Joan woke up with her heart still fluttering, her body heavy with exhaustion and satisfaction.
The sheets beneath her were a mess—wrinkled, stained, and warm with fading heat.
The scent of him still lingered on her skin, earthy and masculine, mixing with the soft ache between her thighs.
Her lips were sore from kissing, her legs weak from being spread so wide for so long, and yet there was a strange comfort in the afterglow.
She blinked the sleep from her eyes and sat up slowly, her fingers brushing through her tangled hair.
The room was quiet. The boys—Ross included—were already gone.
Only the echoes of last night remained. Moans. Gasps.
The sound of flesh meeting flesh. His voice whispering her name in the dark.
Judging by the soft, golden sunlight pouring through the blinds, it had to be well into the afternoon. Her eyes darted to the clock. 2:14 p.m.
"God…" she muttered to herself, cheeks flushing.
