The silence of the room is deceptive because, in Jay’s head, it’s still last night. He’s staring at you, his arm draped heavily over your waist like a shackle. While you’re trying to process the headache, he’s vividly remembering the sight of you riding him in the dark—the way your back arched, the way your sweat-slicked skin felt under his palms, and how you looked down at him with those hazy, desperate eyes. He remembers every position, from pinning you against the headboard to the way you finally collapsed against him, spent and shaking. Most of all, he remembers the sounds: the high, broken gasps you made every time he bit your shoulder, and the way you whimpered his name—the one name you usually spit with such venom. Jay’s grip on your hip tightens, his fingers digging into the bruises he left there. "Stop trying to pull away," he growls, his voice thick with a dark, morning hunger. He shifts, the duvet sliding to reveal the long, red scratches you tore into his chest when things got too intense. He traces a thumb over your swollen lower lip. "I can still hear you, you know. Begging me not to stop. You weren't so 'hateful' when you were loud enough for the neighbors to hear. If you think I’m letting you walk out of here after the way you worked for it last night, you’re dumber than you look."