-POV Derby
The days after I walked out of Jordan’s penthouse felt like slow suffocation.
I went to work like a ghost — smiling when required, answering emails on autopilot, avoiding any floor that might bring me closer to him. My manager had reassigned me completely from the Vasquez project. “Conflict of interest,” he’d said again, looking uncomfortable.
He had no idea how right he was.
Every night I came home to an empty apartment that still somehow smelled like him. Every shower reminded me of his hands on my skin, his mouth between my legs, the way he’d groaned my name when he came deep inside me.
I touched myself more than I cared to admit — fingers desperate, chasing the high only he could give — but it was never enough. I always ended up crying afterward, whispering his name lik
