Three weeks of lying to herself that this was harmless curiosity—professional interest in the trainer everyone raved about—when every message leaked desperation, when her pussy clenched every time Patricia's typing bubble appeared, when she had to press her thighs together under the dinner table just thinking about what might arrive.
Patricia hadn't asked why.
Hadn't asked about the dreams that soaked Sabrina's sheets night after night, hadn't mentioned how Peter's eyes had burned into her across the candlelit table while Madison's hand rested possessively on his thigh.
Hadn't voiced the obvious: that Sabrina was starving for something she wasn't allowed to want.
But Patricia knew.
She always fucking knew.
What Sabrina could never have imagined—what would have shattered her if she'd known—was that earlier days before... Patricia had sent one more text.
To Madison.
"Your mother's been begging for weeks. Should I send it?"
