7: When the Dream Finds You Back

2 August 2000

Anya was already awake.

She hadn’t jolted from sleep. She hadn’t groaned or stretched or fought the dawn. No — she had floated up into consciousness as if her body knew it couldn’t stay in the dream forever. Not even one like that. Her robe was twisted beneath her. One leg peeked from under the sheets, dappled in early sunlight. Her nipples ached. Her thighs trembled faintly when she exhaled.

And her breasts — oh, her breasts.

They were marked.

Anya sat up slowly, brushing the silk sheets from her body with reverence. She looked down, and her breath caught. There — on the soft curve above her left areola — a bruise the color of ripe plums. Slightly lower, near the underside, another faint circle of dark pink. She brought her fingertips to them, tracing gently.

Each one a memory.

Each one a kiss. A claim.

She bit her lip and rubbed the soreness with a delicate touch, part pleasure, part disbelief. His mouth had been on her for hours, nursing, suckling, whispering into her skin while she rocked and moaned and clung to his head like a woman possessed.

And she had let him.

No — more than that.

She had wanted him to do it. Needed it.

He’d let her hold him. He’d cried into her chest. He’d ranted and crumbled and whispered about dreams and goddesses and fears and confusion — and not once had he tried to impress her or seduce her.

He had let her mother him. Nurture him.

And in return, he had made love to her like she was sacred.

Her fingertips grazed another small bruise along the edge of her right breast, and she whimpered softly at the ghost-pain that danced with remembered pleasure.

“This is what love feels like,” she whispered to the still morning.

This was real.

Not the runways. Not the cameras. Not the shallow compliments and predatory stares. Not Rekha’s transactional sermons or the forced smiles at brand dinners.

But these — these marks — they meant something.

He had seen her. Touched her. Loved her.

And she was going to find him.

She would know him.

She’d know those eyes, that voice, that touch — anywhere.

And when she saw him again ... when their eyes locked across that room or the edge of the damn universe — she would smile.

Because she wouldn’t need to say a thing.

Her body already bore his mark.

She moved like a woman possessed.

The bite marks still tingled as she threw on a casual black top — soft enough not to brush too harshly against her tender breasts — and pulled her hair back into a loose bun. No makeup. No styling. No posing.

Just urgency.

She glanced at her bedside clock. 7:47.

Athlete. Footballer?

The way he moved in their dreams — that control, that balance, the way he turned her body into a worshipful rhythm — it made sense now. He was trained. Disciplined.

And the way he carried himself...

Not a college boy.

A professional.

Calcutta had only a few teams big enough to house someone like him. Rising Sun? Heritage City? Maybe one of the newer feeder teams?

She sat up slowly, heart racing.

He’d found her through an ad. That sportswear campaign. Which meant he’d seen her before the dreams started. Something had clicked.

Too early to call the Warrior brand manager. Too risky to call anyone who might tip off her mother’s circle.

But action didn’t need a phone.

She grabbed her campaign folder, flipping through the logistics brief until she found the one clue she needed.

“Event Logistics Liaison: Tapan Ghosh — Warrior x Heritage City FC regional coordinator”

That was her in.Ghosh was the man who had coordinated fittings, confirmed shoots, and updated the team schedule. A chatty mid-level exec with a weakness for flattery and “networking with the stars.” Anya remembered him raving about some upcoming talent they were excited to launch.

Could it have been him?

She scribbled Tapan’s number onto a Post-it and stuck it to the inside of her compact. No call yet — too early. But by 10:30? She’d strike.

In the meantime, she needed eyes.

Anya turned to the bottom drawer of her vanity — the one no one was allowed to touch.

Fake IDs. Spare sim cards. Tinted sunglasses. Burn phones for keeping secrets even her mother’s staff couldn’t trace. She wasn’t proud of it. But life in Rekha Das’s world meant always having a plan B.

By 8:10, she had changed into a fresh outfit — fitted jeans and a sleek, oversized Warrior jacket with her own face printed on the back. Her version of casual.

If anyone saw her out this early, they’d think she was heading to an early photoshoot or wellness event. Let them. Her driver, Naren, stood ready at the garage, blinking in surprise when he saw her stride down the driveway, ponytail swinging like a war banner.

“Baby madam? Where to—?”

