His thumb stroked the inside of her marked wrist, and a fresh wave of heat, entirely separate from the embers glowing on the sheets, pooled low in her belly. That single touch, so deliberate, so knowing, made her breath catch. He knew. He knew exactly what that mark meant, what it craved.
“The night isn’t over,” he had murmured. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a decree.
With a strength that still shocked her, he rolled them both, his body moving with a predator’s grace. In one fluid motion, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and she was standing between his spread knees, the dark silk of the sheets cool against her calves. His amber eyes burned up at her, twin suns capturing her in their gravitational pull. His hands, still radiating a comfortable, thrilling warmth, settled on her hip
