Table
Day eighteen arrived with a softer kind of hope. The sky stayed mostly clear, and the air smelled of damp earth and blooming lilacs along Maple Lane. Amina had texted just after breakfast: “Dinner tonight again? I’ll bring salad this time. Same time. I’m… trying.”
Elias read the message while I was still tangled in his arms in bed, his body curled tightly around mine, morning hardness pressed hot against my a*s. His hand was already between my thighs, fingers spreading the slick warmth he’d left inside me the night before.
“She wants to come back again,” he murmured, voice thick with cautious optimism and immediate hunger. “Three nights in a row. That’s real.”
He didn’t wait. He lifted my leg and pushed inside me in one deep, claiming thrust. We both groaned at the stretch. He f*
