CLAIRE.

I heard their voices downstairs the entire time I pulled on a thin white tank top and a pair of soft gray shorts that barely covered anything. No bra. No panties. Elena’s order still burned between my legs like a brand: Don’t you dare touch yourself.

I didn’t.

I sat on the edge of the bed, thighs pressed tight, and listened.

Marcus’s deep laugh drifted up the stairs. Elena’s answering tone was smooth, polite, the perfect grieving widow. I imagined her standing in the foyer in that black silk slip, nipples still hard from touching me, the scent of my cunt still on her fingers while she signed papers...