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Summary
Zora only needed sixteen minutes to walk home from the frat party.
Sixteen minutes of cold Boston air, Lana Del Rey in one ear, and the familiar route she’d taken a hundred times before.
She never made it.
One moment she’s running in impractical heels down a quiet side street. The next, a strong arm is around her waist and a hand is clamped over her mouth. When she wakes up the next morning, she’s no longer in her tiny Commonwealth Avenue studio. She’s in a luxurious penthouse, wearing a stranger’s shirt and boxers, pressed against the bare chest of the man who took her.
And she just knows she's fucked. -
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Chp4
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2