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He shifted restlessly, and Daphne felt the strangest, most intoxicating surge of power. He was in her control, she realized. He was asleep, and probably still more than a little bit drunk, and she could do whatever she wanted with him. She could have whatever she wanted.
He saw the expression of pure ecstasy on her face, and then he suddenly realized—she had done this on purpose. She had planned this. Daphne had aroused him in his sleep, taken advantage of him while he was still slightly intoxicated, and held him to her while he poured his seed into her.
The single sheet of paper slipped from Daphne’s fingers and floated slowly to the floor. A harsh sob escaped her throat, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, as if that might possibly stem the tide of emotion that was churning within her. He’d left her. He’d actually left her.
“It wasn’t about—what I did?” His eyes met hers evenly. “I didn’t like what you did.” “But that wasn’t why you left?” she persisted. There was a beat of silence, and then he said, “It wasn’t why I left.” Daphne hugged her knees to her chest, pondering his words. All this time she’d thought he’d abandoned her because he hated her, hated what she’d done, but in truth, the only thing he hated was himself.