The door was already unlocked when the knock came—three soft raps, then silence.

Claire stood in the hallway in nothing but the short silk robe she’d put on after the photo, pulse hammering between her legs. She hadn’t touched herself. She’d tried. Her fingers had hovered, trembling, over her own slick folds more than once, but Jax’s last message had burned too hot: Don’t you dare touch yourself before I get there.

She opened the door.

Jax stepped inside without a word, shut it behind him, and locked it. He was in the same black T-shirt from the kitchen night, jeans, boots. His eyes dragged over her the way they...