Page 160 of Their Arrangement

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I reached into the drawer behind me and pulled out a handkerchief.

White. Monogrammed. Still folded from the last time I thought I might need to clean up after someone I shouldn’t have touched.

I held it out.

She took it with one shaking hand. Pressed it between her legs. Closed her eyes for a second longer than she meant to.

But she didn’t cry.

Not for me.

Not yet.

I helped her straighten her blouse. Buttoned the second one from the top myself. My fingers brushed the skin above her corset, and I felt her pulse skip beneath the touch.

Her skirt was still rumpled, her hair a little mussed, but she didn’t rush to fix it. She just stood there. Quiet. Raw. Like the silence between us had become something sacred. I reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“You did well,” I said quietly.

Her throat moved. Like she wanted to speak. But she didn’t. She just looked at me. And I saw it then—behind the layers of shame and heat and confusion.

Gratitude. Desire. Something closer to safety than she’d known in weeks.

I stepped back. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. Because if I didn’t, I’d press her back against the desk and take her anyway. Period or not.

And I wasn’t going to make this about me.

Not tonight.

She adjusted her corset slightly, gave a soft exhale like her body was starting to settle. Then she moved toward the door. Stopped. Looked over her shoulder. Just once.

“I didn’t ask for it,” she said softly.

I nodded. “I know.”

“But I needed it.”

I didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just let her have the last word.

She opened the door. Walked out. Closed it quietly behind her.

And I stayed in the room with the scent of her still on my fingers and a pressure in my chest that wouldn’t go away.

22

CLOE

I woke aching.

Not the kind that fades after sleep. The kind that sits in the ribs. In the thighs. In the space between skin and memory. My body was heavy. Tender. My breath still shallow from the way he bent me.

The way he rubbed me. From the way he said“mine.”

My throat burned.

Not from crying.

From silence.

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