Vanessa moved slowly at first, teasing him with the warm, slick heat of her mouth—soft, controlled, torturously gentle. She wanted to feel him fall apart. Wanted to feel that perfect composure of his crack, piece by piece.
Ethan didn't say a word.
But he didn't need to.
The subtle tremor in his arm, the slight shift of his hips, the way his breathing grew shallow and strained—it was all there. A symphony of tension. And she was the conductor.
The car moved through the streets in silence, save for the low rumble of the engine and Ethan's increasingly uneven breaths. His hand gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline, the only anchor keeping him tethered to control as her mouth worked him slowly, deeply, with purpose.
And she knew what she was doing.
Knew the exact angle, the perfect rhythm to drive him to the edge and keep him there, pulsing and straining, desperate for more but completely at her mercy.
He reached down once—his fingers tangling in her hair, tight—but she pulled back just slightly, just enough to deny him, to let him know: she was in control now.
Ethan let out a low growl that rumbled deep in his chest, his voice raw when he spoke again.
"Fuck, Vanessa."
It wasn't a warning this time.
It was surrender.
But she wasn't done.
Not yet.
She wanted to hear him break.
And she would.
The instant Ethan's car rolled to a stop in the driveway, Vanessa's lips released him with a wet, reluctant pop, the taste of him still heavy on her tongue. She bolted from the passenger seat with a breathless laugh, her heels clattering sharply against the concrete like punctuation to her rebellion. Her heart was hammering—wild, wicked—and her thighs pressed together, trying to tame the ache between them.
She knew exactly what she was doing. The heat in Ethan's eyes when she'd bent over at the red light, the way his knuckles had gone white on the wheel when she'd slid down onto him just five minutes from home—it all fed the fire burning low in her belly. She loved to tease, to push the line until it snapped. But now it was snapping back.
For a moment, she thought she could make it to the door. Just a few more steps, a few more precious seconds of control. She never even made it to three.
Ethan was on her like a storm—fast, rough, inevitable.
His hand clamped around her waist and spun her into him with a strength that sent a jolt through her chest. Her breath hitched as her back met the solid wall of his chest, and then his mouth was on her neck, all heat and teeth, his breath scorching as he growled low against her skin.
"You think you can suck my cock, run off, and leave me hard in my own driveway?" His voice was a weapon—dark silk with a blade edge, wrapping around her spine and slicing right through her defenses.
Vanessa's laugh died in her throat, replaced by a moan that sounded far too needy, far too honest. Her body betrayed her—melting into him, back arching, skin tingling with anticipation.
Every inch of him pressed against her: tall, hard, vibrating with restraint already crumbling at the edges. Her knees weakened. Not from fear. From desire. Raw, unfiltered, stupid-hot desire.
Ethan didn't wait. He grabbed a fistful of her dress and yanked it up roughly over her hips. The fabric bunched around her waist, exposing thighs already trembling. Her panties didn't stand a chance—he tore them down with one hand and pushed them aside with the other, fingers sliding up between her slick folds like he owned her body. And maybe he did—at least in that moment.
"Fuck..." he breathed against her jaw. "You're dripping. You like being chased, don't you?"
She gasped, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers found that perfect spot, circling slowly, maddeningly. The fence was cold against her back, but Ethan's hand between her thighs was pure fire.
"Yes," she whispered, barely audible. "God, yes."
The admission set him off.
He turned her, pressing her front against the fence now, one arm across her chest to hold her in place as he kicked her feet apart. She could feel him behind her, thick and throbbing, his cock sliding along her wet heat, teasing her entrance. Her whole body tightened in anticipation, the ache inside her morphing into something unbearable.
Then he thrust inside her in one brutal, perfect stroke.
Her cry rang out into the quiet suburban air—sharp, involuntary, lost somewhere between shock and ecstasy. He filled her completely, stretching her, grounding her in the most primal, desperate way. There was no easing in, no warning. Just that sudden, overwhelming fullness that shattered her thoughts into nothing but sensation.
"Running made this pussy even tighter," he grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "You wanted me to catch you like this. Bent over.."
Vanessa couldn't speak. Her lips parted, but nothing coherent escaped—just moans, gasps, the soft slap of skin against skin as he fucked her hard against the fence. Her dress straps slipped off her shoulders, falling uselessly to her arms, baring the swell of her breasts to the evening air.
