Lia
He still hasn’t moved.
His hand stays tangled in my hair, his eyes locked on mine. The room is quiet except for the wild pounding in my chest, louder than it should be. I can’t think or breathe. The heat still burns in my throat, just like the pressure building between my legs. His gaze drops to my lips—slow, heavy—before he finally releases his grip and straightens. He doesn’t say anything. He just tucks himself back in, zips up with a calm that feels more dangerous than silence, then looks at me again with the same intensity, and weight.
Is he going to leave? Say something? Or just stand there, looking at me?
I sit still, legs pressed together, the back of my hand grazing my mouth in a way that makes me flinch. My breath stutters as I curl my fingers into the couch cushion, tryi
