Morning light cut through the kitchen windows like it had every right to expose everything.
I walked in wearing an old oversized T-shirt that barely covered the tops of my thighs and nothing underneath. Every step made the soft cotton brush over my still-tender n*****s and the swollen, overused lips of my cunt. Sinclair’s c*m had dried on my inner thighs overnight. I hadn’t washed it off. I liked the proof.
Maria stood at the counter pouring coffee, already dressed, already sharp-eyed. Sinclair leaned against the island in black sweatpants and a fitted shirt, coffee mug in one hand, looking calm and collected and nothing like the man who had f****d me until I couldn’t speak last night.
I kept my eyes on the floor. On the tiles. On anything but him. Looking would make me remember the exa