He grabbed her hair, pulling her back into him as his other hand slid up to cup her breast, pinching her nipple until she whimpered. Every movement was possessive, hungry, like he was trying to imprint himself on every nerve ending she had.
The risk made it hotter. The exposed yard, the faint sound of traffic two streets over, a neighbor's dog barking in the distance—it should've made her hesitate. It didn't. It made her wild. Made her clench around him, her body crying out for more.
He was ruthless now, thrusts deep and sharp, each one grinding her against the rough wood, stealing her breath. She clawed at the fence for something to hold, nails dragging down the grain.Vanessa choked on a moan, her body trembling.
And just like that, she shattered. Her orgasm slammed into her without mercy, bowing her spine as waves of heat and pleasure ripped through her. She bit down on her own knuckle to muffle the scream, but it was too much. Too good.
Ethan cursed behind her, his rhythm faltering. Then he came with a deep groan, thrusting into her one last time, hips grinding hard as he spilled inside her, the warmth flooding her and sending another shiver through her overstimulated body.
For a long, breathless moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was their ragged breathing, the wind stirring the trees above them.
Vanessa leaned her forehead against the fence, legs trembling, her mind hazy with aftershocks. If he hadn't been holding her up, she'd be on the ground.
Ethan leaned in close, still buried deep, and pressed a kiss to the damp skin behind her ear—soft, reverent, almost cruelly tender after the savage way he'd taken her.
"Next time," he murmured, voice low and spent, "try running faster."
A slow, satisfied smile curled her lips.
"And next time," she whispered, voice trembling but defiant, "catch me inside."
They made there way inside. Vanesss pulling her dress off and the moment Ethan pulled Vanessa into the shower, the world narrowed to steam and skin.
Heat bloomed instantly, not just from the cascading water, but from the charged current snapping between their bodies. Steam curled around them like smoke from a slow-burning fuse, the air thick with it, suffocating in the best way. Her breath caught as hot rivulets trailed down her thighs, mingling with the ghost of arousal still lingering from before. His scent—clean, masculine, something dark beneath the surface—wrapped around her, crawling beneath her skin and lighting her nerves on fire.
Ethan didn't rush. He never did. That made it worse.
His hands moved like a man savoring every second—palms gliding over her slick skin, fingers charting the delicate contours of her hips, the underside of her breasts, the curve of her ass with reverent slowness. He lathered her body like a ritual, not a rinse. Teasing. Possessing. Worshipping.
Each touch was maddeningly deliberate, designed to make her ache. And it worked. Oh, it worked.
Her nipples tightened beneath his knuckles when he passed them, but he didn't linger. Didn't reward. Just grazed and moved on, as though determined to leave her trembling and unsatisfied. He circled her navel, trailed lower—so close she tensed—but then pulled away again with infuriating precision. It was like he wanted her begging.
And she was so close to doing exactly that.
Vanessa wasn't idle either, though her legs felt like jelly and her thoughts were a molten mess. Her fingers danced over his wet skin, nails dragging down the taut lines of his torso, mapping every ridge of muscle with greedy need. She lingered at his hips, barely brushing the base of his cock, watching it twitch under her touch. A quiet thrill coiled in her stomach.
But Ethan didn't take the bait.
He simply smiled—calm, composed, in complete control, which only made her burn hotter.
He could see the tension in her shoulders, the softness in her posture that betrayed the exhaustion behind her defiance. And as much as every inch of him wanted to bend her over the tile and fuck the teasing out of her, he didn't.
That was the cruelest part.
He was patient.
But patience didn't mean mercy.
By the time they toweled off, Vanessa's skin was flushed, oversensitive, and humming with restrained need. Her muscles ached for more than just rest—they craved release, something Ethan knew, and weaponized with unsettling ease. She'd barely caught her breath before he hit her with something else.
It started so innocently.
A smirk. A question. A joke.
"Do you have a bikini?" she teased, voice still raspy from moaning into his mouth minutes earlier, towel clutched around her like a barrier.
She expected a laugh. A witty retort. Maybe even a cocky comment about how he preferred her without one.
Instead, Ethan turned without a word, stepped to the wardrobe—the one he had filled with things just for her—and pulled out three bikini sets, each draped over his forearm like options in a lingerie ad.
Three.
Her brain short-circuited. She blinked, heart tripping over itself.
He planned even for this?
One black—sleek and minimal, just strings and sin. One deep crimson—obscene in its boldness, practically begging to be peeled off. One pastel blue—sweet, delicate, a lie in the shape of swimwear.
