Page 64 of Desperate Crimes
But my body isn’t interested in space.
It’s still humming.
Still buzzing, and there’s that low, molten ache between my thighs is the kind that sings of pleasure taken—of being stretched and filled and claimed in every possible way.
I can still feel him inside me.
The thick press of his cock.
The way my body opened for him like it had just been waiting.
It’s ridiculous.
Insane.
Unreal.
And yet the heat that gathers between my legs when I so much as think about the sound of his voice, the rough scrape of his stubble across my skin, the way his fingers curled inside me like a promise?
That heat doesn’t lie.
Even the bathroom is like a dream. We shared the enormous luxury shower, but there’s also a huge clawfoot tub.
Immediately I think about stepping inside later for a soak.
Later.
Like a piece of me has already decided I’m staying.
What’s wrong with me?
I brace my palms on the counter, staring at my reflection. My lips are swollen from his kisses.
My skin still carries faint marks—his fingers, his mouth, his ownership.
I should be panicking.
I should be calling 911.
Screaming. Demanding answers.
Instead, I’m glowing. Planning for later.
Maybe it’s because some part of me always knew this was where I’d end up.
I mean, how many girls get to say they lost their virginity to the man they’ve secretly dreamed about for years?
And not just in some gentle, vanilla, love-song moment.
Oh no. Not for me.
How many women out there lose their v-card in a completely insane, dark-romance, hyper-possessive kidnapping scenario?
Not many.
Just me.
And Persephone, I guess.
