I woke up feeling like I got hit by a truck.
Or maybe a luxury sports car. One of those sleek, expensive ones that purrs like sin. And of course, it was driven by a very rich, very unrepentant psychopath who moaned my name while doing it.
Everything hurt.
Muscles I didn't even know existed were sore. My thighs? Gone. My back? Betrayed me. My dignity? Left the chat sometime after I said "Sir" for the fifth time while begging for my life—and by life, I meant please don't do that thing with your tongue again unless you're ready to call an ambulance.
The sheets were a mess. I was a mess. And Salvo?
The devil himself was lying beside me like he hadn't spent half the night destroying me from the inside out with the focused intensity of a man carving his name into the world—and into me.
He looked perfect.
Disgustingly perfect.
