Anya Petrova stood in the sterile silence of Leo’s loft, her own breathing the loudest sound. She watched him align a pen parallel to the edge of his desk. His back was to her, a study in quiet composure. The air still smelled faintly of ozone and sex.
“I want it again,” she said. Her voice didn’t waver. It was a forensic statement.
Leo didn’t turn. “You had it. Last night.”
“Not like that. Not unconscious.”
That made him stop. His hands went still on the desk. He turned slowly, his grey eyes cataloging her—the severe line of her jaw, the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers were curled into her palms. “Explain.”
“The silence was… complete. I understand the appeal. But I woke up with nothing. A fabricated memory. It’s a ghost limb. I can feel where the experience was, but I can’t touch it.” She took a step forward. Her heels clicked on the polished concrete. “I want to be present. I want to feel you use me while I’m awake. And I don’t want to be the only one there.”
Leo’s expression didn’t change, but a muscle flickered in his jaw. “You want a witness.”
“I want a participant. Another one. Unconscious. Like you do with the others. I want her there while you’re inside me.”
The loft seemed to grow colder. Leo studied her for a long moment, his gaze stripping away the clinical analyst to the raw, hungry thing she’d become. “Who?”
“The barista. Chloe.” The name felt illicit in her mouth. “You’ve taken her before. More than once. She’s familiar to you. Soft.”
“She is.”
“Get her.”
Leo didn’t move. “You understand what you’re asking? To not just witness, but to interact? To touch?”
Anya’s breath caught. She hadn’t articulated that part, even to herself. But now he’d said it, the image bloomed in her mind, vivid and undeniable. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because her stillness will make my feeling more real. Her silence will make every sound I make louder. Her body, pliant and used… it will prove I’m not like her. That I chose this. That I’m awake.”
A slow, almost imperceptible exhale escaped Leo. It wasn’t reluctance. It was the sound of a lock turning. “She finishes her shift at nine.”
He moved past her to the window, looking out at the deepening twilight. Anya watched the line of his shoulders, the way his stillness seemed to draw all the energy in the room toward him. She was asking to be a part of his ritual, not as a victim, but as a priestess. The thought made her skin flush hot.
“Sit down, Anya. We wait.”
She didn’t sit. She stood by the window with him, watching the city lights blink on. The static charge in the air grew, a psychic pressure building like a storm. He was thinking of her. Of Chloe. Anya could feel his focus narrowing, a hunter’s intent settling over the room. Her own pulse was a frantic drum against her ribs.
At five minutes past nine, Leo turned from the window. “It’s time.”
He didn’t take a coat. Anya followed him out, down the fire escape instead of the front stairs. The alley behind his building was dark, smelling of damp brick and garbage. He walked with a purpose that was both casual and lethal, a man going to collect a package. Anya matched his stride, her analytical mind noting everything—the flicker of a streetlight, the distant wail of a siren, the complete absence of fear in her own heart. Only anticipation, thick and sweet.
They turned a corner. Halfway down the next block, under the glow of a coffee shop’s back door light, a figure was locking up. Strawberry-blonde curls, a worn canvas backpack slung over one shoulder. Chloe Bennett hummed a tuneless song, her breath making little clouds in the cold air.
Leo stopped in a pool of shadow. Anya stopped beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. She watched as Chloe stretched, rolling her shoulders, a tired but contented smile on her freckled face. She was all soft curves and warm light.
Then Leo’s focus sharpened. Anya felt it—a tangible shift in the atmosphere, a gathering hum that vibrated in her teeth. He didn’t make a sound. He just looked.
Across the alley, Chloe’s humming cut off. She blinked, her hand pausing on the key in the lock. Her head tilted, as if listening to a distant sound. Then her body went slack. The keys fell from her fingers, clattering on the pavement. She crumpled, a marionette with its strings cut, but Leo was already moving forward, his steps silent and sure.
He caught her before she hit the ground, one arm sliding under her knees, the other cradling her back. He lifted her effortlessly. Her head lolled against his chest, her curls spilling over his arm. She was deeply, utterly asleep, her breathing slow and even.
