I tried to act normal the next morning. Pretend nothing happened. That I hadn’t moaned Dominic’s name into the pillow while his fingers bruised my hips, or fallen asleep curled into his chest, legs tangled and skin still damp with sweat. I tried. But I failed miserably. I couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was a drug he couldn’t quit.
And the worst part? I didn’t want him to quit.
The office was colder than usual. Not in temperature, but in atmosphere. He walked in late, phone pressed to his ear, face hard and unreadable. The moment he stepped into the room, something in me straightened. Like I was tuned to his frequency and only his.
He didn’t look at me. Not even a glance.
I spent the day filing reports and trying not to look at the ring
