Owned by Harrow Hill
It started with a voice. Low and unhurried, speaking my name from somewhere close in the dark. Not threatening. Almost tender. The way someone says your name when they have been waiting a long time to finally say it out loud.
Evelyn.
Then came the touch.
Fingertips, cool and deliberate, ghosting along the inside of my thigh. I shifted, half asleep, my legs parting before I could think better of it. The touch climbed higher, slow and patient, tracing the seam of me, circling the ache that bloomed hot and sudden between my legs. I was wet🥵 embarrassingly, instantly wet hips rocking into nothing, chasing the sensation.