Chapter 7

The morning light didn’t break so much as it seeped through the heavy velvet curtains, casting long, dusty fingers across the rumpled sheets. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the soft, amber glow of the city waking up outside, though we were still tucked away in the quiet luxury of the penthouse suite. My head was a pleasant haze, a sweet fog where the memories of the previous night played on a loop, vivid and intoxicating. I shifted, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat thumping against my spine. He was already awake. I could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his large hand rested possessively on my hip, his fingers tracing idle circles over the silk of the camisole I’d slept in. I didn’t move immediately. There was a precious stillness to this moment, a fragile peace after the storm of passion that had consumed us in the museum and carried us home. I turned my head slightly, resting my cheek against his shoulder, and inhaled the scent of him—sandalwood, rain, and that distinct, masculine musk that clung to his skin no matter how many times he washed.