I woke up with the ghost of him still haunting my skin.

My center was swollen and tender, my lips puffy from the sheer number of times he’d stretched me to my limit yesterday. Every time I shifted under the sheets, I felt the dried, tacky brand between my thighs—his mark, crusted over but still there as a visceral reminder. My nipples were sore, too, abraded by the rough slide of his tongue and the bite of his fingers. Even my ass cheeks carried a lingering, humming heat from those heavy cracks in the garage.

I buried my face in the pillow and let out a shaky, jagged breath.

Eventually,...