I avoided him the next morning.
Or at least I tried to.
The moment I walked into the kitchen, there he was—already dressed in a black button-up rolled at the sleeves, sitting at the island with a black coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Calm. Composed. Like nothing had happened.
But something had happened.
Something I couldn’t stop thinking about.
The feel of his palm on my ass. The growl in his voice. The way my body had responded, not with fear, but with want.
Hot. Relentless. Shameful want.
“Good morning,” he said without looking up.
I stiffened. “Morning.”
He glanced over the edge of the paper. “Sleep well?”
I ignored the question and opened the fridge instead, just to put distance between us. But I could feel him watching me. Every move. Every breath. I poured
