The morning after felt deceptively quiet. Light spilled in through the penthouse windows, golden and soft against the scattered trail of clothes and half-drunk glasses of wine.
Celeste lay curled against Damien’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm anchoring her to something she still didn’t know how to name. Safe. Whole. Claimed. She hadn’t felt that way in years.
Damien stirred beside her, the arm wrapped around her waist tightening reflexively. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmured against her hair.
Celeste smiled faintly. “Am I?”
“You always are after s*x like that.”
“s*x like what?”
He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she sprawled half across his chest. “Like it meant something. Like it broke you open and stitched you back together at the
