The first rays of Sunday morning filtered through the mansion's heavy silk curtains, casting a golden haze over the master bedroom.
A sanctuary of aged oak beams, rumpled Egyptian cotton sheets, and the faint scent of sandalwood lingering from the night before.
Eleanor lay entwined with Calder, her head pillowed on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat a rhythmic anchor in the post-passion languor.
The hours had blurred into fervor of urgent kisses in the taxi, clothes shed in the foyer, bodies colliding with the raw need of escape.
His hands had mapped her scars with a tenderness that bordered on possession, whispers of "you're safe" amid gasps and sighs. Now, in the afterglow's haze, limbs heavy and sated, the world outside receded to irrelevance.
Calder traced lazy circle
