Cravings in Scrubs

The sheets were still damp.

Not from sweat.

Not from cum.

But from the heat that lingered in her skin—heat that didn’t fade, even in silence.

Zara lay on the satin-covered mattress at the back of the club, limbs loose, throat raw, thighs parted. Her body was marked. Bruised. Claimed. Her collar was still around her neck. No tag now.

She didn’t need one.

They all knew who she was.

Or rather—what.

She blinked slowly at the ceiling. Her pussy ached. Her ass was sore. Her breasts felt heavy with the ghost of hands and mouths that had worshipped them all night.

But her mind?

Quiet.

Still.

Free.

The door opened.

She didn’t look.

A man entered. Footsteps soft. Familiar. Steady.

He set something beside her. A folded set of clothes. A new tag. A small mirror.

Then he left.

Zara turned her head.

The mirror reflected her body.

Still glistening.

Still perfect.

She picked up the new tag.

Always.

She smiled.

Because there was no going back.

Not for her.

Not ever.