Lancaster’s POV:
“Happy birthday to me.”
Her voice was a satisfied murmur as she rose from her knees, tongue darting out to catch a stray drop from her lips. The c*m glistened on her chest, a few errant splashes painting her skin.
She bent to retrieve the tray—wineglass half-empty, bottle nearly drained—before turning away, her nude form a deliberate taunt as she swayed toward the kitchen. The sight of her was intoxicating, far more than the wine.
I remained on the couch, bare in more ways than one, struggling to process what had just unfolded. My limbs felt heavy, yet my pulse thrummed like I’d sprinted here.
When she returned minutes later, the white streaks still adorned her skin. She threw me a glance—sharp, fleeting —as she turned toward the stairs, her bare feet silent on
