8
Zara
He was back.
I didn’t hear the door. Didn’t see the car pull up. I was halfway down the hallway when I felt it him around.
I turned the corner, and there he was.
Michael stood at the bottom of the stairs, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, jaw tight, expression unreadable. He looked the same and completely different. The same black T-shirt stretched across his chest. He was back from wherever Victor had sent him to.
I didn’t move. Neither did he.
We just stared at each other.
I thought I’d say something clever. Ask him how his week was. Maybe pretend I hadn’t spent every night with my hand between my thighs, imagining his mouth, his c**k, his voice in my ear.
But I couldn’t say a damn thing.
Not when his eyes were dragging over me like that. I felt stripped bare in hi
