I do not sleep.
The door stays open the way he told me. The hall light cuts a pale stripe across my floor and stops at the edge of the bed. I lie on top of the sheets naked, thighs still slick, collar of bruises starting where Grant’s fingers held my arms. Every time I close my eyes I feel him again. Two fingers. Slow. Certain. The way he made me look at them while I came.
I slide my own hand down once. Just once. I get as far as my c**t and freeze, because the house is quiet enough that I know they will hear the first broken sound I make.
I pull my hand back.
I hate that I listen.
I hate more that I am still wet from listening.
Footsteps come first.
Not rushed. Not sneaky. Grant does not sneak in his own house. He walks like the floor already belongs to him. The stripe of light on
