But the moment she leans into me, it hits—warm, syrupy waves of scent so intense I swear I could taste it. And under that sweetness…
Fuck.
The slick’s there, too. Her thighs are damp, the air around her carrying that heady, unmistakable marker that tells me she’s already come—more than once.
A dizzy rush punches through my chest, and I nearly go down with her, knees threatening to give. I grit my teeth, force myself upright, and guide her back onto the bed.
“Stay there,” I say, my voice lower than I intend. “I can get you a towel.”
She nods, her head tilting weakly against the pillow. Her skin is flushed, the fine sheen of sweat at her hairline making her look almost… too soft. Like she’s half here and half somewhere else entirely.
In the small bathroom, I plant both hands on the counter and inhale—once, twice—trying to reset. The mirror shows me exactly what I’m trying to ignore: pupils blown, jaw tight, the vein in my neck ticking.
I adjust myself with a rough grip through my jeans, swearing under my breath.
That’s when I see them. A handful of thongs, delicate and lacy, hung over the sink like they had been rinsed out earlier.
I’ve had enough self-control for one day.
Before I can think better of it, my fingers hook into the loop of one—black, barely-there fabric that still carries her scent even from here—and I slide it into my pocket.
I turn on the tap, soak a towel in cold water, and wring it out. The sound of my own breathing is too loud.
When I get back, she’s not just lying there anymore. She’s half-curled, eyes rolling back, her fingers working between her thighs in tight, desperate motions.
“You should go,” she begs, voice broken and too breathy to be steady.
“How long has this been happening?”
Her lashes flutter. “Since last night.”
I’m trying not to watch. Trying not to let my eyes track the way her hips move against her own hand, the way her knuckles are slick.
But it’s impossible not to notice.
“Typically, this takes four to five days,” I say, my voice tight. “But you really need to at least get a doctor to?—”
She shakes her head, cutting me off.
I push on. “How about I get your prescription for you?”
Her head tips back, and she lets out a groan that rakes over my skin like nails. “You’d do that?”
I would do anything.“Yeah,” I manage.
She exhales, the sound almost like relief. I kneel at the edge of the bed, the wet towel in my hand.
“Here. A cold compress might help.”
She nods, watching me with glassy eyes as I press the cloth gently to her forehead, then slide it down the column of her neck. Her pulse is quick under my fingers.
“Use it,” I say, handing it to her.
She pulls her hand away from herself to take it. The towel presses against her pussy, the cold making her whimper—quiet but sharp enough to hit me low in the gut.
I see the wetness glisten across her fingers. I see the way her thighs shift, restless. And before my better judgment can even get a word in, I’m lifting her hand to my face.
Her eyes widen, the faintest spark of shock cutting through the haze. “What are you doing?”
