The first thing that registered was the unfamiliar texture of the pillowcase against her cheek. Not the high-thread-count Egyptian cotton of her own bed, but a cheap, rough cotton blend. Then came the scent—not her clean, minimalist apartment with its notes of lemongrass and sandalwood, but a space steeped in the distinct, masculine aroma of gun oil, worn leather, and the faint, metallic tang of the city that clung to a detective’s clothes.
Then, the memory hit her, not as a gentle wave but as a physical blow to the gut that stole her breath.
Oh, s**t. Oh, f**k.
Claire’s eyes snapped open, staring at a long, hairline c***k in a ceiling that was not her own. The room was steeped in the grim, grey light of a Los Angeles dawn, the kind that promised nothing. She was in Davon’s apartment. I
