The mahogany desk between them felt like a canyon. Liza watched Julian's hand—the hand that used to trace the curve of her spine until she whimpered—grip a cold, silver pen. As he signed the divorce decree, his knuckles went white. Liza felt a phantom ache in her thighs, remembering how those same hands felt pressing her down into the silk sheets.
"It's done," he said, his voice a low, vibrating rasp that skipped across her skin like a physical touch. He didn't look up, but she saw the way his chest rose, a heavy, jagged breath. Liza signed her name, her fingers trembling. She wanted to reach across the wood, to grab his tie and pull him into a kiss that tasted of regret and salt. Instead, she stood, the friction of her lace underwear against her skin a cruel reminder of the hunger he had spent years cultivating. She left the room, the click of her heels sounding like a heartbeat, leaving behind the only man who knew exactly where to touch her to make her lose her mind. The door clicked shut, but through the wood, she heard the heavy thud of his fist hitting the desk—and a low, pained growl that made her core ache.