I woke up sore.
Between my thighs, everywhere. Every part of me ached in the most delicious way. The sheets smelled like him — woodsy cologne and sweat and s*x. My thighs were sticky. My lips swollen. My p***y used.
And I loved it.
But reality snapped back.
Zoey.
She was just a room down the hall.
Shit.
I panicked. Slipped out of his bed, grabbed my shorts and tank, and tiptoed back to the guest room like a thief in the night — heart pounding, legs weak, still leaking his c*m down my thighs.
I barely got under the covers before her alarm buzzed down the hall.
Close call.
I tried to act normal all morning, sitting at the table beside Zoey while she scrolled through her phone and ate cereal like nothing happened. I couldn’t even look at him. Not without remembering the way he bent