She stared, stunned, while he watched her with maddening calm.
"Take your pick," he said, voice velvet-smooth. "Or don't. The fence is tall, and I wouldn't mind the view."
It took her a moment to form words.
"You planned this?" she breathed, narrowing her eyes, towel now gripped tighter around her chest as though she could shield herself from the heat curling low in her belly. "What if I hadn't asked?"
Ethan stepped forward, slow, predatory, until the steam from the shower wasn't the only thing burning her skin. He didn't touch her—he didn't have to—but the nearness of his bare chest, still damp, still warm, was enough to make her thighs press together without conscious thought.
"I figured you'd get curious eventually," he murmured.
Smug bastard. So damn sure of himself.
Her breath hitched. That scent again. That look. That restraint. It was driving her insane.
"Fine," she snapped, lifting her chin, trying to stay composed even as her pulse fluttered like mad. "But if I catch you staring, you owe me a drink."
The moment the words left her lips, she regretted them.
Ethan's gaze dipped, dragged over her towel-clad form like a slow stroke, unapologetically possessive, full of heat and dark promises. When his eyes returned to hers, there was a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth—but it wasn't playful. It was dangerous.
"Oh, love," he said, voice dropping to a husky murmur that curled down her spine. "You're going to need a whole bottle."
Vanessa's mouth went dry.
Her towel felt thinner.
And somewhere deep inside, she knew—she had made a mistake.
A beautiful, fatal mistake.
The realization hit her the second Vanessa stepped onto the sun-soaked pool deck—sharp and sudden, like walking into a spotlight she hadn't known was there. She should have double-checked before leaving the bedroom, should have really looked at what she was putting on. But she'd been too busy playing it cool, too focused on ignoring the infuriating smirk playing at the corners of Ethan's mouth, the one that said he'd already won.
Now, standing fully exposed in the hot late afternoon light, the truth clawed its way up her spine.
The bikini she had smugly selected—intended as a defiant, controlled choice—wasn't a bikini at all. It was a fucking trap. And she'd walked straight into it.
The top was scandalous: just two minuscule blue triangles tied together with thin strings, the fabric so small it clung to her nipples when the breeze hit just right. Every step made them shift, brush, threaten to betray her. The bottoms weren't better. They were worse—a high-cut, low-rise sin barely wide enough to cover her slit, leaving her ass completely exposed. Every inch of her felt on display, vulnerable in the most obscene way, like she'd wandered onto the cover of a magazine she'd never admit to buying.
She bit the inside of her cheek, hard.
Go back. She could turn around, find something less revealing. Cover herself before this went too far. Before he saw too much.
But that meant surrender.
And Vanessa? She didn't retreat.
So she kept walking.
And Ethan? That bastard didn't even look at her.
Which meant, of course, he was absolutely looking.
He sat sprawled near the pool like it was his throne—long legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily over a bent knee, tossing a ball for Fenrir. The golden retriever bounced like he was powered by chaos, chasing after it with clumsy excitement. Nyx, the old shepherd, barely lifted her head. But Ares—the ever-watchful sentinel—stood by Ethan's side, head tilted, eyes following Vanessa's every step with an unsettling sharpness.
Much like his owner.
Ethan kept his face neutral, eyes half-lidded, fingers twitching every so often against his knee. He didn't speak. Didn't move. But she saw it.
His throw slowed.
His jaw tightened.
His gaze—oh, he tried to be subtle—but it dragged over her with the kind of weight that made her skin burn, like he was imagining his hands where his eyes couldn't go. Like he was already untying the strings with his teeth.
She felt every step, every bounce of her breasts, every breath that shifted the thin fabric across her stiffening nipples. Her body hummed, every nerve tuned to him, hyper-aware, hypersensitive. Her pussy throbbed between her thighs, the barely-there bikini bottoms doing nothing to hide how turned on she already was.
Still, she squared her shoulders and walked like she wasn't dying under the weight of his attention. Like her legs weren't already weak with heat and tension and a need that curled low in her belly and refused to be ignored.
She reached the edge of the pool and dipped her toes into the water, forcing herself to act casual. Unbothered. In control.
"You're awfully quiet," she said, her voice sharp, teasing—only slightly breathless.
Ethan didn't look away from the pool. Tossed the ball again, slow and deliberate.
"Am I?"
