I woke up the next morning with Reagan’s scent all over me.
My body felt used in the best and worst ways. My thighs were sticky, my neck had fresh marks I would need to cover, and every small movement sent a dull throb between my legs. I lay in bed for a long minute, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing from everything that happened in his office yesterday.
I told myself I wouldn’t go back. I told myself I would be strong today.
But the bond didn’t care what I told myself.
It pulled at me all morning, warm and restless, mixing with the leftover ache until I couldn’t sit still. I tried to help my mom in the kitchen, tried to focus on folding clothes, tried to act normal. But my mind kept going back to the way Reagan had looked at me when he was deep inside me. The way he had growl
