Chapter 7

The light filtering through the heavy velvet curtains of the suite was pale and tentative, struggling against the lingering shadows of the night before. It was early morning, that suspended hour where the world holds its breath, waiting for the sun to commit to the day. I stirred, not with a start, but with a slow, viscous awakening, like honey dripping from a spoon. My body felt heavy, pleasantly sore in all the right places, a map of where his hands had been, where his mouth had claimed me. I was still in his arms. We hadn’t moved much since we’d tumbled onto the sprawling king-sized bed, leaving the chaos of the jazz club and the bustling city streets far behind. The air in the room smelled of him—sandalwood, expensive scotch, and the faint, metallic scent of sex that clings to skin long after the act is done. It was a primal perfume, one that settled deep in my lungs and made my head spin even in sleep. I shifted slightly, and a low rumble vibrated against my chest as he tightened his grip. His large hand, palm calloused from years of holding a saxophone and steering cars, rested flat