A storm had raged through much of the night before finally ceasing. At 1:50 AM, Candice awoke from a semi-conscious haze, her fingers too weary to bend. Her features wore a satisfied languor. The clamminess clung to her body as if coated with glue—every stir threatened to lift the sheets. She craved a shower.
Like a sluggish caterpillar, she dragged herself upright.
“Don’t move.” A firm hand pressed against her chest, and a warm kiss brushed her earlobe. “Where do you want to run off to? You’re home.”
Her cheeks warmed pink. “...I want a shower.”
Charlie opened his eyes and murmured, “I’ll help you.”
She panicked. “No—don’t bother!”
If he kissed her again, she thought she’d die. She realized all her estrogen must have balanced out in one go.
But Charlie stood, buttoned his clothes,
