You're Dripping For Me
I couldn’t stay in my room.
The house was too quiet, my skin too hot, my mind too loud with everything we weren’t saying. I lay in bed for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way Marcus had looked at me on the couch — the guilt in his eyes, the hunger underneath it, the way his fingers had brushed my thigh like he was fighting not to touch me more. My p***y was still aching, still wet, still clenching around nothing every time I remembered the way he’d said my name.
I got up.
The hallway was dark. My bare feet made almost no sound on the wooden floor as I walked to his room. The door was slightly ajar, the way it always was when I was little and scared of the dark. I pushed it open without knocking.
Marcus was sitting up in bed, the sheet
