Thanksgiving dinner was a special kind of torture.
The long table was set with the good china Maria only used twice a year. Candles flickered. The smell of roasted turkey and sage filled the dining room. I sat across from Sinclair in a soft black dress that stopped mid-thigh, no bra, no panties, the same way I’d been walking around all day. Every time I shifted, the silk clung to the sticky insides of my thighs where his fingers had been that morning.
Maria talked the entire meal. Complaints about the turkey being slightly dry. Comments about how I still looked too thin. Questions about whether I was “seeing anyone serious” or still “wasting time on temporary men.” I answered in short, polite sentences and kept my eyes on my plate.
Sinclair barely spoke. He carved the turkey with steady
