The grandfather clock in the grand hallway struck two in the morning, its deep chimes echoing through the quiet Voss mansion like a warning Freya chose to ignore. Most guests had left hours ago. Victor had retired to his study with a final glass of scotch, talking business deals on the phone as usual. The house was finally still.
Except for the fire burning between her thighs.
Freya lay in her childhood bedroom on the second floor, wearing nothing but a thin silk slip that barely reached mid-thigh. The sheets felt too warm against her skin. Sleep was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt Draven’s thick fingers buried inside her, heard his low, filthy words against her ear. Her p***y still throbbed, slick and needy even after the intense orgasm he had ripped from her in the
