Emma couldn’t sleep that night. Every time she closed her eyes she felt Victor’s mouth again—hot, relentless, sucking her clit until her whole body shattered. She could still taste his cum on her tongue, feel the stretch of his thick dick inside her pussy, the way he’d growled “mine” when he came deep. But that sound from behind the locked door kept replaying: a woman’s soft, broken cry. It wasn’t the wind. She knew it wasn’t.

The next evening the storm hadn’t let up. Rain lashed the windows like it was trying to get inside. Emma drove back to Blackwood Mansion anyway, heart hammering, pussy already wet just thinking about him. She told herself it was for the story. She lied.