The shower in the private suite was larger than my entire old bathroom.
Hot water pounded over my shoulders while I stood there trembling, still feeling the phantom stretch of Adrian’s c**k and the dull ache between my thighs. My reflection in the glass was a mess—lipstick smeared, hair wrecked, a faint red mark on my hip where his fingers had dug in. I should have been scrubbing him off me. Instead I kept replaying the way he’d looked when I signed the contract: calm, satisfied, already deciding how he would use me next.
Nineteen minutes later I walked into the master bedroom wearing only the short black silk robe I’d found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Adrian was waiting.
He had stripped down to black sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the deep V of muscle disappearing
