Malik’s hand was already between my legs when the doorbell rang.
I was on the couch in nothing but his old T-shirt, thighs spread, his fingers buried two knuckles deep while he worked my c**t with his thumb. We’d been trying for twenty minutes. Same positions. Same rhythm. Same quiet, polite sounds that never quite got me there anymore. His c**k was hard against my hip, but even that felt routine—something we both knew how to handle without really feeling it. The doorbell cut through the low wet noise of his fingers. He didn’t pull them out.
“That’s her,” he said against my neck. His thumb pressed harder. “Brooke. I told her eight.”
My stomach tightened. We’d talked about it twice—once drunk, once sober. His secretary. Young, white, the one who wore those tight pencil skirts and called
