Day thirty-three arrived with a softer light filtering through the clouds. The rain had eased into a fine mist, leaving the porch damp but inviting. Amina had texted in the morning: “Dinner tonight. Eighth time. I’ll bring pasta salad and some fresh bread. Porch afterward if it’s nice. Looking forward to it.”
Elias read the message while I was still wrapped 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 had left inside me the night before.
“She called it the eighth time again,” he murmured, voice thick with quiet hope and immediate hunger. “She’s counting them. She’s looking forward to it. That means something real.”
He didn’t wait. He lifted my leg and pu
