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My thighs trembled. My abs tightened. I was trying—fighting—to hold on, to make it last. But every slick, warm slide of her mouth pulled me closer to the edge. Her hand stroked what her mouth couldn’t take, twisting just right, keeping perfect rhythm with her tongue as she sucked me back in.

My whole body locked up. “Maggie,” I groaned, helpless now.

My hips lifted off the couch, her name breaking on my lips. She didn’t stop, didn’t pull back.

And I broke. Hard.

The world narrowed to the heat of her mouth and the sound of her breathing and the overwhelming rush of her. My climax ripped through me in a violent, glorious crash. She kept her mouth on me until I was shaking, ruined, chest heaving like I’d run through a thunderstorm.

When she finally let go, lips swollen and chin slick, she looked up at me with that same unreadable expression on her face.

I felt bare in a way I never had before.

Not because I was physically undone, but because I wanted more. All of her. Every stubborn, smartass, wild-haired inch.

I was too far gone.

And I didn’t want to find my way back.

I was still naked, blanket twisted around my hips, chest bare, breath barely starting to level out. The couch cushion had a permanent dent from where I’d clawed into it minutes ago, and my legs were a little numb, but I didn’t care.

Maggie was glowing.

Literally glowing. Not in a sparkly, glitter-magic kind of way, but in that flushed, wrecked, soft-light-around-her-skin way that made my throat tighten just looking at her. Her hair was a halo of chaos around her head, her lips kiss-bruised.

I was gone for her. And I didn’t even want to come back.

My eyes traced the slope of her neck, the curve of her hip under the fabric, and all I could think was: mine. Not in a territorial, overbearing sense, more a quiet, aching, please-stay way that I didn’t know how to articulate yet.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

My whole body tensed like someone had fired a gun through the floor.

I shot Maggie a look, voice barely above a whisper. “Please tell me that’s not Doris.”

Panic slid into her eyes like she’d just remembered we lived in the real world and not in the emotional and sexual haze we’d built on this couch.

She yelped—quietly, but definitely yelped—and scrambled up, pulling her dress over her head. She padded to the door on silent feet. I ducked deeper under the blanket, like that might protect me from being turned to stone by our eighty-year-old landlady.

Maggie cracked the door open.

I held my breath.

“You look… glowy,” Doris said in that dry, deceptively neutral tone that usually preceded unsolicited wisdom or direct threats.

Maggie panicked and slammed the door.

A wheezing, full-body laugh bellowed out of me. “You one-hundred percent looked glowy. That woman has witch radar. She probably smelled sex from the hallway.”

Maggie tossed a glare at me, but she was fighting a smile. “You are not helping.”

Another knock. Groaning, Maggie grabbed the doorknob again, and opened it just enough to reveal her face and one begrudging shoulder. Doris, as always, was unfazed.

“I was going to leave this under your door,” Doris said, holding up a printed flyer like it was a court summons, “but I heard noises. Thought it might be related.”

I could feel Maggie dying inside from across the room.

“The furnace is out. Heating may be down for a few days. Apologies.”