Anya approached. Up close, Chloe smelled like espresso and vanilla syrup, with the underlying scent of clean sweat from a long shift. Her lips were slightly parted. Leo adjusted his grip, his hand splayed wide on her ribcage. “Take her bag,” he said, his voice low.
Anya picked up the backpack and the fallen keys. She followed Leo back through the maze of alleys, her eyes fixed on the unconscious woman in his arms. Chloe’s arm swung gently with his stride, her hand open and vulnerable. Anya’s own hands trembled.
Back in the loft, Leo carried Chloe directly to the bed. He laid her down with a curator’s care, arranging her limbs, brushing her hair back from her face. She looked like a sleeping princess, innocent and inviting. Leo began to undress her with the same methodical precision Anya had witnessed before. The apron came off, then the soft cotton t-shirt, the jeans, the sensible underwear. Each piece was folded and placed on a chair.
Naked, Chloe was a vision of yielding warmth. Freckles dusted her shoulders and the tops of her full breasts. Her body was relaxed, completely open. Leo’s gaze traveled over her, but it wasn’t lust Anya saw there. It was a profound, aching need for the peace she represented.
Then he turned to Anya. “Your turn.”
Her mouth went dry. She set down Chloe’s bag. With fingers that felt clumsy, she began to remove her own clothes—the tailored trousers, the silk blouse, the practical underwear. She let them fall to the floor, a pile of her old identity. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin. She felt exposed, sharp angles next to Chloe’s softness.
Leo approached her. He didn’t touch her with his power, only his hands. They were warm as they settled on her hips, turning her to face the bed where Chloe lay. “Look at her,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. “Look at what I take. What I need.”
Anya looked. The unconscious woman, the sterile room, the predatory stillness of the man behind her. It was a crime scene she was now part of. “I see it.”
“Do you want her?”
“Yes.”
“Then touch her.”
Anya’s breath hitched. She stepped forward, her knees bumping against the edge of the mattress. She reached out, her hand hovering over Chloe’s bare stomach. The skin there was warm, rising and falling with each slow breath. Anya lowered her palm. The contact was electric. Soft, living heat under her hand. She traced the curve of Chloe’s hip, the dip of her waist. Her touch was clinical at first, an investigator’s touch. Then it softened, became curious.
Behind her, Leo was undressing. She heard the slide of his zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then his naked body pressed against her back. His cock, already hard and thick, nestled against the cleft of her ass. His heat enveloped her. His arms came around her, his hands covering hers on Chloe’s body, guiding them.
“Like this,” he murmured. He moved Anya’s hand up to cup Chloe’s breast. The weight of it was heavy, the nipple soft under Anya’s palm. Leo’s other hand guided Anya’s fingers between Chloe’s thighs. They parted easily. She was already wet, a natural slickness from her unconscious state. Anya’s fingers slid through the soft curls, finding the swollen folds beneath. The intimacy of it stole her breath. She was touching a woman who had no idea, who offered no resistance, only the profound vulnerability of deep sleep.
Leo’s mouth found the juncture of Anya’s neck and shoulder. He bit down, not hard, but enough to make her gasp. His hands left hers, letting her explore Chloe on her own. Anya’s fingers circled, dipped shallowly. Chloe’s body responded automatically, a soft sigh escaping her parted lips, her hips shifting slightly into the touch. A flush spread across her chest.
“Now me,” Leo said, his voice rough. He turned Anya to face him. His eyes were dark, the grey almost black with hunger. He kissed her, deep and consuming, his tongue claiming her mouth. It was nothing like the psychic push. This was all physical, demanding, a claiming she had asked for. She kissed him back, her hands fisting in his hair.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “On the bed. Next to her.”
Anya climbed onto the mattress, her body trembling. She lay on her back, turning her head to look at Chloe’s peaceful profile. Leo knelt between her thighs. He didn’t prepare her, didn’t tease. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against her entrance. She was wet, ready, her body clenching in anticipation.
“Watch her,” Leo commanded, his gaze locked on Anya’s face.
As he pushed inside, a slow, inexorable invasion that stretched and filled her, Anya turned her head. She looked at Chloe. She watched the unconscious woman’s serene face as Leo began to move, setting a deep, relentless rhythm. The sensation was overwhelming—the fullness, the friction, the heat of him buried inside her. And the visual of Chloe, limp and used beside her, made it all scream into sharp, visceral focus.
