I woke to sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows and the smell of fresh coffee. No ropes, no cross, no buzzing toys, just crisp white sheets tangled around my legs and the dull, delicious ache between my thighs that reminded me everything from last night had actually happened.
He was already up, leaning against the kitchen island in nothing but low-riding gray sweatpants, hair messy and slightly darker in the morning light. The penthouse was all glass and steel and sky, in downtown Manhattan glittering thirty-eight floors below, we had checked out at eleven and headed to his house. He watched me walk across the hardwood, naked and marked, with hand prints on my hips, faint belt lines on my wrists, a bite mark turning purple on the swell of my left breast.
“Coffee?” he asked, v
