{EMY}
Ren clicked his tongue as he rolled on the last condom, the faint snap of latex punctuated by the wicked gleam in his eyes.
"Next time," he murmured in that low, gravelly voice that melted every ounce of resistance in me, "I'm bringing dozens of boxes."
I would've laughed—maybe teased him, maybe told him he was ridiculous—but I was far too spent to form anything coherent.
My limbs felt boneless, my lungs refused to cooperate, and my brain had melted into something warm and dizzy.
All I could do was stare up at him, utterly mesmerized by the man hovering over me like some sculpted deity carved from heat and sin.
Ren braced himself above me, and for a breathless second, I simply watched the subtle play of muscle across his chest and abdomen—how his stomach tightened, how his forearms flexed, how a single bead of sweat carved a path down his throat.
