Helen
Monday morning arrived far too early.
I woke up already tired, the kind of deep, bone-heavy exhaustion that made the idea of getting out of bed feel impossible. My body still remembered Saturday. A dull, pleasant ache lingered between my legs and along the insides of my thighs—reminder of how roughly Marc had taken me over his desk, how full he had left me. Even after two full days the soreness hadn’t completely faded.
I groaned and forced myself upright anyway.
The bathroom tiles were cold under my feet. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and stood under a quick shower, careful not to let my hands wander the way they had the night before. Afterward I made a simple breakfast—toast, scrambled eggs, black coffee—and ate it standing at the counter, eyes half-lidded.
I almost misse
