That night at home the tension was worse.
Dinner was carefully normal. My mother talked about work. Elias answered in short, controlled sentences. I pushed food around my plate and tried not to notice the way his gaze kept drifting to my mouth whenever I took a sip of water. When my mother stood to clear the dishes he remained seated, eyes locked on me across the table for one long, deliberate second that made my cunt clench around nothing.
Later I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, still wet, still aching, replaying every word. The house was quiet. I heard soft footsteps pass my door once—slow, measured—and then continue toward the study at the end of the hall. I waited ten full minutes before I rose, pulled on an oversized shirt that barely covered the tops of my thighs, and followed.
