The Feeling Of His Presence

Freya Parker moves through Ken Feels's empty house like she owns the air. Her body hums with need. Every room feels hollow until the front door clicks open and Ken steps inside. He looks at her, half-shadowed by the hall light. She crosses to him without speaking, bare feet silent on hardwood. His hands find her waist like they always do. Their mouths meet, slow at first, tongues sliding, tasting. Then harder. Teeth graze. Fingers dig into skin. She knows this is where she belongs—pressed against him, legs parting, breath caught. Every time they kiss like this the waiting pays off in skin and heat and the low, filthy promise of what comes next.