The next morning I wake up with dried c*m still streaked faintly across my stomach and the torn panties twisted around one ankle. My cunt is sore in a deep, satisfying way that makes me press my thighs together the second I’m conscious. The guest-room door is still open. From downstairs I hear the coffee machine and the low murmur of Gabriel’s voice on a call.
I pull on a soft oversized T-shirt that barely covers my ass and nothing else. No panties. He told me last night I don’t get to wear them unless he says so. The fabric brushes my bare lips with every step as I walk downstairs.
He is already dressed—dark trousers, white shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled. Laptop open on the kitchen island. He doesn’t look up when I enter, but the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Present.”
I stop
