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32

I grab a towel from the cabinet and throw it around my body. We never talked about markings or toys or anything that could be brought into the bedroom to play. Nothing was off-limits when it came to sex, but I’m starting to think West’s mouth is too dangerous.

This bruise will take days to go away, and I can’t wash the guilt from my body. The marking will be in Cannon’s face until it fades away—a constant reminder that I’m sleeping with another man—and that makes me no better than that image from the Polaroid.

After I throw shorts and a tank top on, I find Cannon on the beach—his favorite spot to think. Sitting in the sand at the end of the property, he’s staring at the waves, watching each crest build and then crash.

He might ask me to leave, but I sit down next to him anyway. And then I test how mad he is by reaching for his hand.

When he doesn’t pull away, I take it as a sign to continue. “I’m sorry, Cannon. So sorry.”

“For what?” he whispers. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

How ca
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