Hours later.
The bedroom was dim, city lights bleeding through the vast windows in lazy streaks of blue and gold, turning the room into some high-end brothel for insomniac gods. The clock glowed 2:47 AM—mocking, smug, the hour when regrets usually came knocking.
Phei surfaced slowly, consciousness dragging itself back like a drunk stumbling home.
First the warmth—thick, enveloping, wrong.
Then the softness pressed against his back: full, heavy breasts crushed flush to his shoulder blades, the generous weight of them molding to his skin like warm silk pillows.
Her nipples—stiff, swollen peaks, thick and erect from the cool air and raw, aching need—stabbed through the thin cream slip like insistent little bullets, dragging across his bare back with every shallow breath she took.
Each subtle shift sent a jolt straight to his cock, those hard points scraping slow, teasing trails over his muscles, marking him with her arousal.
