004

LENA POV

I couldn’t sleep. My body betrayed me, mind tangled in forbidden images of him: his hands, his smirk, the casual but devastating way he’d brushed against me.

I rolled onto my side, stomach tight, heart still racing, whispering curses I couldn’t even stop.

And somewhere in the shadows of the hall, I felt he was still watching, so I stood up and shut the dang door.

Whatever was going to play out now needed uttermost privacy.

I sank onto my bed, sliding the note under my pillow, heat still pooling low in my stomach.

My fingers itched. I couldn’t stop thinking about him—the way he had watched me, the brush of his hands on mine, the slow, deliberate smirk that burned into my skin like it’d been branded there.

I bit my lip, tugging the sheets around me as if they could contain the fire building inside.

I was wet, aroused, and desperate for relief. And so, like I always did when my body became impossible, I touched myself. Slow, teasing, careful at first, circling my clit, feeling the slick warmth spread, letting my imagination take the reins.

Mark.

Every thought led to him. My fingers trembled as I imagined him touching me. His lips brushing mine, the weight of him pressing against me in ways I’d never allow in real life—but here, in my private world, he was mine. Mine to want, mine to fantasize over, mine to feel.

A low groan escaped my lips, and I tried to smother it against my pillow. My free hand twisted in the sheets, pulling, squeezing, desperate. Heat pooled in my belly, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

Every flick of my fingers against my pussy, swollen flesh sent shivers straight through me.

God, I was drowning in him. His face. His eyes. Every thought of him made my body ache miserably.

I groaned, loud, half-shame, half-need, dragging my fingers faster. My chest heaved, nipples hard beneath the thin fabric of my tank. I pressed my face into the pillow, trying to silence the moans that kept slipping past my lips.

And then… I froze. Something moved in the corner of my eye.

I scanned the room—no one. Just the dark stretching across the walls.

With that relief, I swallowed hard, dragging the sheets over my flushed body. My fingers moved again anyway, slow, teasing, trembling, desperate. I couldn’t help it. My body wanted him, needed him, even knowing it was impossible.

The note. That fucking note. I pulled it out from under my pillow, fingertips shaking. His words, inked on paper, burned against my skin. Every curve of the letters whispered of him—bold, confident, and utterly… forbidden. I pressed the paper against my face, inhaling it like it was him. My lips parted, tongue grazing the edge, imagining his voice in every word.

My hands stilled for a second, then jumped to my phone. Heart hammering, I searched his name, desperate to see him, desperate to feel closer. Pictures loaded slowly, each one twisting my stomach tighter.

There he was—smiling at some charity event, shirt tight over that broad chest, sleeves rolled to show the veins in his arms. My eyes traced him automatically, memorizing the lines of his jaw, the way his shoulders sloped just so. I swallowed against the sudden heat pooling low. The camera didn’t capture everything, but it was enough.

I swiped. More photos—him laughing with friends, group pictures with his ex-wife. She looked flawless, hand grazing his shoulder, eyes shining. My stomach twisted, hot and sharp. My fingers drifted lower, brushing against myself without thought as I stared at the image, body betraying me.

Every picture made it worse. Him tall, commanding, and irresistible in every frame. Even with his ex, daylight illuminating his features, there was something in his eyes that made my pulse spike, skin ache. My hand kept moving, circling, teasing, catching myself on a groan.

I stopped on one photo from a dinner, his arm over her shoulder, fingers brushing just low enough to make my stomach flip. I imagined it on me, his hand tracing my skin, that smirk twisting me. The ache in my throbbing pussy intensified, fingers moving faster, every stroke matching the rhythm of my racing heart.

Scrolling, searching, my body responded to every detail. Each laugh, each tilt of his head, each curve of muscle in the photos became a touch, a whisper, a memory of the last time he’d looked at me. My chest heaved, fingers slick and trembling, unable to stop. My lips parted with quiet whimpers, nails scraping lightly over my thighs to feel anything but the burning need inside.

Finally, I set the phone down, but my fingers lingered, moving over my wetness. My body was on fire, every nerve screaming for him. I curled under the sheets, knees pressed to my chest, trying to calm the heat that pulsed through me. The note still clutched against my chest, the images of him and his ex replaying in my mind, every imagined brush of his skin, every glance, every smirk making me ache harder.

I rocked slightly, pressing my palms flat against my thighs, biting my lip to muffle the moans that slipped out anyway. My thoughts kept returning to him—how his hands had felt, the way his gaze stayed too long, and how he made me feel alive and wrecked all at once. The heat wasn’t fading, and neither was the want.

Eventually, the exhaustion of need won. My breathing slowed, but my heart still raced, pounding against my ribs like it wanted out. I buried my face in the pillow, curling tightly under the blankets. The note was still in my hand, the edges soft and warm from my touch, the images and desires stirring in my mind, unyielding.

Sleep came slowly, restless and unsteady, filled with every touch, every forbidden thought I couldn’t shake. My body relaxed just enough to drift, but the ache, the want, the heat remained raw and alive, steaming under my skin even as darkness claimed my consciousness.

I couldn’t wait for what tomorrow had in store.