Twenty minutes felt like nothing.

I was still lying on my side when Julian’s hand slid between my legs again. He found me wet—still open, still leaking him—and pushed two fingers inside without warning. The stretch pulled a soft, exhausted sound from my throat. He worked them slowly, almost thoughtfully, while his other hand rested on my breast, thumb brushing the sore nipple in absent circles.

“You’re not fighting the touch anymore,” he said. His voice was quiet in the dark room. “That’s the beginning of the end.”

He pulled his fingers out, rolled me onto my stomach, and lifted my hips until I was on my knees again. A...