The next morning came too soon, cruel and bright through the narrow window slits. Riley woke to a body that felt like it had been run over—every muscle screaming, thighs burning, core tender in a way that made her cheeks heat with fresh shame. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Pain lanced up her left leg immediately; she bit her lip to keep from crying out and limped toward the attached bathroom.
The shower was scalding, the kind that turned skin pink and steam thick enough to hide in. She stood under the spray until the water ran cold, scrubbing at the marks Armani had left—fingerprints on her hips, bite marks on her neck and shoulder—like she could erase last night if she tried hard enough. She couldn’t. The ache between her legs was proof enough.
When she stepped
