The first slivers of dawn crept through the wide glass windows, painting the penthouse bedroom in a warm, golden hue. The sheets beneath Clara were soft against her bare skin, their faint scent of Nicholas clinging to her like an embrace. Every muscle in her body hummed with a languid ache, the delicious soreness of a night where every line between restraint and surrender had been erased.
She stirred, blinking against the pale light, and found him already awake. Nicholas was lying on his side, one arm propped under his head, his eyes fixed on her with a gaze that felt like it could strip away everything she hid. There was no mask this morning—no cold CEO detachment. Only hunger, possession, and something else she was too afraid to name.
“You stayed,” he murmured, voice thick and husky, a
