The house was too quiet the next afternoon.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, warm against her skin, but she couldn’t feel it. She sat on the couch with her knees pulled close, her robe tied loosely around her waist. The fabric was soft against her thighs, but her skin still burned from the way his hands had held her last night.
She’d told herself it was a mistake. It couldn’t happen again.
But every time she thought about the way he’d whispered against her ear, the way he’d made her come with his fingers like she was something he owned, her body heated. Her thighs pressed together unconsciously, the memory pulsing between them like a heartbeat.
The creak of the floorboards down the hall snapped her out of it. Her pulse jumped.
He was home.
She could feel it before she saw him.
