The morning that followed wasn’t silent. It was humming.
It lived in the skin.
Jasmine stood by the window, nude from the waist up, the pale gold of the morning casting shadows beneath her breasts and over the gentle ridges of her collarbone. Her robe hung open, loosely knotted around her hips, but her skin felt too hot to bother closing it. The breeze snuck through the crack in the stone frame, light and teasing, like a mouth she couldn't name.
She hadn't slept.
She'd writhed.
And she remembered everything.
Every breath, every pulse, every push of her fingers inside herself while Roger watched like a starving wolf behind the door. He thought he had hidden. He hadn't. She'd known from the moment his scent darkened the hallway. Known the way his hunger folded into the air like thunder
