The fourth message glowed on her screen—I miss you—and Sofia's thumb hovered over the keyboard, three dots blinking where a reply should go. The morning light painted the sheets gold, warm on her bare legs, and somewhere behind her, Liam's breathing had changed, the slow rhythm of sleep shifting into something more awake.
His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, and she felt the heat of his chest press against her back, his lips brushing her shoulder. His hand slid down her stomach, fingers trailing through the soft hair below her navel, and she sucked in a breath, the phone still clutched in her hand, Maya's name still on the screen.
His fingers found her wet—had been wet, she realized, since she felt him stir behind her—and he parted her folds with a slow, deliberate pressure, his thumb circling her clit before she could even process the touch. She gasped, the phone slipping from her grip, landing facedown on the pillow beside her.
"You can answer her later." His voice was rough, still thick with sleep, his breath hot against her ear. His thumb kept moving, slow circles that made her hips buck, made her grip the sheets. "Right now, I need you to feel this."
She felt his cock against her ass, hard and urgent, pressing into the cleft of her, and her body responded before her mind caught up—arching back into him, a sound escaping her throat that was half whimper, half surrender.
"Liam—"
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, his hand sliding lower, fingers dipping inside her, feeling how ready she was. "I know. I know."
He pushed her forward onto her knees, and she went, her hands finding the wooden slats of the headboard, her body trembling with anticipation. The light caught the dust motes floating above the bed, lazy and slow, and then his hand was on her hip, guiding, positioning.
He entered her from behind, slow, a steady pressure that made her grip the headboard harder, her forehead dropping forward. He was thick, always felt that way when she hadn't had him yet, and the stretch was everything—sharp and full and exactly what she needed.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word escaping him like he hadn't meant to say it.
He sank deeper, inch by inch, and she felt herself clench around him, felt the wet heat of where they joined, felt his fingers dig into her hip. He paused once he was fully inside, his chest pressed against her back, his breath ragged against her neck.
"Look at you," he murmured, his hand sliding up her stomach, palm flat against her belly. "Taking all of me."
She couldn't answer. Couldn't do anything but feel—the pressure of him inside her, the warmth of his body against hers, the way his thumb found her clit again, circling in time with the slow, deep rhythm he'd started.
He pulled back, almost all the way out, then pushed in again, slower than before, and she whimpered, her hips pushing back against him, wanting more, wanting faster.
"Not yet," he said, his voice low, his hand pressing her flat against the mattress as he thrust again, deeper, harder. "I want to feel you come like this first."
His fingers worked her clit in tight circles, his hips setting a rhythm that was patient, measured, deliberate. Each stroke hit deep, hitting that spot that made her vision blur, and she was already close, the heat building low in her belly, spreading through her thighs.
"Liam—"
"I know." His voice was strained, his control fraying. "I feel it. You're clenching around me."
He thrust harder, faster, his fingers pressing harder against her clit, and she came with a cry, her body shuddering, her cunt tightening around him in waves. He kept moving through it, slow and deep, drawing out every pulse, every gasp, until she was trembling, boneless, her grip on the headboard gone slack.
He pulled out, and she heard the wet sound of his hand moving on himself, felt his cum splash across her lower back, hot and thick, and then his weight collapsed beside her, his arm pulling her close, his forehead pressed against her shoulder blade.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the tick of a clock somewhere in the room, the distant hum of traffic from the street below.
Then he shifted, his lips brushing her shoulder, and murmured, "Hey."
"Hey."
"I didn't mean to—" He stopped, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her hip. "I saw the message. I got jealous. Stupid."
She turned to face him, the sheets tangling around their legs. His hair was messy, his cheeks flushed, and in the morning light, he looked younger, softer, like the boy who'd handed her a wilted rose and turned red when she kissed his cheek.
"It's not stupid," she said, her voice quiet. "But she's my ex. She's in the Philippines. She's not—"
"I know." He met her eyes, and there it was—that quiet intensity, the way he saw more than he let on. "I know she's not. I just... I don't want to share you. Even with a text."
She reached out, tracing the scar above his eyebrow with her thumb. "You're not sharing me."
He caught her hand, pressed his lips to her palm, and held her gaze. "Then don't answer."
She looked at the phone, facedown on the pillow, dark and silent. Maya's words still burned in her mind—I miss you—but this body beside her, warm and real and here, that was the thing that mattered.
She turned back to him, her fingers sliding into his hair, and pulled him into a kiss that said everything she couldn't find words for.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered against his lips.
His hand found the curve of her waist, pulling her closer, and in the morning light, with his body pressed against hers, Sofia let Maya's message dissolve into the space between them, unanswered.