Eleanor's POV
The memory of last night was a persistent, aching thrum beneath my skin. The heat of his hands,the way my body had arched against the restraints, begging for more… only for it all to stop so abruptly. The disappointment was a physical pang, a hollow ache of unmet need.
He'd said it wasn't me. He'd murmured about a painful memory, something my words had triggered, and that he didn't want to hurt me. I believed him. I did.
But a treacherous, insecure part of me wondered if that was just a kind excuse. Had the fire in him for me burned out so quickly? The thought was a cold splash of water. Should I even be surprised?
