The bruises on my thighs had faded by morning, but the memory hadn’t. I could still feel them—their hands, their c***s, the sting of being filled and stretched and owned by two at once. I could feel the echo of that second man’s tongue, the way Adrian had looked at me like I was just a vessel to be poured into, claimed, conquered, broken. And worst of all—I could still feel the shameful flutter between my legs every time I remembered how loud I had screamed, how desperately I had begged for more.
I didn’t want to admit what was happening to me.
I was losing myself.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t romance. It was deeper. Darker. It was obsession wrapped in pain. Surrender wrapped in silk and control. I told myself I hated him. I told myself I wanted to escape. But when he opened the door that
