The room was thick with the scent of s*x, sweat, musk, and the faint metallic tang of arousal still clinging to the air. Nash lay on his back, one arm draped over his forehead, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.
Mya was curled against his side, her fingers tracing idle patterns over his ribs, her breathing still unsteady from the force of her orgasm. The silence between them wasn’t comfortable. It was charged, a live wire humming with everything unsaid.
His gaze slid to her, tracing the curve of her shoulder, the way her dark hair spilled over his skin like silk. She was his. He’d made sure of that.
The words still echoed in his skull- I’m yours, whispered in surrender, torn from her lips like a confession.
It should have been enough. It was enough. So why did his
