Alina didn’t leave her room the next morning. Not because she was afraid of him—but because she was afraid of herself. She’d crossed a line. No, not crossed. She had sprinted past it, wet and trembling, legs shaking from the orgasm she gave herself while thinking of him stroking that thick, brutal c**k. And worse than her shame was the truth that pulsed underneath it. She didn’t want to take it back.
Her n*****s were still sensitive, her core sore in a way that felt criminal. But there was a more terrifying truth rising like a tide beneath her skin: she wanted him to catch her again. She wanted him to open that door and drag her inside, press her against the wall, say nothing as he stripped her down and showed her just how much he meant it when he whispered her name.
By the afternoon, hu
