Three weeks.

It had been three weeks since I first went to David's house, and I hadn't gone a single day without him inside me.

I was obsessed. Addicted. Completely and utterly ruined for anyone else.

Ethan still had no idea. He went to work every morning at eight, came home at six, and never questioned why I seemed happier lately. Never wondered why I suddenly wanted to shower alone, or why I'd started doing my own laundry.

If he'd bothered to look, he would've seen the bite marks on my thighs. The fingerprint bruises on my hips. The whisker burn between my breasts.

But Ethan never looked.

David did,...