Jenny came out of Ross's room walking like she'd just ridden a horse for three days straight—legs wide, hips rolling with deliberate care, each step sending a dull, delicious ache radiating up her thighs and into her lower back.
She could still feel him inside her, the ghost of how deep he'd gone, how roughly he'd pinned her wrists above her head, how many times he'd made her come until her voice cracked and she'd begged him to stop and then begged him not to.
She couldn't quite believe it was real.
Two nights ago she'd still been sleeping in the women's room on a thin mattress that smelled faintly of mildew and old sweat.
Tonight—and every night from now on—she'd be in his bunk, tangled in his sheets, marked by his hands and his mouth.
The thought made her stomach flip in a way that was half nerves, half smug satisfaction.
The corridor to the women's rooms felt longer than usual.
