Her brass fit perfectly into my palm—bare now, the tank top bunched under my wrist. Her nipple was already tight, puckered, begging. I rolled it between my fingers, slow and firm, watching her body respond.
She sighed, hips shifting. Her thighs clenched, just barely. I pinched again, harder, and her back arched.
God, she was beautiful.
My hand trailed back down, slow, greedy, until I reached her thighs. I settled between them, brushing her folds with the backs of my fingers. She gasped.
Still asleep.
I rubbed circles over her clit, gentle but insistent, and her hips jerked. Her breath turned into panting. Her legs spread wider, like her body was offering itself up, desperate to be touched.
She wa so fucking wet. Slippery and hot and soft under my fingers. I wanted to bury my mouth between her legs. I wanted to hear her cry out with her eyes wide open.
But not yet…
I fucked her with my fingers—slow, deep thrusts—while my thumb stayed pressed to her clit. Her body trembled. Her breath hitched.
Another moan.
“Ohh…Rafe…”
She came fast.
Her legs locked around a pillow, her hips grinding into my hand, her cunt fluttering around my fingers as the orgasm tore through her. Raw. Helpless.Real.
I pulled away slowly, watching her body twitch, watching her breath settle, watching her mouth part like she’d just been kissed.
I stood there hard and aching, with the scent of her on my fingers and a storm raging in my chest.
She didn’t wake. But she would remember.
Maybe not with her mind.
But her body would.
And next time…she’d beg for it awake.
8
GRACE
The alarm blared like a foghorn, dragging me from the depths of sleep. I fumbled for my phone, squinting at the screen through bleary eyes.
6:45 AM.
Shit.
I was supposed to be at Pilates by 7:00. Cassie, the instructor, had a strict policy about latecomers:show up on time or don't show up at all. And I'd already paid for the month.
I rolled out of bed, limbs heavy and strange, like I hadn’t slept at all—or had slept too deeply or too hard. There was a faint throb between my legs, low and pulsing. A kind of soreness I couldn’t quite place…like I had been dreaming of something I shouldn’t.
The details were gone, just impressions remained. Dark eyes, a whisper too close to my ear, a pressure I could still feel if I stopped to focus. I didn’t.
I made it to the bathroom and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Disaster. Hair tangled, eyes shadowed, the crease of my pillow still pressed into my cheek like a scar.
I splashed cold water on my face, brushing my teeth in record time, trying to shake the heaviness clinging to my skin. My thighs felt tight. Sensitive.
I pulled my hair into a bun that would’ve horrified my mother and shoved myself into leggings, a sports bra, and an oversized Harvard sweatshirt. No makeup. No coffee.
