The aftershocks ripple.
The light lingers in places no one can see.
That’s what it’s like to have Thatcher McCrae make love to you.
To have him lay claim to your body—even if it’s temporary.
Cause when he touches you?
He does it reverently.
Thoroughly.
Like your body is a language only he speaks fluently.
And now?
Now I’m boneless, wrecked in the best way, my limbs humming, my pulse still catching in my throat as I lie tangled in his flannel sheets and his scent and his presence.
My skin is still tingling.
My soul is still floating.
And somewhere in the dizzy, golden haze of it all, one singular thought cuts through.
Only—it’s not even a thought.
It’s more like a feeling.
Raw.
Full-bodied.
Surging through my chest like light through stained glass.
What is it?
Just this.
Holy. Freaking. Wow.
And I’ve never felt anything like it.
Not just the pleasure—though, God, that was enough to shake something loose inside me—but this aftermath.
This warmth.
This peace.
And then—he moves.
He pulls out of me gently, and instinct kicks in before reason can catch it.
My body tenses. I feel the warm, unmistakable evidence of what we just shared, and suddenly I’m spiraling.
One sharp second of panic.
A lifetime’s worth of shame tries to claw its way to the surface. Whispering all the things I’ve been conditioned to fear.
