I've had ill-conceived, illicit encounters before and walked away without looking back, but there's something different here.
He is something different.
I can't decide if it's only my guilt or something more that tells me so.
I push away the extravagant covers and swing my feet to the floor, idly noting that the fireplace is cold – like the rest of the room.
Like me.
I look around on the floor for my clothes, but they are not there. I find them folded neatly, stacked in an armchair on the other side of the nightstand.
An envelope is balanced on top.
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