Feeling him inside me would be the kind of stretch that would hurt at first, then ruin me for anyone else.
I imagine his hands gripping my hips, his mouth open in pleasure as I take every inch. That mouth… always that mouth. Smirking. Teasing. Pushing me to the edge just to watch me fall.
And I want it on me. Sucking my nipple?—
I pinch harder, and the orgasm slams into me so fast I almost lose my grip on the toy.
Keeping quiet is a war. Every muscle trembles with the effort not to moan too loud, my head tipping back as I bounce in place, working the vibrator over my clit in tight circles, pinching at my nipple in time with each pulse.
My moan is barely a whisper, my breaths ragged and broken as the climax rolls through me in hot, relentless waves.
I keep going until my thighs tremble and my clit’s too sensitive to touch.
The toy slows, my hips settle, and I finally switch it off.
The aftershocks are enough to make my legs twitch, my pelvis still pulsing as I breathe deep and try to come back down.
The satisfaction will probably hold me over until lunch.
Probably.
And if it doesn’t?
Well… I know exactly where I’ll be.
I feel lighter now. Relaxed. Or at least… enough to fake it for the next few hours.
I clean myself up, slip into fresh clothes, and start planning my next move.
The pool’s on the agenda again, so I pull out a new bikini—black, with a tan lining under the mesh that makes itlooksheerbut really isn’t. It’s a trick of the light, like one of those magic-eye puzzles. You’ll stare because you think you’re seeing something you’re not.
I tie a black mesh wrap low around my hips, knotting it to the side so it slants just enough to give the illusion I’m constantly about to lose it.
I know my body’s good. Hourglass curves, a waist narrow enough that I’ve been accused of Photoshopping in pictures, hips that have their own opinions about denim sizing. I’ve always had more up top than my friends—full breasts that barely fit into anything made “for my size.”
And Jax? Yesterday, he had a hell of a time not staring.
Today’s top is smaller. Triangle cut. A little more skin. Definitely more under-breast—just enough that I can imagine his thumbs slipping underneath, right where no one’s ever touched me before.
The thought alone makes me grin.
Since pancakes are his favorite, I decide they’re going to bemybreakfast. Just enough for me. I find a “pancakes for one” recipe on Pinterest, swipe my phone off the charger, and head into the kitchen.
The first cabinet I open? Empty.
Weird.
I check the next one. Also empty.
I know this kitchen was fully stocked yesterday—I cooked in here.So unless the pots and pans decided to grow legs overnight, I’m being messed with.
I check the dishwasher, just in case. Bone dry. Not a single plate or pan.
Fine. Cereal it is.
Except when I open the dish cabinet, there’s nothing. Not a single bowl. Not even a chipped mug.
Fine.