“Heritage City Football Club,” she said crisply. “I want to tour the facilities. Tell them it’s for brand alignment and ambassador engagement. If they ask more, remind them I’m the face of their campaign.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“And Naren?” She paused by the passenger door, adjusting her sunglasses. “Take the long route. I don’t want the press getting wind.”

She slid into the car and exhaled.

She didn’t have confirmation.

She didn’t even have a last name.

But she had a direction.

And if her Bharath was real — and she knew he was — then she’d find him at that club. In a jersey. With that quiet, chaotic energy that belonged to no one else.

She clutched the fabric of her Warrior jacket against her chest.

“Wait for me,” she whispered.

And the car pulled out into Calcutta’s early morning traffic — a goddess on the hunt for her mortal love.

The receptionist stood up so quickly, he nearly knocked over a stack of laminated passes.

“Miss Das! Miss Anya Das?”

Anya gave her most charming smile. “That’s me.”

She was dressed for power casual — a fitted tee, denim, Warrior jacket, and tinted sunglasses that stayed on just long enough to make an impression. Her confidence did the rest.

“I’m here to see Mr. Ghosh. Warrior has me on schedule this week for ambassador outreach. I thought it might be good to pop in, say hello, tour the facilities. You know, connect.”

The receptionist stammered, eyes wide. “Um—yes, yes of course, ma’am. I—I mean Miss. Ghosh isn’t in yet, but I’ll inform him right away!”

“Don’t worry,” she said, slipping off her sunglasses and giving him a conspiratorial wink. “I don’t mind waiting. I’m a huge football fan.”

That sealed it.

The receptionist snapped into action, dialing frantically. Another assistant appeared, then another. Within minutes, tea was served. The club’s PR junior nervously offered her a branded cap. Someone even brought her a printed list of the current reserve squad “in case she wanted to understand who was coming up next.”

Anya flipped through the sheet casually, smiling politely—until she saw it.

Bharath Hema — Midfielder.

Her breath hitched.

There it was. There he was.

Confirmed. Real. Not just dream and desire and fantasy.

Bharath.

She traced the name on the page like it was scripture.

“You alright, ma’am?” the receptionist asked.

She blinked, turned up the wattage on her grin. “Perfect. I was just thinking—maybe one of the players could show me around? Help me understand the culture of the club from the inside?”

The receptionist flushed. “That can be arranged! I’ll ... I’ll text Ghosh again—”

“Miss Das!” Ghosh practically skidded into the room, shirt askew, tie loose, sweat beading at his temples. “What a pleasure—an honor! We didn’t expect you till tomorrow!”

She stood gracefully. “Oh, I just wanted to get a feel for the place. Photoshoots are more authentic when you’ve walked the ground.”

“Of course. Absolutely. Brilliant initiative!” He pulled out a chair. “Please, sit. Can I get you anything? More tea? The chef’s special omelette?”

She crossed her legs and tilted her head. “Actually, I was curious ... who’s representing the club alongside me for the campaign?” Ghosh lit up. “Ah! Yes. We just finalized it. You’ll be paired with Bharath Hema — young, talented midfielder. He’s been performing phenomenally. Rising star. And, uh, very photogenic.”

She leaned in. “Really? He sounds promising.”

“Very promising,” Ghosh said, oblivious to the heat behind her smile.

“Would it be terribly inappropriate if I asked him to give me the tour?” Her tone was syrupy-smooth. “It always helps when the face of the club ... well, shows me the face of the club.”

Ghosh looked like he might faint from gratitude. “Of course! Brilliant idea. I’ll have someone fetch him immediately.”

“Bharath!” One of the trainers waved from the bench. “Ghosh sir wants you. Now.”

He groaned mid-stretch. “Why now? I’ve got three more—”

“He said now.”

Bharath jogged off the field, confused, heart pounding for no reason he could explain.

Then he stepped into the hallway outside the marketing office.

And saw her through the doorway.

Saw her.

Anya

She stood by the window, arms folded, sunlight dancing off her cheekbones. The red silk goddess in flesh and denim. Her head turned.

Their eyes met.

Something broke and remade itself inside of him in a single breath.

Neither of them moved.

Not yet.

Then — like some invisible current had snapped — he stepped forward just as she did.

No words.

No titles.

