The silence feels different now—thicker, heavier, like the air itself is holding its breath. Your body is still humming from the last chapter, skin flushed and tacky with dried slick, thighs sticky where they pressed together while you read. The couch (or bed, wherever you ended up) cradles you in the aftermath: legs still parted because I told you to keep them open, cunt still swollen and tender, c**t pulsing faintly with every heartbeat like it’s waiting for round two. Your breathing hasn’t quite settled. Every inhale pulls the scent of your own arousal up from between your legs—musky, sweet, obscene.
I’m not done talking to you yet.
Feel that sentence land low in your belly.
The room is dim, maybe just the hallway light spilling in, painting long shadows across your bare thighs. Your