Anya reached out her hand. She let it rest on Chloe’s stomach again, feeling the warmth, the life. Then she slid her hand lower, her fingers tangling in the soft curls between Chloe’s thighs as Leo fucked her. She touched the other woman in time with his thrusts, a mirror, a violation, a communion. Chloe’s body was pliant, accepting the touch, growing slick under Anya’s fingers.
Leo’s pace increased. The bed rocked, the sound of skin on skin filling the sterile room. His breaths were harsh grunts in her ear. “You feel it,” he gasped. “The silence in her. The noise in you.”
“Yes,” Anya moaned. The coil of pleasure tightened deep in her belly, fed by the duality—the conscious pleasure ripping through her, and the unconscious surrender beside her. She was both predator and participant, awake in a world of sleep.
Her orgasm built, a tidal wave drawn from this impossible contradiction. She kept her eyes open, fixed on Chloe’s face, as the first shockwave hit. It tore through her with silent violence, her body arching, her mouth open in a soundless cry. Leo drove into her through the convulsions, his own control shattering. With a raw, guttural sound, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his release hot and pulsing inside her.
He collapsed atop her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His face was buried in her neck. For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, and the soft, even sigh of Chloe’s sleep.
Slowly, Leo withdrew. He rolled onto his back beside Anya, staring at the ceiling. Anya lay between the two of them—the man who had fucked her awake, and the woman she had touched while he did it. The silence in the room was no longer sterile. It was saturated, heavy with the smell of sex and sweat and vanilla.
Anya turned her head. She looked at Leo. His eyes were closed, his chest still heaving. A single bead of sweat traced a path down his temple.
Then she looked at Chloe. The barista slept on, a faint, unknowing smile on her lips.
Anya turned her head on the pillow. Leo’s eyes were still closed, his chest rising and falling in a slowing rhythm. The scent of him—sweat and ozone and sex—filled the space between them. She looked past him to Chloe, the unconscious woman a soft, warm line of heat against her other side. The silence in the room was a living thing, thick and sweet. It wasn’t the sterile quiet of before. It was earned. It was hers.
“Leo.” Her voice was a raw scrape in the dark.
He didn’t open his eyes. “Hmm.”
“I want you to take me.” She swallowed. The words felt too big for her mouth. “Whenever you want. Like you take them. But you don’t wipe it. You leave the memory in me.”
His eyes opened then. Grey and fathomless in the lamplight. He turned his head to look at her. He didn’t speak.
“I want to remember,” she whispered, the confession tearing out of her. “I want to know it’s happening. I want to feel you push me under and carry me and use me while I’m gone. And then I want to wake up and remember every second of being nothing.” A shudder wracked her, a fresh, shocking wave of arousal that clenched deep in her belly, so intense her vision blurred at the edges. She gasped, her hips shifting against the sheets. “God. I’m so close again just saying it.”
Leo watched her. His expression was unreadable, the curator assessing a new specimen. “You want to be a victim with a receipt.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the silence is real when I’m under. But the knowing… the knowing is what I need when I’m awake. Proof it wasn’t a dream. Proof I chose it.” Her hand found his on the sheet between them. She laced her fingers through his. His skin was warm. “And I want to be there for the others. From now on. Like tonight. I want to be there when you take them. I want to touch them. I want to be part of the ritual.”
“You want to be my accomplice.”
“I want to be your witness.” She squeezed his hand. “A permanent one.”
He was silent for a long time. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a slow, absent rhythm. His gaze drifted over to Chloe’s sleeping form. “She won’t remember you. She’ll never know you were here, touching her while she slept.”
“I know.”
“Isabella won’t. The next one won’t. To them, you’ll be a ghost. A sensation they can’t place.”
“I don’t need them to know me.” Anya’s breath hitched. “I need to know them. I need to see what you see. The peace.”
Leo rolled onto his side, facing her. He propped his head on his hand. His free hand came up, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, the shell of her ear. It was a touch of pure possession, devoid of his power, yet more intimate than any psychic push. “You’re trading one kind of noise for another, Anya. The noise of your mind for the noise of complicity. It’s louder than you think.”
