Raya's POV

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I couldn't sleep.

Again.

It had only been sixteen hours since Zane left for Scotland, and I was already going crazy. His scent still clung to the shirt I wore-his white dress shirt, now practically molded to my body like a second skin. I'd been living in it since he left. Buttoned wrong. Hanging too low on my shoulders. A physical memory of him, and I refused to take it off.

I stared at the ceiling of his-my-bedroom in the dark. The silence was loud. So loud I could hear the blood rushing in my ears and the faint ticking of the old clock on the far wall. Even the wind felt still, as if the world was holding its breath just like I was.

The phone beside me buzzed.

I reached for it like it was oxygen, like maybe it was him saying he was coming back. That he changed his mind. That he couldn't bear being away from me, from us.

But it wasn't a text.

It was a voicemail.

From Zane.

At 3:07 AM.

My heart dropped into my stomach and then rocketed up into my throat.

Fingers trembling, I pressed play.

And I swear I stopped breathing.

> "I know, love... it's late..."

His voice was low, raw, almost hoarse. Sleepy, no. Wrecked.

> "But-Jesus..."

I could hear it. The uneven pant of his breath, the low growl curling at the edge of his words. He sounded unhinged. Like a man barely holding himself together.

> "Fuck, Raya. My love. I can't stop thinking about you."

I froze.

My body responded faster than my brain. Skin prickled with goosebumps. My thighs pressed together, tightly, instinctively.

> "I had this meeting... hours long... fucking boring. And the whole time, all I could see was you..."

He groaned.

An actual groan.

And then I heard it.

A sharp inhale.

A whisper of friction.

My mouth parted.

> "I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be saying this-but I need you, baby. I need you so fucking bad. God..."

The sharp sound of movement.

A clenched breath.

My chest rose and fell too fast.

> "I keep picturing you in that fucking shirt-my shirt. Your thighs bare. Your hair messy. Those sleepy eyes when you beg me not to leave."

My hand drifted lower, slipping beneath the sheets without even realizing.

> "You don't even know what you do to me, Raya. What you've turned me into..."

His voice broke at the edges, breath hitching. He sounded wrecked.

> "I'm hard. So fucking hard it hurts. All I can do is stroke myself and imagine it's your hand. Your mouth. That fucking tight little pussy of yours."

I whimpered.

Low. Desperate.

My fingers slipped under my underwear.

I was already soaked.

> "You'd be on your back right now, wouldn't you? Legs spread just the way I like it-open and greedy. Begging for me. Your voice all breathy and sweet when you call me uncle, knowing exactly what it does to me."

I gasped. My fingers circled my clit with trembling need. He wasn't even in the same country, and yet he had full control of my body.

> "I'd ruin you, baby. Slow and deep. I'd fuck you so hard you'd forget how to walk. You'd scream my name and beg for more and you know I'd give it to you. I'd give you everything."

The sound of him moaning-really moaning-hit like a lightning bolt to my core. It was deep and primal and full of need.

> "God, Raya-fuck, I'm close..."

I held my breath.

I was right there with him. Desperate. Shaking. My thighs trembling as my fingers moved faster.

> "Say my name. Say it like you mean it. Say it like you need me..."

He groaned again.

And then-

> "I'm coming, fuck-I'm coming-Raya-my love-"

A sharp breath. The sound of release. His voice cracking like he'd broken apart.

And then silence.

The voicemail ended.

And I exploded.

My entire body arched off the bed, pleasure crashing into me so violently I could barely hold on. I came hard, shaking, biting down on my bottom lip to stifle the sob that broke free. My toes curled, eyes shut tight, heart beating like a war drum.

I collapsed back into the sheets, my body boneless, my soul rattled.

He wasn't even here.

He hadn't even touched me.

And still, he'd managed to destroy me.

I stared at the ceiling, panting, tears springing to my eyes for reasons I couldn't quite explain. Maybe because of how raw his voice had sounded. Maybe because of how much I already missed him. Maybe because I'd never wanted someone as badly as I wanted him.

Zane Thornfield wasn't just the man I loved.

He was the man who could ruin me with a single voicemail.

And the worst part?

I wanted more.

The next morning, I didn't sleep. I laid there listening to that voicemail over and over, torturing myself with the sound of his pleasure-his need-his love. And each time, my body reacted the same way. That deep ache. That helpless, desperate throb in my core.

By 7 a.m., I gave up trying to be reasonable.

I grabbed my phone and typed:

> That was the dirtiest thing you've ever sent me.

> You owe me three orgasms when you get back.

The message sat unsent on my screen for a full minute before I finally hit send.

Three seconds later, he replied.

> Only three, baby? You're not aiming high enough.

I laughed, cheeks flushed, still wearing his shirt. Still aching for more.

God help me.

I was completely his.

And when he got back...

I knew I wouldn't survive it.

I wouldn't survive us.