Vanessa scoffed softly. "You usually have something smug to say by now."
He smirked without turning, like she was amusing him, like he loved watching her squirm. "I'm being polite."
She rolled her eyes. "That doesn't suit you."
Finally, finally, he turned.
His gaze locked onto her like a fucking laser. Hungry. Dangerous. His head tilted slightly, lips parted just enough to show the edge of his teeth—like a predator scenting weakness. Like he wanted to taste her. Ruin her.
"Would you prefer honesty, then?" he asked, voice low and rough, full of dark edges and unspoken threats.
Her breath caught.
Because honesty from Ethan was never sweet. It was never safe.
Before she could retreat, before she could put up her usual defenses, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to catch her eye. The shift pulled his swimming shorts tighter around his hips, revealing the thick line of his cock pressed against it. Hard. Waiting.
"You look sinful."
Her stomach dropped.
Her breath hitched.
She felt it—an electric pulse through her core, tight and deep, like her body was answering him before her mind could catch up.
Then his eyes changed—sharp, burning, dark with hunger.
"And if you don't get in that water right now," he murmured, voice thick and slow like warm honey dripping onto a blade, "I'm going to stop pretending I have any self-control left."
She stood frozen for a second, caught in the gravity of him.
She felt exposed. Owned. Turned on beyond reason.
Every drop of restraint she had left was a thread about to snap.
So she turned without a word—and dove into the water.
The cool hit of it shocked her skin, but it couldn't touch the fire inside her. Her nipples pebbled instantly, hard and aching beneath the thin wet fabric, and her bikini bottoms clung tighter to her soaked folds, outlining everything.
She didn't need to look to know Ethan was watching.
Vanessa surfaced with a sharp inhale, water slicking over her skin as she swept her hair back from her face. The coolness of the pool kissed her overheated flesh, but it did nothing to ease the low thrum pulsing beneath the surface. Not when she could feel his gaze before she even turned.
And when she did—when her eyes finally met his—she nearly lost her breath all over again.
Ethan wasn't pretending anymore.
He sat at the edge of the pool like a man entirely at ease, like he hadn't just baited her into this. One arm slung lazily over his knee, his other hand rhythmically tossing a ball for Fenrir, but his eyes—those dark, slow-burning eyes—were locked on her with unapologetic focus. No restraint. No mischief.
Just heat.
A curl of something smug tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Didn't think you'd pick the blue one."
Vanessa's fingers tightened on the edge of the pool, her knuckles whitening beneath the water. "And why's that?" she asked, already regretting the words.
Ethan leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, his voice maddeningly calm. "Figured if you were going to be bold, you'd go with the red."
Red. Her pulse stuttered.
She hadn't looked. Not really. She'd just grabbed something, desperate to act unbothered, to get the upper hand. She remembered the red suit now—what little of it there was. Lace? Barely. She hadn't even registered the rest.
Ethan tilted his head, considering her. "Or the black one. Safer. Classic. Not as... revealing."
Vanessa swallowed. Her mind raced through the implications.
So this one—the one clinging wetly to every curve, nearly translucent now, nipples visibly peaked beneath the soaked triangles, the bottoms scandalously narrow against her hips—this had been the riskiest of the three.
And she'd walked out wearing it.
His smirk deepened like he could hear her thoughts unraveling. Like he was savoring every crack in her armor.
She straightened, fighting for composure. "Maybe I wanted an even tan."
Ethan's brows arched. "That so?"
God, he didn't believe her. And somehow, that made it worse. Her stomach tightened, awareness burning through her skin like static. She lifted her chin, voice sharp with defiance. "Are you going to keep staring, or are you getting in?"
He didn't answer right away.
Didn't need to.
Because that look—the one that curled his lip just slightly, the one that promised trouble—was back.
"I'm plenty entertained from here," he said.
It wasn't just a statement. It was a challenge. A dare. A line she had already crossed.
Her stomach flipped.
This was Ethan in his element—cool, composed, dangerous in how well he could wait. How well he could wield silence as a weapon, let tension build until it wasn't just between them—it was them.
Vanessa tried to meet him beat for beat. "Afraid you can't handle it?"
A slow exhale escaped him—like a warning sigh before the storm. And then, just one word:
"Vanessa."
Her name, but the way he said it—it curled around her spine like smoke, deep and low and far too intimate. Like a promise. Like a command.
And then he moved.
