But it wasn't enough. I invited him home for dinner.
The second he walks in, his eyes strip Ana Lucia bare, and her nipples harden like they remember his mouth. The air crackles with a history I was never part of: one night, years ago, she spent the night after our first date in his dorm, while his roommates watched.
I don't want the story anymore. I want the sequel. I want to see her legs wrapped around him again, hear her scream his name, feel the jealousy burn while my groin throbs. I want him to wreck her on our kitchen counter, fill her up, paint her pretty face, and when it's over I'll wipe her cheek, kiss her, and show him the spare room.
Because he's not leaving. Not so soon. This is just the beginning.
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