My breath catches.
God.
My nipples harden against the thin fabric of my tank top, aching from the memory of being on my knees. A salty tang lingers on my tongue, the ghost of his cum from when I swallowed him eagerly on the way to the airport.
His deep voice echoes in my mind—"Good girl”—low, rough, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
I can still picture his piercing gaze, the way it pinned me like prey.
My stomach tightens.
Most of all, I throb for him—for the way he made my body react like that. And his massive cock—thick and veined—imagining the sensation of the metal barbells and how it would feel for him to stretch my pussy wide.
I exhale sharply, pushing myself upright. “Nope,” I mutter. “We’re not doing this.”
I grab the remote, flick the TV on, scroll mindlessly. Noise. Color. Nothing sticks.
My phone sits on the coffee table. I stare at it.
Don’t.
My fingers twitch.
Do it.
I reach for it—then stop.
God, this is ridiculous.
I drop my head back against the couch, exhaling hard.
After a moment, I grab the phone, scrolling mindlessly through social feeds to distract myself, but my thighs clench involuntarily, my pussy slick and pulsing with unmet need.
Text him? No, that's desperate.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
I set the phone down, only for it to buzz seconds later. My head snaps toward it. His name lights up the screen.
My pulse jumps.
I grab it.
Soren:
Are you alone?
Straight to the point. No greeting, no softness.
My breath hitches.
Me:
Yeah, thankfully. Adrian was here for a minute but he’s gone to fist some guy.
His response is immediate:
Soren: