The mornings after were the worst. Ivy would wake up tangled in her sheets, her thighs sticky with memory, her mouth still tasting of wine and sin. She would lie there for long minutes, staring at the cracked ceiling of her tiny apartment, trying to convince herself that she had dreamed it all. That she had not spread her legs wide on her boss’s velvet couch while his wife licked her to pieces under his hungry gaze. That she had not whispered please again with her eyes fluttering shut as ...