“Yeah.” The word comes out breathier than I intend.
He continues. The washcloth drags across my skin, over the swell of my breasts, and my back arches on its own. He notices. Of course he notices. His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, and the washcloth drops into the sink.
“Griff—”
“I know.” His voice is rough. “I know.”
His hand slides up, cupping my breast, his thumb finding my nipple and rolling it slowly. I gasp, my head falling back against the toilet tank. His mouth follows his hand, pressing hot kisses down my jaw, my neck, the curve of my shoulder.
“This isn’t—” I start.
“I know.” He kisses the bite mark on my collarbone, his tongue flicking over the bruised skin. “I just need to touch you. Can I?”
I nod because I can’t form words.
His free hand slides down my stomach, over my hip, between my thighs. I’m sore—achingly sore—but when his fingers find my clit, the discomfort dissolves into something warmer, something that spreads through my pelvis like honey.
“You’re still so wet,” he breathes against my throat.
“The heat?—”
“Is it over? The heat?”
“I think so. I don’t know.”
He slides one finger inside me, and I moan. It’s a small sound, barely audible over the running water, but Griffin makes one of his own in response—a low, hungry noise that vibrates against my neck.
“Does this feel good?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me if it doesn’t.”
I nod again. He adds a second finger, and the stretch makes me whimper. Not from pain—or not just from pain. From the fullness, the pressure, the way his fingers curl inside me and find that spot that makes my vision blur.
He kisses me as he fucks me with his fingers. His tongue slides against mine, swallowing my gasps, and his thumb circles my clit in a motion so precise it’s almost clinical. Except nothing about this feels clinical. Everything about it feels like worship.
I come with his name on my lips, my body clenching around his fingers, my hand fisted in his hair. He works me through it, drawing out every last wave, until I’m trembling and boneless on the toilet lid.
He pulls his fingers out slowly and brings them to his mouth. He looks me in the eye as he licks them clean, and the sight of it sends a final, weak pulse through my core.
“Good?” he asks.
I laugh. It’s shaky. “Yeah. Good.”
He kisses my forehead, then finishes washing me with the cloth he retrieved from the sink. When he’s done, he wraps me back in Damon’s flannel and carries me to the living room.
Damon and Silas are already there. The couch cushions have been returned to their rightful place, and someone has lit a fire in the small fireplace. Thistle is curled up on the armchair, his eyes open and watching me with what I can only describe as feline judgment.
Silas appears beside me with a cup of tea. I take it with both hands, wrapping my fingers around the warmth. It smells like chamomile and something earthy, and when I take a sip, it tastes like comfort.
“How are you feeling?” Silas asks, settling onto the couch across from me.
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“That’s fairly standard.”
Griffin sits on my other side, his thigh pressing against mine. Damon takes the armchair, displacing Thistle, who meows in protest before hopping onto the floor and weaving between my ankles.
