The soft weight of her against my chest was an anchor I hadn’t realized I needed. I lay there in the quiet aftermath, her breathing steady and shallow, her hair damp where her temple rested over my heart. The black room was behind us now; I’d carried her here, out of shadow and precision and into warmth, into a bed that had seen its share of nights but never this kind of surrender.
Cheyenne was asleep, or close to it, her lashes resting against her cheeks, her lips parted slightly. There was a faint flush along her neck and shoulders, a testament to the night we’d just shared—careful but intense, measured but full. I’d planned every second of tonight, but even planning can’t account for the way a woman looks at you when she decides you’re worth her trust.
My hand traced the length of her
