The morning after was too quiet.

Even the city outside my penthouse windows seemed to whisper instead of scream.

The sunlight slipped lazily across my marble floors, licking at the hem of my robe as I sat with a glass of cherry juice and a breakfast untouched.

My legs were crossed, hair slicked into a low bun, bare-faced but glowing with sin. The kind of glow that didn’t come from sleep.

It came from last night.

Alexander McQueen’s hands. His tongue. His greed.

I didn’t ...