**Kyra
The first thing that penetrates my consciousness is illumination. Slender, lambent ribbons of morning light slice through the slatted blinds, striping the hardwood floor in liquid gold. I exist in that liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, my body a symphony of languid aches. Not the sharp sting of injury, but the profound, satisfying soreness of exertion. Of devotion. Of being thoroughly, exquisitely unmade and reassembled by someone else’s hands.
Every muscle possesses memory. My thighs recall the tremor of strain. My shoulders remember the press of the mattress. My lips still feel swollen, sensitized, as if they’re keeping secrets.
I turn instinctively toward his side of the bed and find it vacant. The sheets are cool beneath my palm. For one irrational, breathless hear
