I couldn’t stay in my room.

The house was too quiet, my skin too hot, my mind too loud with everything we weren’t saying. I lay in bed for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way Marcus had looked at me on the couch — the guilt in his eyes, the hunger underneath it, the way his fingers had brushed my thigh like he was fighting not to touch me more. My pussy was still aching, still wet, still clenching around nothing every time I remembered the way he’d said my name.

I got up.

The hallway was dark. My bare feet made almost no sound...