TWENTY-NINE
Camilla
I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, and the very thought made me want to rip my own flesh off. I wanted to scrub myself raw, peel off layers of my skin until not a single trace of him remained. But instead, I was being hauled through his bedroom like a goddamn duffel bag.
“Put me down, you insufferable, arrogant, misogynistic son of a—”
“Oh, darling,” Stephano drawled, effortlessly adjusting my struggling body in his arms as if I weighed nothing. “That mouth of yours is just as sharp outside of bed, I see.”
I let out an ear-splitting shriek and flailed harder. I dug my nails into his shoulder, my knee jerking up toward what should have been a fatal blow to his manhood. But of course, the bastard anticipated it, shifting just enough for me to miss.