Just hearts colliding.

Ghosh beamed. “Miss Das, may I introduce—”

“I ... you’re...” Anya’s voice cracked as soon as Bharath stepped through the door.

He froze too. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides.

“Hi,” he croaked.

“Hi?” she squeaked.

Ghosh blinked. Was she ... blushing?

The Anya Das — firebrand model, public darling, queen of fierce comebacks — was suddenly pink in the ears and fidgeting with the zipper of her jacket like a schoolgirl caught doodling her crush’s name.

Bharath cleared his throat.

“I, uh ... football.”

Anya nodded frantically. “Yes! That’s ... I’m ... sports. Also.”

“Nice shoe boots!,” she blurted.

Bharath looked down. “They’re ... they’re muddy.”

“I like mud.”

“God help me,” groaned Ghosh inwardly as he looked from one to the other, his grin slowly sliding into panic. “Not again. Not another meltdown. Not another Kim situation. Please, God. What was wrong with this kid?”

“I—” Bharath tried again. “Hi. Me Bharath.”

She laughed, too loud. “I know me. I’m me. Anya. Not you. Me.”

Ghosh slowly backed toward the door. “I’m just going to ... check the light. For photo stuff.”

They didn’t even notice. They were still blinking at each other like they’d been struck by lightning.

As Ghosh fled the room, he muttered to himself:

“This club has some kind of virus. It eats IQ points. We’re doomed!”

They were just there, the two of them, standing on opposite sides of a narrow, ordinary office — in the middle of a very extraordinary moment.

She stepped forward.

He did too.

Two breaths. One heartbeat.

Their hands brushed. It was electric.

Not poetic-electric. Not flowery. Actual electricity — like the air had cracked around them. Like the dream had ripped itself open and poured into this small fluorescent-lit room.

Anya’s fingers trembled as she raised them to his face.

“You’re real,” she whispered.

He stared, overwhelmed, his voice raw. “You found me.”

And then — no permission needed, no questions asked — they crashed into each other.

Her arms around his neck, his around her waist, foreheads pressed together, gasping, shaking.

Then the kiss. Their first real kiss.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t graceful. It was messy, tear-soaked, desperate.

Mouths parted, teeth clashed, noses bumped.

But it was perfect.

All the longing, all the nights of touching through spirit and dream — now finally real. Tongues tasting, lips moving like they had done so many times before, but now with the solid certainty of flesh.

He pulled her closer afraid he might lose her again.

Anya moaned softly into his mouth, clutching the back of his jersey so tightly that her fingers ached.

And then they broke — just barely — lips hovering, foreheads pressed again.

“I thought...” she whispered, breath hitching, “I thought I imagined you. That I’d made it up. That you couldn’t possibly be real.”

“I was scared,” he whispered back, voice shaking. “That if we met ... you wouldn’t be the you I knew.”

She gave a wet, gasping laugh, tears streaking down her cheek. “And now?”

He kissed her again.

Softer this time. Devotional. Real.

“Now I know,” he murmured against her lips

They held each other for what felt like forever. The concrete walls, the faint buzz of the AC, the sounds of football drills outside — all of it faded into nothing.

Just two souls, colliding across planes, finally home in each other’s arms.

He was still trying to catch up to the fact that Anya Das — Red Silk goddess, his soul’s anchor — was not only real, not only here, but had somehow found him.

“How did you find me?,” he murmured, still breathless.

“I had to,” she whispered back, brushing her fingers over his jawline. “After last night ... after you told me everything ... after you broke in front of me and let me hold you ... how could I not?”

He stared at her, overwhelmed.

“You ... fell in love with me from that?”

She gave a wet laugh. “I was already deeply in love with you before that. You’re the only man who’s ever shown me his soul. Who’s ever cried in my arms while still making me feel like the most wanted woman on earth.”

His throat caught.

Anya cupped his cheek, her thumb grazing the edge of his mouth. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re not just a dream. You’re my only reality. And I couldn’t wait anymore.”

“But how did you find me?” he asked, stunned. “You didn’t even know my last name. Where I lived.” Anya smirked through her tears. “Didn’t need to. I knew the photoshoot was with Warrior. I knew it had to be you. So I showed up. Brand ambassador perks, remember?”

He blinked. “What if I’d been in some other country?”

