The bedroom is silent and still when I wake up.
The heavy, steel-grey clouds that choked the sky so early this morning have finally broken, leaving behind a pale, watery sunlight. I reach out across the mattress, my palm sweeping over the cool, empty space beside me. The sheets still hold the faint, comforting scent of him, but Locke is already gone.
I pull the heavy duvet tight around my chest, rolling onto my back to stare up at the ceiling. My body feels soft, warm, and thoroughly used in the best possible way.
The lingering, dull ache between my thighs is a quiet, thrumming reminder of last night. Of the cool wooden table beneath my palms, against my n*****s; of his fingers on my c**t, wrapped around my throat.
Of the raw confession hanging heavy in the dark, and the absolute, bur
