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I felt like a bowl of limp noodles too.
Burrowing my face between her tits, I mumbled, “Mine.”
She breathed, “Mine.”
I smiled.
Sucked in air that was stained with sex.
Closed my eyes.
Home.
I was home.
61
STAR
When I took a seat at the dinner table, my lower body protested the move.
I wasn’t exactly ready for one of those inflatable ring things, but goddammit, my ass felt as if I’d been doing deadlifts/squats/lunges on repeat for the last twelve hours.
The orgasms had been worth it, though, and they came with an added benefit—I was less worried by Lorelei’s passive aggressiveness and more focused on the aches in my muscles.
“Star?”
I blinked at Savannah. “What?”
“Pass the dinner rolls?” she drawled, but her eyes were spitting at me. I just had no idea what she was spitting.
The problem was, the bread was here and she was there and that meant reaching over to give her the rolls.
For how my ass and inner thighs ached, she might as well have been in the Gobi Desert.
Conor, seeming to sense my predicament, acted like a gentleman and did the deed for me. Then, in an aside, he murmured, “Dagger asked what you’ve been up to the last couple years.”
Oh.
That was why Savannah had been glaring at me—she’d thought I was blanking her dad.
That had me turning to the head of the table to find her father shooting me a wary smile.
Ah, Dagger, ever the peacemaker.
“I’ve been focused on bringing down the organization that enslaved me, Dagger. It hasn’t been a picnic.”
To give him his due, he didn’t cringe away from my answer. “I think you should speak with Lorelei’s publisher. The world needs to read your story.”
“Why? Do we want to make the world manically depressed? Mine has a happy ending, but ninety-eight percent of the women like me didn’t have a happy ending in sight until I escaped.” I glanced at Lorelei. “I’d appreciate reading an advanced copy of the manuscript before you send it to the publisher.”
Savannah’s mother studied me over her wine glass, and while I saw the dislike she had for me in her eyes, she surprised me by stating, “That’s only fair.”
“A biography would be good exposure for the charity,” Savannah mused, her tone thoughtful. “I could write it for you.”
I sighed—no matter what I said, she’d tell Rachel, who’d never shut the fuck up until I did it.
Allowing these two harridans to meet to discuss the upcoming gala and the coverage Rachel wanted Vana to write in her new column in the City Times was the stupidest thing I’d ever done.