She rolled her eyes fondly. “Then I’d have borrowed my mother’s private jet, sweet-talked ten ministers, and faked a fashion campaign in Burkina Faso until I tracked your ass down.”

He laughed — genuinely, full-bodied

Her hands slipped under his jersey, his fingers tangled in her hair.

Click.

The door opened.

They gasped and quickly separated.

Ghosh entered, looking like he’d just finished pacing a hole into the floor outside.

Beside him, Coach Biswas.

Both men paused.

Both stared.

Bharath was on one side of the room, lips swollen, jersey askew. Anya was on the other, cheeks flushed, breathing hard, ponytail askew.

“ ... Well,” Biswas muttered.

Ghosh let out a tiny dying sound.

Anya cleared her throat, spun around with preternatural grace, and beamed like the goddess she was.

“Gentlemen,” she said smoothly, “I just wanted to say that I am thrilled with the club’s choice. Bharath is perfect. In fact...” she turned, eyes sparkling, “I was hoping he could give me a personal tour of the facilities?”

Ghosh nodded blindly. Biswas looked confused.

Bharath looked at her like she’d handed him the World Cup and a lifetime supply of Anya kisses.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Tour. I’m great at tours.”

He practically bounced across the room, took her hand with boyish joy, and led her out, their smiles blinding. Ghosh blinked at Biswas.

Biswas groaned and shook his head. Inside, Ghosh and Biswas stared at the door that had just closed behind them.

“ ... With him?” Ghosh finally said, voice thin with disbelief. “Him?”

Biswas frowned. “He just tripped over a cone last week. Couldn’t even string a sentence together in the first meeting with Kim.”

“With Kim!” Ghosh cried. “A student psychologist! And now he’s ... what is he even doing? Fraternizing with India’s top model during tea break?”

Biswas rubbed his temples. “It’s a virus. It has to be. Something in the protein powder.”

The door cracked open.

Anya poked her head back in, sunglasses already back on.

“I’ll have him back in one piece,” she said sweetly. “Unless, of course, I don’t.” Biswas raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure you want him to give you a tour?”

Anya tilted her head, expression wicked. “Why? Do you want to give me one instead, Coach?” Biswas promptly closed his mouth.

Ghosh coughed, recovering. “Well, it’s just ... I mean ... you’re you, and he’s ... well ... he’s—”

“Mine,” she said simply. And winked.

Bharath hadn’t said a word in a full thirty seconds. He was still gripping her hand like it might vanish if I loosened it.

“I—umm—how did you do that?”

She arched a brow. “What? Deflect two grown men while looking like a Vogue shoot?”

He stared at her with pure reverence. “You were flawless. I was practically drooling and you handled them.”

“I’ve been fending off creeps since I was 14,” she said breezily. “Two middle-aged marketing men are practically foreplay.”

He laughed helplessly, shaking his head.

“How—how are you real?”

Anya stopped. Turned to him.

She reached up and touched his face again, softer this time. “I’m the lucky one, Bharath.”

“No,” he said immediately, voice breaking. “You’re everything. I’m just...”

Anya pulled him close, resting her forehead on his. And that was enough.

After a quick shower, Bharath went back to Anya and gave her the tour of the club facilities. “So this is ... the gym. We exercise here” he said lamely, as they walked past a half-empty room of dumbbells and resistance bands. Anya gave a dramatic gasp. “Wow. Metal things. Very heavy. So exotic.”

He laughed.

It started low and sheepish, but the way her eyes lit up made it ripple through his chest like warm honey. He gave her hand a squeeze and pulled her gently toward the physiotherapy corridor.

They strolled together, fingers still laced, Anya occasionally brushing her arm against his just to feel the spark. He started pointing things out — the cold-water tub room, the tactical planning board, the place where Amit once accidentally walked into a mirror while yelling about discipline.

With every step, every quiet word, every time she leaned in and whispered something wicked just to watch him flush — he became more himself.

By the time they reached the indoor track, his smile was wide, shoulders relaxed. He was walking like the man she knew in the dreamworld — confident, observant, cocky.

“Is it bad I don’t want to leave this place?” Anya murmured.

“I don’t want you to,” he said, before he could stop himself.

She stopped walking.

“Say that again,” she said.

