I moved through the dark house toward the master suite, my stockinged feet silent on the hardwood. The order to heat my dinner sat in the air like a verdict, but I bypassed the kitchen entirely. I needed a shower. To wash the office’s sterile lemon scent from my skin, and the phantom pressure of a man’s need from my leg.
The bedroom was as dark and cold as the foyer. I didn’t turn on the light. Light felt like exposure. I went straight to the en suite, closing the door behind me before flicking the switch. The fluorescent bar above the mirror buzzed to life, casting a harsh, surgical glow.
I avoided my reflection. Deliberately. I kept my gaze on the marble countertop, on the monogrammed hand towels, on the chrome faucet. My hands went to the buttons of my silk blouse. My fingers, usually
