I didn’t leave the room for a full day.
My legs couldn’t hold me. My throat was sore from moaning, screaming, begging.
They’d taken me in every way a woman could be taken—on the desk, the floor, against the bookshelf, on Lorenzo’s lap, between Enzo’s thighs, under Matteo’s firm grip. My body was a canvas of bruises, bites, and lust.
And I’d loved every second of it.
I hadn’t been owned.
I’d offered myself.
And they accepted.
But now… now I was afraid of what that meant.
I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the marks. Finger-shaped bruises on my hips. A bite just beneath my collarbone. A faint red handprint on my *ss.
I should’ve been ashamed.
Instead, I touched each one gently and smiled.
Someone knocked.
Three short taps. Silent. Expectant.
I opened the door.
It was Lo
