KATHERINE POV
When I say I passed out, I mean it.
Not the dramatic, hand-to-the-forehead kind of fainting you see in old movies. No fluttering lashes. No whispered gasps.
I mean obliteration. I mean body-numb, soul-floating, brain-wiped blackout. The kind of sleep you don’t drift into—you collapse into, because your body can’t even begin to function anymore.
Kingsley had wrecked me.
Beautifully. Brutally. Blissfully. Again and again, until I had nothing left but breathless gasps and the barest whisper of his name falling from my lips like a prayer.
Even in my dreams, I could still feel him—his hands, his mouth, the gravel-sweet growl of his voice coaxing me over the edge until I shattered. Again. And again.
So when reality tugged at me, it was like rising through syrup—slow, heavy,
