To process.
To breathe.
To try to figure out why my chest still felt tight in the exact spot where his hand had splayed across it. Why my thighs kept clenching at the memory of his mouth on my throat. Why I kept picturing —imagining— what it would feel like if he kept travelling lower with that filthy mouth…
Why my stomach twisted, not just with hunger, but something suspiciously likehope.
Besides… wasn’t it every fangirl’s dream to have the celebrity object of their affection stewing overthem?
Ugh. Gross.
So I didn’t answer. Not yet.
I let him simmer.
I’d text him tomorrow.
…Probably.
The day passed, and I spent the entirety of itnotthinking about him. Not even a little bit.
Sure, I’d thought about him when I put on my pajamas. And when I made tea. And… when I walked past the full-length mirror, and caught a glimpse of the bruises blooming along my hips like his fingerprints. But that didn’t mean I was thinking about him.
I definitely hadn’t spent ten minutes staring at the message that I had sent that morning.
Idefinitelyhadn’t opened his Instagram. Or tapped through hisstories. Or, god forbid, opened the group photo from the pool and zoomed in on hisface— his eyes, half-lidded, the way they’d looked at me like I was some kind of holy miracle.
Nope. None of that.
So it was completely normal that I was now lying in bed, absolutelyvibratingwith unsatisfied tension, my hand hovering over the waistband of my sleep shorts like some early twenties kid who was just figuring out what they liked.
I exhaled slowly. Tried to be reasonable. Logical. “I just need to take the edge off,” I muttered, to absolutely no one.
I grabbed my vibrator from the drawer, flicked it on, and settled back against the pillows. It buzzed dutifully against my palm, and I let my eyes flutter shut, waiting for my brain to go blank.
It didn’t.
Because itwasn’t working.
Because my body didn’t want generic. Didn’t want abstract.
It wantedhim.
His voice in my ear. His hands around my waist. The grind of his hips. The desperation in his breath as he came completely undone beneath me. The way he’d whimpered my name like it was a prayer.
“Shit—” I gasped, legs tensing, my free hand fisting the sheets as my hips rolled upward, chasing it. Chasinghim.
The vibrator shook against my clit, my body remembering the way he had thumbed my nipple, just the once, before snapping my bra strap.
The way he’dgrowledmy name against my lips as his fingers dug into my skin.
God, what would it feel like to beunderneathhim? His filthy mouth, his fingers and his hands and his moutheverywhere.
On my —
The orgasm hit hard and fast. “Ansel,” I whimpered his name,rocking my hips into the unrelenting vibrator. My toes curled. My back arched. Mywholebodyquaked with it.
And then I lay there.
