CLARA

The drive home was a complete blur of neon lights and the lingering, electric hum in my lower abdomen. Every time I shifted in the leather seat of my Bentley, the friction of my thighs reminded me of Tyler—of the weight of him, the scent of his skin, and the way he had methodically dismantled every bit of my composure against a rack of silicone toys.

I felt like a stranger in my own skin. I was the Senator’s daughter, the prim girl who never smeared her lipstick, yet here I was with my hair matted at the nape of my neck, and my pulse still skipping like a...