Layla’s POV
I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his mouth on me again—warm, wet, commanding. I could still feel his hands holding my waist, still hear his voice whispering, “Let me take care of you.”
But what haunted me most was the moment after. When he pulled away. When he told me to rest. When he walked off like it hadn’t meant everything.
Like I hadn’t almost fallen apart in his arms.
Now, the morning sun filtered through my curtains, and the ache was back—sharper, needier, deeper than before. My breasts throbbed, full again, but it wasn’t just pain this time.
It was craving.
I stood in the bathroom, brushing my hair, trying to breathe. My camisole clung to my chest, already damp. I hadn’t worn a bra. I couldn’t. The fabric would press too tight, and any pressure
