Susan Moreau didn’t look back.
Not at the garden.
Not at the guesthouse.
Not at the drenched bedsheets she’d left tangled in the memory of Keiran’s hands.
She boarded the plane with trembling fingers and a heart that thudded against her ribs like it still remembered how he f****d her in the shower… and how he let another woman lick his c*m out of her soaked p***y.
You left everything behind. That’s what you needed.
That’s what she told herself.
And yet—her thighs were still sticky.
Her panties were still damp.
Her chest still rose every time she remembered his voice whispering “You’re mine now, ma’am.”
She closed her eyes in the first-class seat.
Tried to settle in.
Tried to let go.
But her n*****s ached under her blouse. Her p***y throbbed at every shift of her hips. The way
