The morning after the storm felt like waking up in the aftermath of a fever dream. The penthouse was eerily silent, the air still heavy with the scent of the expensive bourbon Luciano had spilled and the lingering, electric heat of our encounter against the glass. I woke up alone in the massive king-sized bed, the silk sheets tangled around my legs like silver vines. My body felt heavy, marked by the ghost of his hands, and every time I closed my eyes, I could still feel the vibration of his voice against my skin—a low, rhythmic growl that had commanded my very soul to surrender.
I stood in front of the vanity mirror, my hands trembling as I pulled the silk robe aside. The marks on my neck and hips were darkening—a purple-black map of his absolute possession. My mind told me to be disgust
