Page 20 of Ruined By the Enemy
This isn’t my room.
My head snaps to the side, and everything from last night rushes back with a vengeance—the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the way I unraveled so easily under his hands.
Shit.
I sit up too quickly, wincing at the pounding in my skull and the ache that pulses deep in my muscles. My phone is finally located at the edge of the nightstand, half-hidden under my peplum shirt. It takes one glance down to realize—in horror—that I’m naked.
Double shit.
Grabbing the shirt, I press it to my chest as I swing my legs off the bed. The floor is cold beneath my toes, grounding me just enough to keep from spiraling.
What have I done?
I had sex with Domenico Moretti.
“Oh God,” I wail as I rush into the bathroom. I grip the sink and stare into the mirror as if staring at my reflection will somehow undo the abomination I committed.
Coming face-to-face with my messy hair and swollen lips doesn’t make it any better. I tilt my head when I see a slight discoloration along my neck, and when I trace it with a finger, the memory returns vividly.
Dom’s lips tracing my chin and his teeth grazing my skin—too light to break skin but deep enough that I could feel the prick of pain mingling with the intense pleasure from his hand between my thighs.
“Fuck.” My knees weaken at the memory, and my fingernails scrape the edge of the sink, holding on for dear life.
What did I do?Or better yet, why couldn’t I have been cursed with amnesia? Instead, I have to relive every last detail—from stumbling into the living room feeling lightheaded, to teasing him about being a—
“Prude,” I whisper the word like a death sentence. I called Domenico a prude while I took off my clothes. What did that make me, then?
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the flood from hitting hard. The heat of his breath against my stomach. The way his voice rasped when he said my name.
The way I wanted it—wanted him—like I’d been waiting years, not hours.
No, I shake my head vigorously.This isn’t me. This isn’t what I do.
I open my eyes and stare at the reflection in the mirror again. Hair like I got dragged through a wind tunnel, lips kissed raw, and that godforsaken mark blooming on my neck like a brand.
What do I do now? Pretend like it never happened? I run cold water and splash my face, like it might wash the night off me. When I look up again, I’ve made my decision.
I’ll act like it never happened. “You need to pull it together. This was a one-time thing,” I point at my reflection.
When I walk into the bedroom again, I step into my clothes, almost tripping over my skirt, when I think I hear something.
“Okay,” I mutter, smoothing my hands down my clothes. “Let’s just get this over with.”
But the living room is empty. So is the kitchen. Even the guest room—nothing but silence and still air. My steps quicken as I retrace them back to the bedroom.
That’s when I see something small and white peeking out from beneath the table. It’s a folded slip of paper. I crouch to grab it, flipping it over in my hands.
A flight ticket.
Sophie Greco. First class. Departure: Thirty minutes from now.
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, pressing a knuckle to my lips to keep it from cracking into something uglier. “Oh, he didn’t,” I say, though the words are already a confirmation.
No note. Not even the extended courtesy of a conversation. Just a clean escape. I’d already concluded that what happened was a one-night stand, but this… it makes me feel cheap.
Like I was for hire, and he completed his end of the transaction.
Anger wells up inside me, and I crumble the paper in my fist before tossing it across the room. “Damn you, Domenico Moretti.”
