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I roll onto my side. My shoulder protests. I roll back.

My mind returns to Nikolai because apparently self-preservation is not one of my strengths.

His mouth on mine. His wet shirt open under my fingers. The heat of his chest when he pulled me against him.

I squeeze my thighs together under the blankets. This is the worst possible time. My body ignores me.

My nipples tighten beneath the pajama top, aching with the memory of being pressed against him through damp cotton. I can still feel the drag of fabric, the pressure of his chest, the way he went still for one second before kissing me like he had been starving and I had made the mistake of putting my mouth within reach.

My hand slips over my stomach. I stop. Then laugh once, quietly, without humor. “Fantastic,” I whisper into the dark. “This is who we are now.”

I should be ashamed. I am ashamed.

But I’ m also still throbbing between my legs, still wound tight from the afternoon, still full of the terrible, hot memory of his hand sliding over my thigh before he stopped himself.

I slip my hand beneath the waistband of my pajama pants. The first touch makes my breath catch. I’m already wet.

I close my eyes, mortified and aching, and picture him instead of my own hand.

Nikolai beside me. Nikolai over me. Nikolai’s large hand pushing mine away because he would not ask twice for something he already knew I wanted.

In my head, he doesn’t stop at my thigh.

He drags my pajama pants down slowly, watching my face the whole time, those pale gray eyes steady and dark with want.

“Is this what you were thinking about?” he murmurs in my ear.

My fingers slide over my clit. I bite my lip.

“Touching yourself in my bed?”

I gasp at the thought, hips lifting into my hand.

In the fantasy, his mouth brushes my throat. “Poor thing,” he says, voice low and rough. “You were so embarrassed after kissing me, but now look at you.”

My fingers move faster. My legs part beneath the blankets.

I imagine his hand between my thighs instead, two fingers stroking through me, spreading the wetness there before circling my clit with slow, deliberate pressure.

“You would have let me take these off, wouldn’t you?” he says, tugging at my panties. “The second I kissed you, you would have let me have anything I wanted.”

A helpless little sound escapes me. I press my other hand over my mouth, but it doesn’t matter. The room is empty. The house is huge. No one can hear me.

At least, I hope no one can hear me.

The thought should stop me. It makes everything worse. I imagine Nikolai catching me like this.

Opening the door. Seeing me flushed and spread under his blankets, my fingers moving desperately beneath my clothes.

I imagine his expression going still first, then hungry.

“Don’t stop, Elle,” he would say, my name in his voice the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

My body clenches. I rub harder, tighter circles that make pleasure coil low in my stomach.

In my head, he climbs onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, one hand closing around my thigh to hold me open.

“Let me see how badly you need it.”