The house was still vibrating with the sound of Victoria’s car leaving for the third time.

Elena remained on the floor of the study with her back against the bookshelf and Marcus crouched in front of her, his hands on the sides of her neck. The thick heat of him from the desk was still inside her. The lower bruises under her sweater ached. The failure of the risk management—the locked door, the flush on her face, Victoria’s two words (I see)—sat between them like a live wire that had not yet stopped sparking.

Marcus’s thumbs moved once along her jaw.

“Upstairs,” he said. His voice had gone rough and...