The bed still smelled like him.
Rich. Masculine. A dark, smoky spice that slithered into her senses and soaked beneath her skin, clinging to her like an invisible caress refusing to let go no matter how many showers she took. It wasn’t the kind of scent you simply washed off—it was the kind that carved itself into your memory, branding itself onto your soul, and seeping into your bloodstream, the kind that made you ache when you were away from it too long.
Amelia lay tangled in the wreckage of the sheets, one bare leg sprawled out, the other coiled in twisted linen that still held onto the ghost of his heat. Her body thrummed with the remnants of his touch—his hands, his mouth, the hushed, desperate vows he had breathed against her throat like he hated how badly he needed her.
The soft
