Later that afternoon, I’m laughing with Regan in the kitchen, a glass bowl in my hand filled with chocolate chip cookie dough when I feel someone watching me.
I don’t even have to turn to know it’s Dayne.
My laughter dies away at the sight of him standing propped up in the doorway, arms folded over his chest, and an inscrutable look on his face.
It takes superhuman effort to stop myself from sighing at the way his biceps are bulging under his gray t-shirt.
He was gone when I woke around midday, feeling deliciously sore between my legs and craving the feel of him inside me again.
Not that I would ever tell him that.
But I can see the memory of what happened in the bathroom and our bed in his eyes, and I feel a flush blooming over my cheeks.
Just as he looks poised to speak, a phone s
