They finally left the bed when the light through the blinds turned bright and hard.
Zoe’s legs were unsteady when she stood. Come had dried in streaks down her thighs. Her mouth was swollen, her voice already rough. Lucas tossed her the black t-shirt; she didn’t put it on. She carried it downstairs in one hand and let it drop on the banister.
The living room was still half-wrecked from the party—couch cushions crooked, a single red cup on the windowsill, the faint sticky patch on the rug where something had spilled two nights ago. Ryan locked the front door. Lucas pulled the curtains closed. The house went dim and private again.
Zoe didn’t get the chance to sit.
Ryan caught her by the waist, spun her, and bent her over the back of the couch in one hard motion. Her hands slapped the cus
