CHAPTER 21
The Memory of His Hands
Rory sat rigidly in her dressing room chair, her reflection staring back at her with eyes that looked haunted and unfamiliar. As her hairstylist’s fingers moved rhythmically through her beautiful, pale wheat colored hair, Rory’s mind was absolutely and frighteningly elsewhere—trapped in the suffocating memory of a dream she had officially branded as “disgusting.” It was a self-proclaimed label, a desperate attempt to sanitize the visceral, dark electricity of the fantasy.
Yet, despite her mental protests, her gaze kept drifting to her own reflection, tracing the line of her lips as if looking for the phantom bruising of his kiss. Without realizing it, she would catch herself biting her lower lip, her body subconsciously trying to recreate the pressure
