I stretch slowly, feeling the pull in muscles I forgot I had, and smile into the pillow.
The bed beside me is empty, but the sheets are still warm. He hasn't been gone long.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, replaying last night in my head. The way he kissed me. The way he touched me. The way he fucked me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
No one's ever made me feel like that before.
I've had sex. Good sex, even. But nothing like last night. Nothing that left me shaking and speechless and completely wrecked.
And then he did it again. Because once wasn't enough for him.
I press my thighs together and feel the ache intensify. I should probably be embarrassed by how much I liked it. Howmuch I likedhim— the commands, the control, the way he knew exactly what my body needed before I did.
But I'm not embarrassed. I'm just... wanting more.
The door opens and Ghost walks in carrying two cups of coffee. He's shirtless, wearing just jeans that hang low on his hips, and the sight of him — all muscle and tattoos and tanned skin — makes my mouth go dry.
"You're awake," he says.
"Barely."
He hands me one of the cups and sits on the edge of the bed. I push myself up against the headboard, holding the sheet against my chest, and take a sip. It's perfect — black, strong, exactly how I take it.
"How'd you know how I like my coffee?"
"Watched you make it yesterday."
Of course he did. This man notices everything.
We drink in silence for a minute. It should be awkward — the morning after, neither of us sure what to say — but it isn't. The quiet feels comfortable. Easy.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Sore."
Something flickers in his eyes. "Too sore?"
"I didn't say that."
He sets his coffee on the nightstand and takes mine, setting it aside too. Then he's pulling the sheet away from me, baring my body to the morning light.
"Ghost—"
"I want to see you." His eyes move down my body slowly, taking in every inch. The marks he left on my hips. The faint bruise on my collarbone where he sucked too hard. The redness between my thighs from how thoroughly he used me last night. "Make sure I didn't hurt you."
"You didn't hurt me."
"No?" He traces a finger over the bruise on my collarbone, and I shiver. "This says otherwise."
"That's not hurt. That's..." I search for the word. "Evidence."
His eyes darken. "Evidence of what?"
"That last night actually happened. That I didn't dream it."
He's quiet for a moment, his finger still tracing my skin. Then he leans down and presses his mouth to the bruise, kissing it gently.
"It happened," he murmurs against my skin. "And it's going to happen again."
