Deep Inside
Jocelyn's POV
Rain licks the city windows like it’s trying to wash the night clean. It doesn’t succeed. I’m still thinking of him.
Marcel Ruiz’s voice won’t leave me, low, rough, deliberate. You belong to me, even if I never touch you.
I’ve been standing by the window for an hour, barefoot, the hem of my satin slip brushing my thighs, pretending I can ignore the storm outside and the storm in my chest.
I almost laugh when I hear the knock. Soft, once. Then again, harder, sharper, the kind that demands obedience.