The next day passed in a haze of quiet awareness.

I came downstairs late, still feeling the ghost of Richard’s mouth on my breasts and the stretch of his fingers inside me. He was in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, already dressed in a dark button-down. When he looked up, the memory of the night before moved openly between us. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. He simply watched me pour coffee, eyes lingering on the slight tenderness I couldn’t quite hide in the way I moved.

“The others are still asleep,” he said. “They’ll be down soon.”

My stomach tightened. “Do they know?”

Richard’s...