Chapter 7

The first thing I felt was the rough warmth of his chest against my back, the steady, heavy thud of his heart acting as a metronome for the slow drift back into consciousness. The light filtering through the high, square windows of the guest room in the farmhouse wasn’t the harsh, clinical white of a hospital or the dim, amber glow of a hotel bar, but the golden, dusty hue of early morning sun spilling across the wooden floorboards. It smelled of hay, old leather, and the distinct, musky scent of him—sandalwood and sweat, a primal aroma that had clung to our skin from the night before, refusing to let go. I turned in his arms, my body moving with a languid heaviness, every muscle in my limbs singing a low, satisfied hum. My head was pillowed on his forearm, which was bent at the elbow, creating a fortress of muscle and heat around my waist. He was still asleep, his breathing deep and rhythmic, his beard scratching lightly against the silk of the pillowcase. I traced the line of his jaw with my fingertips, feeling the stubble that promised a little friction, a little pain, if he were awake