Mila stood outside the dining room, her hand hovering over the doorknob.
She'd been standing there for thirty seconds, or maybe even longer. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Just go in. It's breakfast. Normal. Routine.
Except nothing about this morning felt normal.
She'd barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him—felt him. The weight of his body pressing her into the desk, the heat of his breath against her neck, the way he'd whispered her name like it was something sacred.
"Mila. Dio, Mila."
She pressed her palm flat against the door, steadying herself. Her thighs still ached. in a dull, persistent reminder of what had happened. Of what she'd let happen.
Of what you wanted to happen.
