didn't sleep. Couldn't. My skin still buzzed from his touch, my thighs still sticky with everything I couldn't wash away. I lay in the dark, every nerve lit like a fuse, my mind spinning around the same impossible thought: he knew. He had seen. He had touched me like he owned me. And the worst part? My body had begged for it.
My boyfriend's scent still lingered on my sheets, but it didn't cover the phantom imprint of the other man. That stranger. That storm. That fucking ghost who'd walked into the room like he was summoned by my sin. I kept reliving it every breath, every thrust, every damn second. My guilt was real, but so was the ache. It never left.
Morning came too soon. Light poured into the room like an accusation, brushing over my bare skin like judgment. I wrapped the sheets around me, trying to hide from the weight of everything. From the truth. From myself. But the mirror caught me. I looked wrecked. Not just from what I did… but from how much I wanted it.
I touched my lips. Still swollen. Bruised by his kiss. My thighs clenched at the memory of his fingers. Shame rushed through me, hot and fast. But beneath it? A pulse. A need that hadn't gone away. My own reflection stared back with a question I didn't want to answer: if I saw him again… would I let him do it again?
The knock on the door wasn't loud. It didn't have to be. My heart knew before I opened it. His silhouette stood there like déjà vu. Eyes dark. Mouth unreadable. He didn't ask. Didn't explain. He just stepped inside. My breath caught. The air between us was thick again like heat rising from the floor of a burning house.
He didn't touch me. Not at first. He just stared, like he was peeling away my defenses without a word. His gaze dropped to the sheet barely clinging to my body. And I should've pulled it tighter. I should've turned him away. But instead, I let it fall. Slowly. Deliberately. Because part of me wanted him to see.
When he did move, it wasn't rushed. It was lethal. Like the slow draw of a knife across silk. His hands grazed my arms, then my waist, tracing the line of my ribs as if he was memorizing me. His breath hit my collarbone and I gasped, already trembling, already melting. "Still burning?" he asked. A whisper. A dare.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just nodded. Barely. His lips brushed mine, and then his mouth was everywhere down my neck, across my chest, teeth and tongue and heat, driving me mad. I clung to him like he was air. My legs wrapped around his waist, desperate, shameless. I didn't want love. I wanted ruin.
M
He gave it to me.
And I took it.
Every thrust, every growl in my ear, every slap of skin against skin felt like a confession. Like I was rewriting my story with his hands. He held my wrists above my head, body pressed hard to mine, and I moaned into his mouth. My guilt blurred, my pleasure sharpened. My mind shattered. I didn't care anymore.
When it was over, we didn't speak. He dressed. I stayed naked. Breathing hard. He looked at me once more before walking to the door. "You can't take it back," he said. Not angry. Not cruel. Just… final. Like a sentence passed. Like something in me had changed for good.
And maybe it had.
Because I didn't regret it.
I wanted more.