“I’m—Silas—I can’t—please—please?—”
I don’t stop.
I don’t let up.
My mouth finds his again, swallowing the words and replacing them with mine.
“Dámelo,” I command, breathless. “Now.”
And he does.
He breaks apart beneath me—loud and shaking, coming hard between us, his muscles clenching around me so tight I see stars. I follow with a strangled groan, spilling into the condom, burying my face against his throat as I ride the last wave of it out.
For a long moment, we don’t move.
We just breathe, our heartbeats syncing up. Just sweat and skin and the echo of every filthy, perfect sound he made.
Then—finally—I lift my head.
He’s smiling.
Wrecked, flushed, proud of himself.
And I know, in my bones, this shouldn’t have happened in my apartment, and it should stay a one-night thing.
But I also know it won’t.
FIVE
LUKE
My limbs feellike wet noodles—warm and shaky and stretched out from the inside. It takes me a minute to remember how to breathe and another to untangle myself from Silas.
His skin is hot against mine, his hand still heavy on my thigh like he doesn’t want to let go yet.
Which is… flattering. Hot, even. But also not the plan.
I clear my throat and push myself up on one elbow. “Mind if I use your shower real quick?”
His gaze lifts to mine—dark and unreadable—but he gives a small nod.
I slide off the bed, bare except for the hickeys I can already feel forming. My clothes are still somewhere in the living room—discarded in a trail I barely remember leaving—but I don’t go get them. I stroll across his room, as naked as the day I was born, and step into the bathroom attached to his room.
He watches me the whole time.
I feel it. That dark, possessive weight of his gaze stitched into every inch of exposed skin.
The bathroom is as clean and intentional as the rest of his place. Minimalist. Neutral. Not a stray hair in sight.
I crank the hot water and step under the spray, letting it rinse the sweat and slick and cum off my skin. Letting it wash away any lingering thoughts thatmaybethis could’ve been more than a one-night thing.
Because it’s not.
It’s just sex. And really good sex doesn’t change the rules.
Five minutes later, I’m towel-dried and mostly put back together. I slip back into the bedroom, still damp, a towel around my hips, and find him exactly where I left him—leaning against the headboard, sheet low on his hips, watching me with that same unreadable intensity.
“I’ll grab my stuff from the living room,” I say, avoiding the way his gaze tracks me. “Didn’t want to drip on your floors.”