He stood with a deliberate slowness that made her breath catch. And when he stepped into the pool, the shift in the air was instant. The space between them charged, crackling, her whole body tightening with anticipation she didn't dare show.
Vanessa tried to keep her distance. To focus on the cool water lapping at her skin. But he was gravity, and she was already falling.
Every pass he made near her in the water was calculated—effortless but never innocent. Fingers brushing the small of her back beneath the surface. A graze of knuckles against her hip. The heat of him radiating too close. She tried to stay casual, but her breath kept catching at all the wrong moments.
He didn't touch her deliberately. Not yet. But every almost made her ache.
Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. That was all she managed.
The awareness clawed at her, need building too loud to ignore. With a sharp inhale, she turned and swam to the edge, hauling herself out of the pool with too much urgency to mask.
Water cascaded down her thighs, tracing the lines of her body like a lover's hand. The soaked bikini clung to her like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her nipples strained visibly against the wet fabric, and the bottoms—God, they might as well not be there.
And she felt it.
The second she stood upright, she felt it like a brand on her skin.
His gaze.
Tracking. Devouring. Possessive.
She didn't look back.
Couldn't.
Because if she met his eyes, if she saw what she knew was there, she wouldn't survive it with her pride intact.
Behind her, the water stirred.
She heard the slow steps as Ethan followed—unhurried, heavy with intent. Every drop rolling off his body carved new pathways across whitr skin and taut muscle. The air between them shimmered with restrained tension, hotter than the sun overhead.
Then—his hand.
One palm slid over the curve of her ass, slow and deliberate, lingering like he had all the time in the world.
Not groping.
Claiming.
She gasped—silent, breathless, a sharp intake she didn't mean to give him.
He felt it. The stillness in her spine. The electric tension under her skin.
And he laughed.
A low, dark sound that vibrated through her bones. Deep. Dangerous. Intimate in a way that made her toes curl.
She didn't turn around.
Because if she did—if she met the hunger burning in his eyes—she wouldn't stop.
And neither would he.
The sun was warm against Vanessa's skin as she stretched out on the lounge chair, eyes slipping closed, letting the golden heat sink into her. The late afternoon air was thick, lazy, humming with the distant sound of the breeze rustling through the trees.
She had barely settled before Ethan's voice broke the quiet.
"Sunscreen?"
Her head turned slightly, just enough to catch the look in his eyes. Casual. Amused. Like he wasn't plotting something, like this wasn't a trap.
She didn't get the chance to respond.
The faint pop of a cap opening sent a shiver through her before cool lotion dripped onto her back.
She sucked in a breath.
Oh.
Ethan's hands followed.
Slow. Deliberate. Torturous.
It wasn't just sunscreen.
It was a test.
His fingers glided over her with practiced ease, spreading the lotion in long, slow strokes—palms pressing, kneading, teasing. Mapping her. Claiming her.
Vanessa clenched her fists against the towel beneath her, pressing her lips together.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
The pressure of his hands changed as he worked his way down, fingers tracing the delicate dip of her spine, lingering at the small of her back—just long enough for her breathing to stutter.
Then... lower.
Over the curve of her ass.
A squeeze.
A slow drag of his thumb.
Vanessa's breath hitched. Her thighs pressed together before she could stop herself, heat coiling sharp and insistent in her stomach.
He wasn't even pretending to be subtle anymore.
Ethan felt her reaction—knew she was unraveling, knew she was already too far gone—and had the nerve to chuckle.
"Relax," he murmured, voice like dark honey. "You're getting all tense."
Relax? RELAX?
When every touch made her pulse skitter, when her body ached for more?
She swallowed hard, fingers curling against the towel, fighting the urge to arch into his touch.
This was torture.
Beautiful. Exquisite. Mind-shattering torture.
And he knew it.
His hands left her skin, a moment of relief—
Then—
Strong hands gripped her waist.
And flipped her over.
Easily.
Like she weighed nothing.
Vanessa gasped, heartbeat slamming against her ribs as she suddenly found herself staring up at him.
Smug. Calm. Dangerous.
sliding over her shoulders, spreading lotion with slow, lazy strokes. His fingers barely grazed the staps which he then removed and started to rub the lotion into he nipples and boobs, moving all over her skin
She swallowed hard. This was bad.
He drifted lower.
Her breath caught as his hands returned—sliding over her stomach, spreading lotion with the same slow, lazy strokes. His fingers barely grazed the faint definition of her abs, tracing over her skin.
