The first was an antique leather-bound journal with a worn strap holding its covers shut, the second was a heavy envelope with my name, Melissa Gordon... written on it in neat (if old-fashioned) cursive hand. The letter inside was typed on expensive heavy-weight paper that had the company watermark in the center of the page. The letter explained that the law firm had been retained by a small, independent museum to find and return the accompanying diary to the nearest living heir of the doner.. Big masculine hands are soon upon my bottom, roughly kneading it like I was raw dough, his hardness pressing into my stomach aggressively. I hold back a sigh and resolved to endure, hating myself, hating my late husband for putting me in this situation and hating my mother for being right.The hands are trembling as they unzip my skirt from the back, pressing my Sunday woollen garment to the floor like some rag. When was the last time Justin's father was this hungry for me? I can't recall.I hear. More

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