression shifted. Subtle. But I caught it. He took a swig from his water bottle, swallowing slowly.

“Huh?”

“You don’t seem like you have a girl in your life.” Kill me. Just kill me now.

He smirked. “Are we blaming the mouth diarrhea on your head injury?”

“Something like that.”

Jacob’s eyes skimmed over me, lingering just a little too long. “Relax, dude. It’s all good.” He playfully punched my shoulder, the touch sparking something low in my gut.

I swallowed.

He was built like a god—caramel skin, broad chest, shoulders like they were sculpted in a workshop. Sunlight hit him just right, highlighting sweat-slick abs.

“Cian?”

I was staring. Again.

Jacob snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Yo?”

“Mm?” I cleared my throat. “Shit. Yeah. Sorry, I—”

A slow, knowing smile curled his lips.

“I, uh… should probably go before I end up knee-deep in trouble.”

Jacob leaned on the counter, watching me with that look. “Trouble? You? Nah. I’m enjoying the company.”

His voice was warm, teasing. His gaze burned.

“But if you gotta go, I get it.”

My feet didn’t move.

I cleared my throat again. “I mean… I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Jacob raised an eyebrow.

“I’m legal,” I blurted. Then cringed. “I mean, I’m cool… you know, to do… stuff.”

Jacob chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh yeah? Stuff?”

Yep. I was in trouble.

He moved in closer, his fingers gliding down my arm, slow and deliberate. My cock throbbed against the unforgiving scrape of my zipper, heat coiling low in my stomach. His hand hooked around my belt, pulling me toward him, the barstool clattering to the floor.

Jason’s mouth crashed into mine, his tongue stroking deep, teasing, taking. His hands slid down, gripping my ass, lifting me against him. I gasped into his kiss, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

His scent—clean sweat, something faintly citrus—flooded my senses, sending shivers racing down my spine. My pulse hammered, and my body fully aligned with his.