He patted the space beside him, but she saw it—the clench of his jaw, the way his fingers twitched slightly, the way his thighs tensed.
Still, she sat.
Right beside him.
She tucked one leg under her, curling against his chest like she belonged there. His scent surrounded her—clean, crisp, masculine—and when his arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, his fingers tracing absentmindedly along her shoulder, her pulse skipped.
The movie started.
Savannah wasn’t watching. She was feeling.
Her fingers traced his tattoos without thinking, outlining the swirls of ink that curved over his forearm, the intricate lines that wrapped up his bicep, disappearing beneath his tank. His skin was warm, firm beneath her touch, and she wondered what it would feel like to trace every inch of him.
Chase inhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling beneath her hand.
"You keep doing that, sweetheart," he murmured, voice thick, low, dangerous, "and we’re not gonna make it through this movie."
A shiver curled down her spine.
She smirked.
Still, something in her thoughts lingered, gnawed at her. So she asked.
"Can I ask you a question?"
Chase turned slightly, fingers still stroking along her back. "Yeah. Shoot."
She hesitated, then exhaled. "Do you promise to be honest with me?"
His brows furrowed. "Of course."
She finally forced the words out.
"How many women have been in your bed?"
Chase stilled.
She saw it—the way his jaw ticked, his lips parted slightly, his fingers tensed against her waist.
But he didn’t hesitate.
"None."
Savannah’s breath caught. “None?”
His hand slid to her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin. His voice dropped low, deep, raw.
"The Echoes of Us—this house, this space, my bed—it’s yours." He tilted her chin, forcing her to look at him, to feel the weight of his words.
"I’ve never brought a woman here. Never even considered it." His voice turned rougher. "If you hadn’t come back, my bed would have only ever held me."
She didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
Because fuck.
Fuck.