“I ... don’t want you to leave.”

A moment of stillness.

Anya looked at Bharath. Really looked.

And he saw it — the dream Anya. The one who bit her lip before she kissed him. The one who clutched his shoulders when she surrendered. The one who chose HIM — over everything else.

They wandered into a quiet corner of the stadium — some storage mezzanine above the sponsor’s gallery, unused and filled with dust-filtered sunlight.

Anya turned to him.

“So,” she said softly. “Still worried I might not be the girl from your dreams?”

“You’re even better. I thought you were going to be a chain-smoking wild child,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. Anya’s eyes sparkled. She was pressed against him, her scent maddening — rose and heat. Her laugh was quick, breathy, full of mischief.

“Something like that huh?” she teased. “Coke, champagne, maybe a tattoo that says ‘Daddy Issues’?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “Exactly. Maybe a pink gun strapped to your thigh under some designer dress.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sorry to disappoint. I’m a vegetarian—no ... eggetarian. I drink masala tea with jaggery, cry at dog rescue videos, and...” Her voice softened. “I’ve only had sex with you. In my dreams. I was saving myself for someone real.”

She leaned closer, breath grazing his lips. “You, Bharath ... you’re more real than anything I’ve ever touched.”

Something inside him cracked — and caught fire. He didn’t wait. His hands slid to the back of her neck and he kissed her. Hard. Passionately.

There was nothing slow about it. Tongues met in wild collisions, teeth scraped lips, and their bodies crushed together like they’d been waiting lifetimes for this. Her jacket fell to the floor. He gripped her waist, pulled her into him, her curves fitting perfectly against the ache straining through his pants.

“You remember what I did to you in our dreams?” he growled against her ear.

Anya whimpered, her hips bucking forward, thighs squeezing around his leg.

“Every second,” she whispered. “Every filthy second.”

“Then show me,” he breathed. “Show me what I did to you.”

She bit her lip — flushed and trembling — and lifted up the side of her top. Slowly, deliberately, she tugged it up, revealing her breasts.

Bruised. Bitten. Claimed.

Faint purple-red marks dotted her skin like petals pressed into flesh. Bharath’s breath caught.

“I did this,” he said, stunned.

She nodded, eyes heavy. “Only you.”

He lowered his mouth, wrapped his lips around her nipple and sucked hard.

Anya cried out, arching against the cold wall behind her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her body rolling into his, wild and desperate.

“I don’t have long,” he muttered, teeth scraping gently over her areola. “They’ll come looking.”

“I don’t care,” she gasped. “Just a taste. Just enough to ruin me for anyone else.”

He pushed his hand into her jeans, past her dripping panties. His fingers slipped through slick heat, and she nearly collapsed against him.

Her forehead fell to his shoulder, body shaking as he teased her, slow at first — featherlight touches around her clit, then deeper strokes, faster, coaxing her toward the edge. He felt her thighs tremble, her breath catch.

“Bharath ... I’m—”

“Let go,” he whispered.

She came in screaming, her voice muffled due to her teeth sinking into his shoulder, whole body trembling as she pulsed around his fingers. He held her, steady and close, their breathing ragged.

The world narrowed to her gasps and the way her hips still rocked gently against his hand, like she didn’t want to stop. And then—

“Come with me,” he said, grabbing her hand.

The storage mezzanine was dusty, half-forgotten. One narrow staircase led to a locked cloakroom used only during foreign delegation visits. No cameras. No traffic.

Perfect.

They ducked inside, laughing breathlessly, eyes burning.

The door clicked shut behind them. The only light came from a tiny window. Anya pressed her back against the wooden panel, chest rising and falling like she’d just sprinted through a battlefield.

“This is off-limits, isn’t it?”

He cupped her face. “For everyone but you.”

She grinned wickedly — and then ripped her shirt over her head. No hesitation.

He dropped to his knees.

The marks on her breasts were even darker now, her nipples tight and pink. He kissed them one by one, murmuring against her skin, “You touched yourself thinking of me. Bitten your lip. Whispered my name.”

She nodded. “I couldn’t stop. You own me. I’m yours! Only yours!”

He slid his hands to her tight jeans as she lifted her hips for him, wordlessly. He peeled them down, kissed her thighs, her knees, her calves. She was already trembling again. Already wet.

