Oh.
I am sated in a way I have never been sated before. Heavy and loose and aching in places that make memory flare hot beneath my skin. My hips ache. There are faint marks on my body that I can feel before I ever see them. My lips are tender. My scalp still remembers the grip of his hand in my hair.
And my pussy feels completely and thoroughly fucked.
I am sore.
Deliciously.
Embarrassingly.
I close my eyes again and press my face into the pillow.
The pillow smells like him.
That does not help. Nothing about that helps.
Because he is not here.
The space beside me is empty.
Cool.
Not untouched, though. The sheets carry the shape of where he had been. Where he slept. Where I had slept against him as if I belonged there, as if crawling onto Mario Conti’s chest after the most intense sex of my life was a perfectly normal thing to do.
A memory moves through me, hazy but clear enough.
Very early morning.
The room still dark.
A hand brushing hair back from my face.
“Victoria.”
I had made some sound. Not a word. Just sound.
“Cara,” he murmured, softer then. “I have to go.”
I remember forcing my eyes open and seeing him half-dressed beside the bed, shirt buttoned but not yet tucked perfectly, hair still slightly damp from my shower. His face had been shadowed in the low light, all sharp angles and dark eyes and a mouth I knew far too well now.
“What time is it?” I had mumbled.
“Early.”
I had groaned and closed my eyes again.
He had made an amused sound. “I have a meeting at 8:00.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes.”
I remember him sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. His hand came to my cheek, thumb tracing once along my jaw with such unexpected gentleness that even half-asleep, my throat had tightened.
