Page 16 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

THIRTEEN

I was still in his bed.

Still bare. Still damp.

Still full.

Still coming down from something that felt like being split open and sanctified in the same breath.

Morning light crept through the blackout curtains—soft, golden, and shameless. Like it had watched the whole thing and came crawling in to gossip about it.

The sheets were pushed low around my hips.

One thigh thrown over his.

His hand splayed on it—heavy and warm, like a man claiming what he’d earned.

His chest pressed to my back, breath steady against my skin. Every inch of him still touched me. Still lingered inside me.

Like we hadn’t stopped—just paused somewhere between the third orgasm and the fourth round.

And maybe that was true. Because I hadn’t moved.

Not when the sun peeked in. Not when my thighs trembled with the slow, steady ache of being fucked senseless.

Not even when my pussy clenched from memory alone.

God.

I was wrecked.

Still swollen. Still wet. Still tasting him at the back of my throat.

He hadn’t just fucked me.

He worshipped me.

He ruined me.

He talked that shit with a voice that sounded like gravel dipped in syrup. Told me it was his pussy. His fat pussy. His perfect pussy. That he wanted it from the moment he met me—knew it would be as good as my voice, as wet as my lips, as deep as my throat he wanted to coat.

And he meant every word of it.

I could still feel his dick stretching me open. That curve. That girth. Like he was made to fill me.

I’d never been fucked like that in my life. I shifted and felt the ache bloom again. My body shivered. My pussy clenched .

I was sore.

Happy. Fucked-stupid sore. And somehow—I felt shy.

Which made no damn sense.

I’d swallowed his cum like it was the last meal I’d ever get. Sweet. Salty. Thick. I’d moaned around him like I was starving. And I was.

Still might be.

Because we’d gone again before sleep claimed us.

I remembered climbing on top of him, planting my feet in the mattress, riding him hard while my tits bounced in time and his mouth latched onto them like he owned them.

I remembered his voice—low and filthy—telling me to ride his dick, smacking my ass while I moaned through it.

I remembered being on all fours, biting the sheets as he pounded me from behind, thick and relentless, sweat dripping from his chest onto my back.

And when he pressed a finger into my ass and whispered, “You can take it, baby. This body was made for mine,” I came again—loud, shaking, calling out to God like I meant it.

I promised him shit I’d never promised anyone.

And when I collapsed, it was with him still buried inside me—so deep I swore he was touching something sacred.

Now, I was under the water, having left his room in the early morning hours to prepare to leave. it was hard, as him, to leave because he wanted to go again. But I reminded him that being late wasn’t my style. He reluctantly let me go with a grunt.

Thinking back to him lying on those white sheets, his brown skin glowing. His thick dick laying against his stomach waiting for me, had me wondering how I managed to carry this will power. Because he had been perfect.

My hand braced against the tile.

Head bowed and allowed the water to rinse my hair while my pussy throbbed slow. A dull, perfect ache.

And still... I wanted more .

He had ruined me.

The kind of ruin that tasted like honey and salt. Like his cum in my mouth, thick and warm, and the greedy way I’d begged for it again.

I remembered the weight of his tongue. The snap of his hips. The stretch of his dick inside me—claiming, praising, punishing.

You feel that, Sienna?

This pussy was made for me.

Say it.

Say it’s mine.

And I had. I fucking had.

Wrapped in a towel, I stepped out.

Feet soft on the cool floor. Breath shaky.

Heart somewhere between hope and what the fuck just happened.

My phone blinked on the nightstand.

1 message.

Brielle – Manager: Call me when you’re up. The label loved y’all last night.

I sighed. Picked it up. Dialed.

She answered on the first ring. “You’re awake. Good. That little show you and Raj put on? A hit. The press ate it up. Three new blog features, and the execs are asking about a joint interview.”

I rubbed my temple. “It wasn’t a show, Brie.”

Silence.

Then, “You know what I mean.”

My phone buzzed.

Jasmine: Girl. Someone got a shot of you heading into his room last night.

Tell me that man didn’t just have you singin’ solos with no damn mic .

“Brie, hold on.”

“No, you go ahead. I’ll text you. Sounds like you need a minute.” There was no judgment in her voice. Only understanding from one woman to the next.

Jasmine again:

[Image attachment: grainy, but clear enough—me, in my trench, stepping into his room.]

I closed my eyes. Covered my face. Groaned.

Another buzz.

Brielle:

Just got the pic. Label execs are obsessed. One of them just sent heart eyes.

I didn’t respond.

Because last night wasn’t strategy—it wasn’t content—and it wasn’t curated. It was him. Me. Us.

And already… it didn’t feel like mine anymore.