NICOLE
The soft cotton of my oversized shirt is a gentle cage. My body still hums, a live wire of sensation and exhaustion.
Every nerve ending remembers his hands, his mouth, the brutal, perfect claiming. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive. The shower washed away the physical evidence, but the memory is etched into my bones.
I sit cross-legged on the bed, my damp hair dripping onto the pillow. My glasses are perched on my nose, a book open in my lap. I'm not reading a single word.
The letters are just black squiggles. My whole being is focused on pretending he isn't there. Pretending I'm not acutely aware of every sound from his bathroom.
The door opens. Steam billows out, carrying his scent—clean soap and something darker, uniquely him. I don't look up. I keep my eyes glued to the meaningless page.
I feel him move through the room. A shift in the a
ir. A presence that takes up all the space.
