Jimmie’s POV
It was the ache that woke me up first.
Not the hangover, not the guilt just the physical, sinking kind of ache in the gut that tells you before your brain can catch up: you f****d up.
I rolled onto my back, and there he was.
Karl.
His body was sprawled across the bed like a lion after a feast—my feast. Golden skin, toned arms, a trail of ink across his ribs, I used to trace like scripture. Naked. And smug, even in sleep.
I sat up slowly. Sheets are sticking to my skin.
The scent of sweat and stale lust hung in the air like bad perfume.
God.
What the hell did I do?
My stomach turned as fragments of the night before rolled in like dirty waves.
My hands in his hair.
His tongue on my chest.
He whispered, “You still feel like home”, while I tried to pretend it was Devo
