{GIANNA}
The door catches my weight with a dull thud, but I barely feel it over the violent pounding of my heart. My hands tremble as I press them to my chest, trying to contain the wild thing rattling beneath my ribs. Every muscle in my body turns to liquid, and as I slide down the length of the door, the sticky wetness between my thighs creates a sweet friction against my sensitized clit that makes me moan. I bite my lip.
What is this?
He didn't even kiss me—didn't do anything overtly sexual—and yet here I am falling apart like some bumbling virgin. My head falls forward, fingers sinking into my hair. What the hell is wrong with me?
I force myself up on watery legs. What I need is an ice-cold shower and a solid eight hours of sleep to reset my brain.
