Zoe left just before noon.
She borrowed a pair of Lucas’s sweatpants to go with the oversized shirt, the fabric soft against the still-tender skin of her thighs. Ryan walked her as far as the porch. Lucas watched from the doorway. Neither of them kissed her in full view of the street; the claim they had spent the night enforcing didn’t need an audience.
The walk across the lawn felt longer than usual. Every step reminded her of the night—the deep ache between her legs, the faint pull in her shoulders from the cuffs, the warm residual sting where the flogger had landed. She let herself into 214 and closed the door behind her.
Her house was exactly as she had left it.
Quiet. Clean. Untouched.
She moved through the motions anyway. Opened the windows. Watered the plants. Checked the mail.