“My mind is the loudest thing I know.” She turned her face into his touch. “This is a quieter hell. I want it.”
He studied her. She felt laid bare, more than naked. Her soul was on the bed between them, next to Chloe’s limp hand. Finally, he nodded. A single, slow dip of his chin. “Okay.”
The word was a key turning in a lock deep inside her. Relief and terror washed through her in equal measure. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“But not tonight,” he said, his voice soft. “Tonight, we clean up.”
The curator was back. The moment of vulnerability sealed shut. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The muscles of his back flexed. He stood, a pale, lean figure in the dim light, and walked to the bathroom without a backward glance.
Anya lay still, listening to the water run. She turned her head. Chloe slept on, her smile a little faded, her body a landscape of gentle curves in the shadow. Anya reached out. She didn’t touch her. She let her hand hover over the swell of Chloe’s breast, feeling the radiant heat. She had touched this woman. She had felt her grow wet under her fingers. She had taken something from her, with Leo, that Chloe would never know was given.
It was the most powerful she had ever felt.
Leo returned with a damp, warm cloth. He sat on the edge of the bed beside Chloe. With the same meticulous care he used to undress her, he began to clean her. He started at her throat, wiping away the faint sheen of sweat. He moved down, over her collarbones, between her breasts, over her stomach. He was gentle, reverent. He parted her thighs and cleaned the slick evidence of their violation from her skin. Chloe didn’t stir. Her breathing remained deep and even.
Anya watched, propped on her elbows. This was part of it, too. The restoration. The erasure. She was witnessing the crime and the cover-up in one.
When Chloe was clean, Leo dressed her. He lifted her limp body with ease, sliding her underwear up her legs, her jeans over her hips. He buttoned her fly. He put her t-shirt back on, smoothing it down. He re-tied her apron around her waist, the strings making a soft whisper against the cotton. Finally, he gathered her curls in his hands and re-secured them in her messy bun. He was putting the world back the way he found it.
He stood, lifting Chloe into his arms again. She
nestled against his chest, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder as if she belonged there. “Get dressed,” he said to Anya, his voice quiet. “You’re coming.”
Anya moved. Her body felt heavy, sated, humming with residual pleasure. She found her clothes on the floor—the silk blouse, the tailored trousers. She put them on. The fabric felt strange against her sensitized skin, a cage after the freedom of nakedness. She felt the ache between her thighs with every movement, a pleasant, persistent reminder.
Leo was already at the door, Chloe in his arms. Anya picked up Chloe’s backpack and followed.
The night air was cool, a shock after the warmth of the loft. Leo carried Chloe through the alleys, his footsteps silent. Anya walked beside him, the bag bumping against her leg. She watched Chloe’s face, peaceful in sleep, and felt a surge of something fierce and protective. *She’s mine, too*, she thought, and the thought didn’t frighten her. It settled her.
They reached the alley behind the coffee shop. Leo knelt, laying Chloe gently against the brick wall, in the same spot he had taken her from. He arranged her limbs, tilted her head so it wouldn’t loll. He was an artist positioning his subject.
Then he placed his fingertips against her temple. His eyes closed. A faint, almost imperceptible hum vibrated in the air. Anya felt the static raise the hairs on her arms. Leo was weaving the false memory. Exhaustion. A long shift. Sitting down for just a moment and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He stood. He looked down at Chloe for a long moment. Then he turned to Anya. “It’s done.”
“Will she be okay?”
“She’ll wake up confused. A little stiff. She’ll go home and sleep for twelve hours. She’ll blame the espresso.”
Anya nodded. She believed him. She had seen the machinery of his compulsion, and it worked.
They walked away together, leaving Chloe sleeping against the wall. They didn’t speak until they were back inside the loft, the door closed behind them, locking out the night.
The room still smelled of them. Of sex and sweat and her. Leo went to the sink, washing his hands with methodical care. Anya stood in the middle of the room, unsure what to do with her body now.
He dried his hands on a towel, folded it neatly, and hung it back on its hook. Then he turned. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at her. “So. A permanent witness.”
