Aria did not sleep a single minute that weekend. She lay in her narrow bed in Brooklyn, watching the headlights of passing cars sweep across her ceiling, replaying the elevator in an infinite, intoxicating loop. The crushing weight of his chest against hers. The rough texture of his jaw. The dark, possessive timbre of his voice whispering *You're mine* in the crimson dark. By Sunday midnight, she had built a…
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