I woke up with a jolt, my heart hammering against my ribs. For a terrifying second, I thought I was still in the guest room. I expected to feel the weight of Ford’s heavy limbs over me and the scent of our sin thick in the air.
I looked around, blinking in the dim light. I was in my own bed. I was dressed in a clean nightgown. Ford must have carried me here.
Outside the window, the sun had already set. I had slept through the afternoon. I stood up, my legs feeling shaky and weak. Between my thighs, there was a dull, pulsing ache—a physical reminder of the way Ford had just claimed me.
Every step I took toward the kitchen felt like a betrayal.
I reached the doorway and stopped. The scene was so domestic, so normal, it made me want to hang. Owen was at the stove, humming a low tune as he
