It’s hunger. Raw and getting worse every time I replay her voice in my head. And underneath that—something I won’t look at too closely—is the way I keep thinking abouthim.
Wes.
About the sound of his voice responding to her, too quiet for words but satisfied. About what he probably looks like right now, loose and glowing and carrying her scent.
About how much I want to see that up close.
The knock is soft. Hesitant.
My heart kicks against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. This is it—the moment I’ve been circling around for hours, maybe weeks. The chance to stop wanting and start taking.
I know who it is.
When I open the door, Wes slips inside like he was waiting for permission. The sight of him stops me cold—hair messed up like his fingers kept running through it, his mouth swollen, even his shirt is buttoned wrong. Not because he was rushing. Because he dressed while still half-gone from whatever happened with her.
And he still is. Half-gone. There’s something dreamy in his expression, like part of him is still back in her room, still feeling her hands on his skin. His eyes have that soft, unfocused look that comes after really good sex, when your body remembers every touch even as you’re trying to function normally.
But there’s something else. Something that makes me look twice.
His face looks different. Sharper. The line of his jaw, his cheekbones—everything that was already good-looking about him has been turned up. It’s subtle, but I’ve known him long enough to notice.
Then the scent hits me. My nose catalogs it before I can stop it: sex, satisfaction, Bree’s vanilla sweetness all over his skin. Arousal and sweat and something floral that’s probably her soap. It’s obvious and intimate and makes something possessive snarl in my chest.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says with that crooked grin, but he’s practically glowing with satisfaction. There’s something different in the way he holds himself—looser, more confident.
The room feels smaller with him in it. Charged, like the air before a storm.
“Good night?” I ask, because the evidence is written all over him and I need to hear it.
His cheeks flush deeper, and that grin turns almost shy. “Yeah. Really good.”
I close the door behind him, turn the lock. The sound seems too loud in the quiet room.
“She wear you out?” He blinks, that dreamy look sharpening as he realizes what I just asked.
“I—how did you…?” A pause, uncertainty flickering across his face. “Gray, did you—?”
“Lucky guess,” I say, watching him process. But then that grin returns, wider now, almost giddy.
“God, Gray. It was… I can’t even…” He runs a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I mean, it’s Bree. And she wanted—” He stops, shakes his head like he still can’t believe it happened. “Just can’t settle after… that, her, you know?”
I do know. But this feels different from his usual restless energy. More charged, like he came here specifically, not just because he was wandering.
He moves toward the window, then changes direction toward the bed, then stops in the middle of the room like he can’t decide where he belongs. That restless energy is back, but it feels different now—less desperate, more like he’s waiting for something. For me to make a move.
The jealousy I’ve been choking on crystallizes into something sharper, more focused. Something that demands action.
I close the distance between us in two steps, crowding him back against the wall. My hands brace against the surface on either side of his head. He goes still but doesn’t try to move. If anything, he leans into it.
“I heard her,” I say, voice rougher than I meant. “Every sound.”
His breath catches. “Gray—”
“I want to know what Bree tastes like.”
The words are out before I can stop them. Raw and desperate and loaded with months of buried want. It’s my excuse, my permission slip to finally touch him - but it’s not a lie. I do want her. I want them both. This is just the only way I can let myself reach for one through the other.
Heat flickers in his expression. He knows what I’m asking.
