It rained the next day.
Soft at first, like a whisper against the roof, then steady and cold, smearing the lake in silver. Liam curled under a blanket in the den, game controller in hand, playing something mindless and loud. He asked if I wanted to join.
I said no.
I couldn’t stop thinking about his father’s voice from the night before. The way he held my wrist like he owned it. The way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he’d already solved.
“You shouldn’t be down here like that.”
“Looking like you want to be touched.”
God.
He was right.
I did.
Even now—hours later, while I stood in the guest bathroom brushing my hair—I was still soaked between my thighs. I kept seeing his eyes in the dark. The flex of his jaw. The way he released me not because he didn’t want to touch me, but be
