7
Claire.
I was trying to wash him off me.
That was the lie I told myself as I slipped into the clawfoot tub in the corner of the master bathroom. I’d filled it with hot water, poured in a lavender soak I didn’t even like, and sank beneath the surface until the heat prickled my skin.
But I didn’t want to be clean.
I wanted to feel him again. His voice, his mouth, the way he filled me like I belonged to him. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the porcelain. My fingers slid down my stomach slowly. The ache between my legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it had sharpened.
I should’ve gone back to bed, back to my husband’s arms, back to pretending, but I couldn’t. Not tonight. Not after what Julian did to me in that office.
My body still hummed with the memory.
And guilt? God, it was
