I woke up in his bed.
Not the guest room. His.
Grey morning light filtered through floor-to-ceiling glass. London looked pale and indifferent outside. The sheets carried his scent — dark, expensive, inescapable.
My body ached in ways that made heat flood my face with shame. Marks on my hips from his fingers. Lips still sensitive. A deep awareness of everything that had happened last night, of how completely I had let him take control.
He was already awake.
Lying on his back beside me, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling with that terrifying stillness. Not relaxed. Processing. Calculating. The way he did when something threatened his absolute control.
I didn’t dare move. Barely breathed.
“You’re awake,” he said without looking at me. Voice low. Rough. Still carrying the n
