The next morning dawns too bright, too normal. Sunlight slices through the blinds in sharp golden bars across my bed, and my body feels deliciously sore—every muscle aching in that good, used-up way. My thighs are sticky, my lips still swollen from last night, and between my legs there’s a dull, throbbing heat that hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s worse. Like my p***y woke up hungrier than before.
Downstairs I hear the usual sounds: coffee brewing, the low murmur of the TV, my step daddy’s deep laugh at something his friend said. They’re acting like nothing happened. Like they didn’t spend half the night ruining me.
I can’t sit still.
I pull on the thinnest tank top I own—no b*a, n*****s already stiff against the cotton—and a pair of tiny sleep shorts that ride up the second I move.
