Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi
His hands… his mouth…
Now there was nothing but expensive linen and empty space.
When I forced myself to sit up, a wave of soreness rose from my lower back, spreading down my thighs and up into my shoulders. Muscles protested like they’d been dragged through a marathon without warning. I groaned softly, one hand bracing my stomach, the other tugging halfheartedly at the messy sheets.
There were marks on my skin. A bite on my shoulder, purpling along my breast, faint bruises on my hips, finger-shaped impressions along my waist. On my neck, just under my jawline, something throbbed when I pressed it. I exhaled through my nose, short.
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