The scent of garlic and basil hung thick in the air, a heady perfume as Linda descended. Her elegant nightwear—a silk shirt and matching pants, liquid cream against her skin—whispered with each step, a fragile veil over the primal chaos still roiling in her core.
The bathroom's steam clung to her, but the memory of her own cries echoed louder. Peter watched my ass with desire. That same look he gives Madison before he devours her. The shame was a ghost; the desire, a living flame.
And there he was, in the kitchen—a domestic god carved from shadow and muscle, his back to her. The sight sent a fresh jolt between her thighs. He bought this mansion. He takes care of us. The gratitude warred with a darker, thrilling truth: He's so hot. So rich. And he's mine now. I want him to own me.
"Smells amazing, sweetie," she managed, her voice steadier than her pulse.
