I don’t remember falling asleep. One second, I’m there, aching, desperate. The next, I’m gone. No dreams. No thoughts.
Just the ache they left behind.
44
VI
It’s not gonewhen I wake up.
Not the dull throb in my knee that’s become background noise. Not the stiffness in my shoulders from sleeping on worn cushions.
This ache is deeper. Hotter. Centered low in my belly and spreading through my thighs like a slow burn that never quite goes out.
I’m still in the secret room.
The overhead lights are off now, just the faint glow of a lantern someone left burning on the crate table. The couch beneath me smells like sweat and something else—them. All three of them. The scent clings to my skin, my hair, the blanket someone must have draped over me while I was out.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember hands. Mouths. The edge they pushed me to, over and overwithout letting me fall. I remember begging. And I remember them leaving me here—wrecked, denied, aching so badly I could barely breathe.
My hand slides down my stomach before I can stop myself. The need is unbearable. A constant pulse between my legs that hasn’t faded even after sleep. If anything, it’s worse now. Sharper. More insistent.
I slide my fingers lower, breath hitching when I feel how wet I still am. Slick. Swollen. So sensitive that even the lightest touch makes my hips jerk. I close my eyes, biting my lip to stay quiet.
Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off.
My fingers circle my clit, slow, careful, and pleasure spikes through me so sharp, I gasp. My thighs fall open, back arching off the couch. God, I’m so close already. Just a few more seconds?—
“Well, well.”
I freeze.
My eyes snap open.
Fuck me.
Rogue is standing in the doorway, half-skeleton mask pushed up on his forehead, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He’s leaning against the frame like he’s been there for a while. Watching.
Heat floods my face.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he says, voice lazy and amused. “You were doing so well.”
I yank my hand away, pulling the blanket up to my chin. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.” He pushes off the doorframe and steps inside, the door closing softly behind him. “Youknow, it’s cute. The way you think you can just help yourself.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“You were.” He crosses the room slowly, boots deliberate on the concrete floor. “Hand between your legs. Hips rolling. Biting your lip so you wouldn’t moan too loud.”
“Get out.”
“No.” He stops at the edge of the couch, looking down at me with that infuriating grin I can hear, even if I can’t see his mouth clearly. “Did we say you could do that?”
I swallow hard. “You left me like this.”
“We did,” he agrees. “On purpose.”
“That’s not fair?—”
