Chapter 177 Sfd 9

• 9
• Lena.
• I was barefoot in the kitchen, one of Michael’s shirts clinging to my still-damp skin, a coffee mug in hand while I watched him move around like we hadn’t just crossed the line we’d both been tiptoeing for weeks. He was making toast, talking about something he saw on the news, and I was trying not to let it show that my thighs were still sore from the way he’d held them last night and my chest still flushed every time I looked at him.