Two days.
That’s how long Caleb gave me before he snapped again.
I spent them in a haze—sore between my legs, n*****s tender every time my shirt brushed them, replaying the way he’d f****d me on the kitchen island like he was claiming territory. My parents were still gone. The house felt 100% ours. But he didn’t text. Didn’t wave. Didn’t even glance over the fence when I “accidentally” sunbathed topless again.
He was making me wait.
And it was driving me insane.
On the second night, just after midnight, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Unknown: My house. Back door unlocked. Ten minutes.
Unknown: Wear the red bikini. Nothing else.
My heart slammed against my ribs. His house. Where pictures of his ex-wife might still be on the walls. Where his bed smelled like him. Where neighbors
