Page 39 of Chains of Recompense
A broken sound slips from my throat, soft and hungry, and I bite down on my lip as the ghost of a memory plays out across my skin.
The brush of warm, thick fingers parting my folds, gathering my arousal to swirl it over the sensitive bud at my apex.
My fingers mirror the motion, and electrifying relief rushes through my veins, warming my body in an instant.
My nipples harden, my back arching as a quiver ripples through my thighs.
God, I miss sex.
I haven’t felt a man’s touch since Raf, and now, I can’t get it out of my head.
For one insane second, I almost do it—almost chase the pleasure, almost let myself come thinking about his hand on my breast, his body against mine, that guttural noise he makes when he’s inside me…
Heat surges through me, chasing away my caution as a soft whimper breaks free from my chest.
And the sound brings reality crashing back down like a slap.
My hand yanks away like I’ve been burned.
I sit up, furious with myself, nails digging into my palms.
Raf had power over my body once. He turned it inside out, made me addicted, made me weak. But never again.
I scramble out of the bed, grabbing the silk robe I find hanging on the back of the closet door, and shrug it on with jerky movements.
I don’t even bother tying it before I’m moving once more. I just need distance.
Space.
Air.
Coffee—and lots of it—to clear my mind.
I yank open the bedroom door, stepping into the hallway half-blind with anger and embarrassment.
The wing is still dark, early-morning shadows stretching long over half-finished plaster and scaffolding.
The renovations everywhere—exposed beams, dust, drop cloths, taped-off doorways.
The Chiaroscuro estate used to be known as the pinnacle of luxury.
Now it looks like a war zone trying to dress up as a home.
I breathe in sawdust and paint.
It helps—sort of.
Navigating the hall barefoot—because I refuse to go back into the room and risk running into Raf—I ignore the biting cold floor under my feet and pull my robe more snugly around me.
I can hear work beginning outside—the thud of equipment, muffled voices, the revving of a truck engine.
Construction starts at dawn here, it would seem. These people don’t waste time.
I suppose they can’t afford to.
Descending the stairs, I cross into what used to be a dining room. There’s still a massive table, untouched by damage, long enough to seat an army—or a Mafia council.
Someone has abandoned a sketchbook, a coffee mug with cold sludge at the bottom, and a stack of blueprints detailing security reinforcements.
