A calloused finger traces the dip of my waist. Lazy. Unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. As it slowly dives lower, through my dark curls to the pulsing bud I need him to touch more than my next breath, a ragged whimper escapes my lips. And just like that, reality cracks through the haze. Asher. The reminder stings, sharp and sudden, slicing through the heat curling low in my stomach. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t want this. But then Maddox’s finger dips lower, circles exactly where I need him most, and the guilt? It shatters. It drowns beneath the ache of how much I want
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