Smeagol Lines Novels & Stories

He owns me. He knows he owns me. And worse? Some sick, splintered part of me still wants him to. I crawl to his side of the bed like his scent might undo what he did. Bury my face in his pillow. Cedar. Leather. Salt and sex. The smell of him makes my stomach twist and my thighs clench—like the addiction isn’t done with me yet. His voice plays on loop in my mind. That growl. That grip. That unbearable denial.