I did not touch myself.
That was the whole night. I slept when the house went quiet. I put my hands on top of the covers. I woke before the sun and stared at the ceiling until the ache became a decision instead of a tantrum. If the only way they would let me come was obedience, I was going to be so good it pissed them off.
I showered. I did not linger. I pulled the polo on again because I was not above being obvious, and I went downstairs while the sky was still thin.
The kitchen was empty.
I made coffee the way Dad made it. Eggs. Toast. Bacon in the pan that always spat. My ass was still tender from Grant. My cunt was still furious from Cole. I cooked anyway, barefoot on cold tile, twenty-one years old and playing house for the men my father had left in it.
They came in one at a time
