Chapter 7

The first thing I registered was the weight of him. Not the crushing, suffocating heaviness of sleep, but the solid, anchoring pressure of his body curved around mine like a question mark seeking its period. His arm was draped over my waist, a heavy blanket of muscle and heat that kept me pinned to the mattress, or perhaps what passed for a mattress in the VIP booth of The Gilded Cage. The air in the speakeasy was still thick with the scent of stale gin, expensive tobacco, and the musky, sweet aroma of our own arousal, mingling with the faint, lingering dust of the velvet curtains that had fallen to the floor during our hasty retreat from the crowd below. I didn’t open my eyes immediately. I let the consciousness creep in slowly, savoring the sensation of his breath against the nape of my neck. It was a low, rhythmic rumble, the sound of a man who had spent the night keeping watch, even in sleep. My skin felt sticky, a layer of dried sweat and silk clinging to me, and my limbs felt like jelly, thoroughly used and thoroughly satisfied. I shifted slightly, and the rustle of fabric sounded