ELENA DUVAL
I had gone to one of the guest rooms downstairs to shower. By the time I was done, and headed back to the bedroom, Dimitri had left. And as usual, he didn't come home that night.
No matter how hard I tried I couldn't shake the memory of Dimitri's mouth on mine. The firmness of his lips. The heat of his body. The subtle expensive scent of his cologne and the self-assured weight of his hand around my waist.
Days later, I could still feel the vividness of the moment as clearly as if it'd just happened, and what was worse, everywhere I turned, the little display at the bathroom kept sneaking back into my mind no matter how hard I tried to banish it.
It was infuriating. But not as infuriating as coming home every day to a silent, spotless house. Dimitri had left for Europe on a
