The week dragged like wet cement. Marcy sat through meetings, typed emails, smiled at coworkers, but her mind kept sliding back to Ryan’s couch—the way their hands felt, the taste of herself on Marcus’s fingers, the filthy promises they’d whispered into her skin. Every time she crossed her legs she felt the ghost of Ryan’s touch, the ache that hadn’t really gone away. By Friday she was counting hours.
Saturday evening she stood outside Marcus’s apartment building, heart hammering. No vodka tonight. No excuses. Just want, sharp and clean. She wore a simple black dress—thin straps, short hem, nothing underneath. The fabric brushed her bare n*****s with every step, kept her constantly aware of how exposed she already was. She didn’t knock. Marcus had left the door cracked.
Inside, the livin