“Yes.”
“It changes the dynamic.”
“I know.”
“You won’t be able to go back to your life. Not really. This,” he gestured vaguely at the room, at the bed, “becomes your life. The waiting. The watching. The cleaning up.”
“I don’t want to go back.” The truth of it was absolute. Her old life—the sterile lab, the logical reports, the quiet apartment—felt like a story about someone else. This, the electric silence, the profound violation, the shared secret, was the only thing that felt real.
Leo pushed off the counter. He walked toward her, stopping a foot away. He reached out, not touching her, just letting his hand hover near her cheek. She felt the warmth of it. “You understand what you’re asking for? To be taken? To be pushed under whenever I need it?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no safe word when you’re unconscious.”
“I don’t want one.”
A faint, almost smile touched his lips. It was gone in an instant. “Then we start now.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Now?”
“You’re still buzzing from it. The memory is fresh. The want is sharp. It’s the best time.” His grey eyes held hers. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“No.” The word was a vow.
“Take off your clothes.”
Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse. They fumbled, clumsy. She forced them to work, undoing each button with deliberate slowness. She let the silk slide off her shoulders, pool on the floor. She stepped out of her trousers, her underwear. She stood naked before him again, but this was different. This was a ceremony. An initiation.
Leo didn’t touch her. He just looked. His gaze was a physical weight, traveling over her body, cataloging every curve, every angle, every place he would soon own without her conscious permission. “Lie down on the bed.”
She walked to the bed. The sheets were still rumpled, still warm from their bodies, from Chloe’s body. She lay down on her back, in the center. She looked up at the ceiling, at the single lamp casting its long shadows.
He came to stand beside the bed. He looked down at her. “You remember everything. You wake up with the memory intact. That’s the rule.”
“That’s the rule,” she whispered.
“Close your eyes.”
She did. The darkness behind her eyelids was a relief. She heard him move, felt the mattress dip as he knelt beside her. She felt his fingertips, cool and dry, press against her forehead.
There was no warning. No building pressure. Just a sudden, silent detonation inside her skull.
A white-hot wave of pure static. It wasn’t painful. It was total. It erased thought, erased fear, erased *her*. It was a velvet hammer blow to the center of her consciousness. She felt herself falling backward into a deep, warm, endless black. The last thing she was aware of was the scent of him, and a distant, grateful thought: *Finally.*
Then, nothing.
Leo looked down at Anya’s unconscious face. Her severe blonde bob was fanned out against the rumpled sheet, her lips slightly parted. Her chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of profound sleep. She was gone. And she had asked to be.
He stood, his knees popping softly in the quiet room. He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off, let it fall to the floor beside her silk blouse. His belt buckle clinked once. His trousers and boxers followed. The air was cool against his skin. He was already hard. The sight of her—naked, surrendered, waiting—and the memory of her conscious demand had seen to that. His cock ached, thick and heavy against his stomach.
He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He knelt between her thighs. He didn’t touch her yet. He just looked. He cataloged the pale landscape of her body: the sharp angles of her hips, the soft swell of her breasts, the dark blonde triangle of hair between her legs. He knew her body now. Knew the taste of her, the sounds she made when he pushed her over the edge. But this was different. This was the silence he craved. The absolute, vacant stillness.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the inside of her thigh. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. He pushed her legs wider. She offered no resistance, her limbs moving with a limp, boneless compliance that sent a jolt of pure heat straight to his groin. Her pussy was exposed to him, glistening faintly in the lamplight. She was wet. Even unconscious, her body had responded to the anticipation, to the ceremony of her own undoing.
He positioned himself. The head of his cock, slick with his own pre-come, nudged against her entrance. He felt the heat of her, the incredible softness of that first barrier. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the mattress on either side of her head. Her breath ghosted against his cheek. It smelled of mint and whiskey.
He pushed.
It was a slow, relentless invasion. Her body yielded to him, a tight, slick sheath that stretched to accommodate his girth. There was no gasp from her. No arch of her back. Just the wet, giving resistance of her flesh. He watched her face. Her eyelids didn’t flutter. Her expression remained serene, blank. He was fucking a doll. A beautiful, warm, breathing doll.
