The next morning was hell.
I woke up still mad at him—mad that he’d pushed me away again, mad that he’d zipped up and sent me to my room like I was a naughty kid .
Mad that my p***y was still aching from the almosts, from the way his c**k had throbbed against me behind the bookshelf, from the “please” he’d whispered like he was begging himself not to f**k me right there on the study floor.
I dragged myself downstairs in nothing but an oversized Harvard tee I’d stolen from his laundry basket—long enough to cover my ass if I didn’t bend over, short enough that every step reminded me I wasn’t wearing panties. Hair messy, lips still swollen from biting them all night while I touched myself to the memory of his grip.
I hit the kitchen doorway and froze.
There he was.
Hot back turned to