Skipping the bikini bottom. Rubbing he thighs and front of her legs
Vanessa nearly sagged with relief.
Maybe—just maybe—he was going to show some restraint.
But then—
A single tug.
Sharp. Certain.
Vanessa's eyes snapped open.
"Ethan—!"
He shushed her. As his fingers started exploring her wet folds. Moving slowly in a teasing small circle just above the place where she wanted him to
Soft. Amused.
Completely in control.
Vanessa's breath came quick, sharp, heat rushing in waves over her skin. Just as he started abusing the swollen clit squeezing it, pinching it and then his fingers made there way inside moving faster, curling just right
Too much. Not enough.
Her world tilted, pulse pounding in her ears, anticipation so thick she could barely think. Every nerve in her body burned with the waiting. And then he hit it the rough spot that made her convulse and she came.
Calm. Placing back the bikini set in position
Collected.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn't just reduced her to a trembling, aching mess.
"You should wear sunglasses," he mused, handing her a pair.
Vanessa snatched them, shoving them onto her face with shaky hands, mortified.
Her body still tingled—still buzzed with the aftershocks of everything he had done.
And the worst part?
Ethan lay back beside her, completely unfazed.
Like he hadn't just ruined her.
Like he hadn't just left her breathless, aching, desperate for more.
Vanessa exhaled shakily.
She was going to kill him.
Right after she recovered.
Vanessa barely stirred at first, caught in the languid pull of sleep, her mind floating somewhere between the warmth of the sun and the edge of dreams. The world was a soft hum, filtered and distant—until she felt it: a gentle prod against her arm. Not urgent, not insistent. Just present.
"I'm heading out for groceries," Ethan's voice came, low and familiar, like a caress itself. It drifted through her haze, brushing against the edges of her consciousness. "Need anything?"
She murmured something unintelligible, a sleepy grumble half-lost in the folds of her towel. Her body shifted minutely, unconsciously reaching for a more comfortable sprawl beneath the sun's embrace.
He laughed quietly. That sound—that soft, knowing chuckle—was like a hand wrapping around her chest from the inside. She felt it more than she heard it.
"I'll take that as a no."
And then... silence. Not the absence of sound, but a kind of held breath in the space between them. She didn't open her eyes, but she knew he hadn't moved. His presence lingered, thick and heavy in the summer air. His shadow fell across her body, shading her skin for a brief moment—a cool relief against the heat. He was watching her. Not casually. Not absently. It was focused, studied, intimate in a way that felt utterly naked despite the towel still draped over her lower half.
And then came the touch. A single finger, drawn slowly along the slope of her exposed shoulder, as if he were tracing the memory of her skin rather than simply making contact. Featherlight, but intentional. It wasn't the kind of touch you give someone by accident.
A soft, involuntary shiver rippled down her spine. Not just from sensation—but from knowing. From the awareness that this wasn't necessity. It was choice.
"You should turn over," he said, voice lower now, dipping into something that curled deep in her belly. "You've been tanning your front long enough."
His tone wasn't a suggestion—it was a provocation. Teasing, but with weight behind it. Vanessa's sleepy brain registered it like a distant echo, slow to process but not immune. Somewhere inside her, something responded. Not fully formed, not yet conscious, but real.
She sighed, long and loose, letting her limbs melt into the towel as she rolled onto her stomach. The fabric warmed her skin, the sun kissing her back now. She stretched—part feline, part surrender—and settled into stillness again.
And then... his fingers. Just for a moment. A whisper of touch down the arc of her spine. Not enough to be a caress. Not enough to be innocent. A tease. A suggestion. A claim.
And then—nothing. Silence again. The absence of him.
The sound of footsteps retreating across the patio.
The soft click of the gate as it closed behind him.
She didn't move. Didn't speak. The sun continued its gentle assault on her bare back, but her mind stayed with the echo of that single line down her spine.
He hadn't needed to touch her.
He could have spoken and left, as promised. He could've let her rest.
But he hadn't.
He'd touched her because he wanted to. Because something inside him had asked for that moment—and he'd taken it.
And she... hadn't stopped him. Even in the blurred, muddled space of almost-sleep, some part of her had known.
And let him.
The thought bloomed slow and quiet, unfurling like smoke through her chest.
Not frightening.
Not unwelcome.
But undeniable.
Something had shifted.
And now she lay there, alone again, but not untouched.
~~~~~