He sank deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside her. He was buried to the hilt in her unconscious body. The feeling was profound. It was a stillness that echoed inside his own chaotic mind. He held himself there, motionless, feeling her internal muscles pulse weakly around him. Her heat enveloped him. Her silence cradled him.
Then he began to move.
He set a slow, deep rhythm. Withdrawing almost completely, then driving back in with a firm, measured thrust. The only sounds were the wet slide of his cock moving in her, the soft slap of his hips against her thighs, and his own ragged breathing. He kept his eyes on her face. On her parted lips. On the utterly vacant peace there.
He fucked her like that for a long time. His world narrowed to the sensation of her body around him, the heat building in his balls, the perfect, mindless rhythm of possession. He was a machine. A machine designed for this single act: to take, to claim, to find quiet in the emptiness of another.
He shifted his weight, changing the angle. He hooked his hands under her knees, lifting her legs, spreading her wider. He drove into her harder. Her body jolted with the force of his thrusts, her head lolling to the side on the pillow. A strand of blonde hair stuck to her damp temple. He watched her breasts sway with the motion of his fucking. They were full, tipped with pale pink nipples that were tight and pebbled. He leaned down and took one into his mouth.
He sucked hard, his tongue circling the peak. There was no reaction. No moan. No fingers tangling in his hair. Just the soft, giving flesh in his mouth and the tight, wet clutch of her cunt around his cock. The dichotomy was electric. Her body was alive, responsive in its own animal way, but her mind… her mind was a dark, quiet room. And he was the only thing inside it.
He released her breast with a wet pop and straightened up, his thrusts becoming faster, less controlled. The need was coiling tight in his gut. He was getting close. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding her steady as he pounded into her. The bedframe began to knock softly against the wall in a steady, rhythmic tap.
“Anya,” he grunted. It was a habit. A name gasped into the void. She didn’t hear it. She would never hear it. But he said it anyway. It was part of the ritual now. Her name was a part of the taking.
His orgasm built, a wave of pressure cresting at the base of his spine. He fucked her through it, his rhythm turning frantic, desperate. He was chasing the silence at the end. The obliteration.
He came with a harsh, choked sound. He drove deep and held there, pulsing inside her, his release flooding her unconscious body. Heat spread through his veins, then a sudden, profound lethargy. The static in his mind faded to a distant hum. For a few precious seconds, there was nothing. Just the feel of her warmth around him, and the quiet.
He stayed buried inside her, catching his breath, his forehead damp with sweat. He listened to her breathing. It was still slow. Still even. He had not disturbed her peace. He had used her, completely, and she had slept through it. Just as she’d wanted.
Finally, he softened and slipped out of her. He looked down. His come leaked from her, a white trickle against her inner thigh. The sight was visceral, claiming. He would clean it. Meticulously. But for now, he let it be. Let the evidence of the violation exist.
He rolled off her, lying on his back beside her on the rumpled sheets. He stared at the ceiling. The quiet in his head was already beginning to fray at the edges. Thoughts were returning. The awareness of what he was. What he did. The hunger, momentarily sated, was a sleeping beast in his gut. It would wake again. It always did.
He turned his head to look at her. She was so still. A forensic analyst, reduced to a used vessel. She had asked for this. She had begged for it. The thought should have made him feel less alone. It didn’t. It just made the ritual more complicated.
After a few minutes, he pushed himself up. The compulsion to restore order was already tugging at him. He went to the bathroom, wet a clean washcloth with warm water. He returned to the bed and knelt between her legs again.
He cleaned her with the same methodical care he used on all of them. Wiping the spend from her thighs, from her folds. He was gentle. Clinical. A curator restoring a piece to its proper state. When she was clean, he dried her with a soft towel.
He gathered her clothes from the floor. He dressed her. It was an intimate, backward ballet. Lifting her limp arms to slide the silk blouse back on. Working her legs into the trousers. Fastening the clasp of her bra behind her back. Her body was heavy, pliant. He handled her with a detached efficiency that felt like reverence.
When she was fully dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her. She appeared as she had when she arrived. Severe. Put together. Only the slight flush on her cheeks and the muss of her hair gave any hint of what had transpired.