Lacy
Ethan’s chest rises and falls under my cheek, steady but still a little ragged. His arm is slung around my shoulders, heavy and warm, fingers idly tracing the dip of my spine like he’s mapping territory he just claimed. My thighs are sticky, his c*m still leaking out of me in slow, lazy pulses every time I shift. The leather couch beneath us is ruined and in damp patches, my sweat, his sweat, the faint musky scent of s*x hanging thick in the air. His office smells like sin and expensive cologne now.
I should get up. Clean myself. Grab my dress. Pretend this was a one-time lapse and walk out with whatever dignity I have left.
Instead I tilt my head back so I can see his face.
He’s watching me already with those whiskey eyes half-lidded, lazy satisfaction written all over him. The
