By midday, the house had turned into a battlefield of deliberate avoidance. I’d buried myself in the living room with my sketchbook, earbuds blasting music I wasn’t really hearing, trying to lose myself in charcoal lines and shading. My body kept betraying me though—every shift on the couch sent a reminder of how sore I was, how full he’d left me twice already. Twice. In less than twenty-four hours.
I told myself I wouldn’t go looking for him. I wouldn’t think about the way his mouth had felt between my legs in the shower, or the filthy things he’d whispered while buried inside me. We were supposed to be adults. Responsible. Not whatever chaotic mess this was becoming.
The smell of something savory drifted from the kitchen around two o’clock. My stomach growled. Traitor. I set my sketchb
