The night was quiet again.
A deceptive, suffocating quiet.
Only the soft creak of wood and canvas as the carriage settled. The whisper of wind rolling over the forest canopy. The faint wet sound of Leonhardt's breath leaving his lungs—still fast, still shallow.
He lay there, shirtless, his pants half-undone and stained, his body marked with her heat.
His cock twitched, even now after climaxing, but he hadn't told her to "stop." Neither did he want her to. And yet… the way she'd fled, the sound in her throat. That small, broken gasp before she vanished—it twisted something inside him that lust couldn't smother.
Leonhardt exhaled again and sat up slowly, pulling his trousers back together and ignoring the swollen mark on his face, or the weak feeling in his legs. His hands moved with a deliberate calm, but the tingle of his skin remained. He couldn't forget the feeling of her lips, the taste of her tongue, and he ached for more.
