It was a rainy Sunday afternoon, the kind where the world outside felt far away. Thunder rumbled low in the distance, and fat raindrops hammered against the bedroom windows. Sophia and I had the whole day to ourselves, no plans, no interruptions. She had been quiet all morning, giving me those long, heated looks that always meant one thing — she was planning something.
I was in the kitchen making coffee when she walked in wearing nothing but one of my old white button-down shirts. It hung loose on her, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. A few buttons were undone, showing the soft curve of her breasts and the dark shadow between them. Her hair was messy from sleep, and her eyes had that sharp, commanding gleam I had come to crave.
“Leave the coffee,” she said, voice low and smooth l
