The next morning, I woke tangled in sheets that smelled of him. My skin still hummed with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice breaking around my name. The study had been too small for what we’d unleashed, too fragile to contain the reckless way we’d torn into each other.
And now, in the pale wash of daylight, the reality of it pressed down.
I’d slept maybe two hours. The rest of the night I’d replayed it over and over, half terrified, half giddy, my body betraying me every time I closed my eyes. I hadn’t meant for it to go that far. We weren’t supposed to go that far.
But we had.
And it was impossible to regret.
When I finally crept out of my room, the house was awake. I heard Mom’s voice from the kitchen, cheerful and unsuspecting. Lily’s laughter followed, too bright, too
