CLAIRE.

The next day passed in careful, excruciating silence.

We moved through the house like strangers who happened to share a kitchen. Elena wore a crisp white blouse and tailored black trousers, hair pulled back, every inch the composed widow. I wore an old college T-shirt and sleep shorts and tried not to stare at the way the fabric of her pants stretched over her ass when she reached for a mug.

We didn’t speak about the night before.
We didn’t speak about my mouth on her cunt.
We didn’t speak about her fingers inside me or the way she had walked away while I was still shaking.

By late...