“Your mouth,” she moaned, breath breaking.

He looked up. “Ride it.”

She froze, then whimpered — nodding.

Anya straddled his face like she’d been born for it, one hand braced on the shelf above her, the other fisting his hair. He gripped her thighs and pulled her down onto his tongue.

She cried out.

She rolled her hips against him, desperate, uninhibited. She let him take control — let him worship her with his mouth the way he had in the dreams.

“Yes—yes—fuck, don’t stop,” she sobbed.

He didn’t.

Her slim thighs clenched around him, her body shaking with release. She moaned his name like a holy word, like a confession.

When she finally stilled, she was gasping, sweat beading on her neck. Her pussy was gushing. He kissed the insides of her thighs as she eased down.

“Turn around,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

Before she could speak, he gently turned her, bent her over the supply counter. She gasped — the position, the implication, everything hitting her at once.

“Oh god,” she breathed. “That’s—”

He spanked her.

Once.

A sharp, perfect smack that echoed through the room.

She let out a yelp that melted into a moan. Her hips pushed back automatically.

He spanked her again. Then again. His other hand reached around to rub her soaked slit.

“You love this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she sobbed. “I’m yours. Use me.”

He leaned over, growling into her ear, “You think anyone else will ever touch you like this? Speak to you like this?”

She shook her head, tears forming. “Never. Only you.”

He kept spanking her - over and over - until she shrieked!

She came again — loudly this time, biting down on her arm to keep from screaming. Her body convulsed beneath him.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her, whispering love and affection into her ear until her breathing steadied. But she wasn’t done. She turned, eyes glowing, and shoved him onto a folded massage table with surprising strength.

“My turn,” she purred.

Before he could react, she pulled down his shorts and dropped between his legs.

Her mouth was warm. Wet. Hungry.

She moaned as she took him in — deep, then shallow. Her tongue flicked the tip before she swallowed him whole again, her fingers gripping his thighs for leverage.

“Anya...” he groaned.

She didn’t stop. She watched him with those huge eyes, daring him to look away. He felt himself unraveling — fast.

When he came, she didn’t flinch. Swallowed some, licked the rest off her finger with a grin.

“I could live on this,” she whispered, kissing his inner thigh. “Morning, noon, and night.”

He pulled her up and kissed her again, tasting himself on her lips.

They collapsed together, tangled on a bench, sticky and breathless.

“This wasn’t a dream,” he murmured.

“No,” she said, eyes wide. “It was better.”

Her fingers traced the sweat on his chest. “You ruined me.”

He smirked, brushing her hair back. “Good.”

They stayed like that for a while — a pile of tangled limbs, giggling and sighing, their bodies still humming.

But eventually, reality crept in.

“I have to go soon,” he murmured.

She nodded. “I know.”

Neither of them moved.

“Can we meet again?” he asked.

She gave him a look that said he was stupid for asking. “You think I’m letting you walk around Calcutta unsupervised after what we just did to each other?”

He laughed, breathless, and before he could reply, her mouth was on his again — not gentle this time, but feral. Teeth, tongue, possession. The kind of kiss that warned him that he wasn’t leaving until every inch of him was ruined for anyone else. She pulled back just far enough to whisper, “This was just the beginning.”

And he knew she meant it.

“I dreamed of this,” she said when she pulled back to breathe. “Dreamed of your taste. Of watching your face as I took you deeper ... until you were fucking my throat and moaning my name.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She dove back down, taking him even deeper this time, her throat tight around him. He gasped, one hand fisting in her hair as he fought the edge again.

She didn’t let up.

Sucking, stroking, moaning — her mouth a perfect rhythm of filth and worship.

When he climaxed again, he came hard. Guttural. Loud. Her name spilled from his mouth like a plea. She didn’t stop sucking until he was twitching in her mouth, her throat swallowing everything.

She looked up, breathless, her lips shiny and swollen. “Still think I’m the sweet one?”

He blinked, dazed. “You were never the sweet one.”

She grinned. “Good. Because I’m not finished.”

She crawled back up his body, her mouth crashing into his again. She rolled her hips against his bare stomach, panting.

And then she paused.

“Remember the fantasy I had?” she murmured against his mouth. “The one where you watched me with other girls?” He froze, heart racing.