The first thing I felt was ache.
Not the sharp kind that flares and fades, the deep kind that settles into muscle and waits. My muscles still throbbed where he’d held me, my lower lip stung where his teeth had caught, and faint red ovals marked the backs of my wrists, proof of how hard he’d held. The shower had steamed the chill out of my skin, but it hadn’t erased the imprint of a library shelf or the sound of books thudding to the rug. And it hadn’t erased the memory of his body slamming into mine... the way his breath scorched the hollow of my throat, the taste of him still metallic and male on my tongue.
Heat rose through me anyway, uninvited and infuriating, at the thought of the way he’d taken and the way I hadn’t stopped him.
I yanked the sheet higher. Then shoved it off like it
