Serena Rosette
The morning light filtered through the curtains in soft gold ribbons, casting warmth across the rumpled sheets tangled around our bodies. My limbs ached, pleasantly sore from the night before, and my skin still bore the faint remnants of where his hands had claimed me. Every breath reminded me of the sounds I’d made, the way I’d fallen apart for him in the red room, trembling and raw.
I slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him.
He was lying on his side, one arm curled under the pillow, the other resting across the space where I’d been only moments ago. His dark lashes cast faint shadows against his cheek. That serene expression on his face was rare—he looked younger like this. Less guarded. Almost vulnerable.
I stood there for a moment, just watching him.
God
