Page 382 of Branded

Shit.

Not the expensive silk blouse I’d borrowed from my sister.

It cost who knew how much—and I was terrified it would be a lot, considering that Dommie had expensive taste.

That wasn’t the worst of it.

Nope.

There was something even more terrible than the thought of having to replace an overpriced shirt, than the pain in my kneecaps and my face and my hands and my chest and my toes.

It was the voice.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he said, frantic hands on my arms, my shoulders, my waist. “Are you okay?”

The voice.

I heard it in my fantasies, my dreams.

Rough and soft, like velvet sandpaper, if that was even a thing.

And I supposed it was.

At least in Theo Young’s world.