She stretched against me, her body arching in a languid curve that drew my gaze before she relaxed back into my arms. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine.”
“Mmm. I never sleep this late.” She tilted her head to look down at me, her eyes soft. “You wore me out.”
Despite my panic, I felt my lips quirk up. “You’re the one who demanded a third round.”
“And you’re the one who delivered.” She grinned, then winced slightly. “Though I’m definitely going to feel that for a few days.”
Concern immediately overrode everything else. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you? I should have been more careful.”
The third time had been … intense. I’d confessed another fantasy—this one about wanting to restrain her, to have her completely at my mercy—and Holly had not only agreed, but encouraged it. I’d tied her wrists and ankles to my bedposts with a few of my ties, and then I’d proceeded to make her come four times while she could do nothing but take what I gave her.
The sounds she’d made. The way she’d pulled against the restraints. The desperation in her voice when she’d begged me for more, then begged me to stop, then begged me for more again.
I’d run her a bath afterward, guilt already creeping in about how hard I’d pushed her. Then I spent almost an hour massaging every inch of her body, working out the tension in her shoulders and wrists, making sure she was okay.
She’d fallen asleep in my arms smelling like my lavender bath oil, thoroughly used and completely satisfied.
But now, I couldn’t help but worry that I’d been too rough, too demanding, too much like the kind of man who prioritized his own pleasure over her comfort.
“Luke.“ She pressed a finger to my lips. “I’m fine. Better than fine. Just pleasantly sore. In a good way.”
“There’s a good way to be sore?”
“There is when it’s from the best sex of your life.“ She kissed my chest, right over my heart. “Stop worrying.”
But Icouldn’tstop worrying.
Because in a few hours—maybe less—I was going to tell her the truth, and there was a very real chance she’d never look at me like this again.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, needing to do something with my hands, with my nervous energy. “I could make breakfast.”
“You cook?“
“I’m a 36-year-old man who lives alone. Yes, I cook.”
She laughed. “Then yes, I’m starving. But first—” She sat up, the sheet falling away to reveal her bare chest, and I momentarily forgot how to form words. “Do you have a shirt I could borrow? All my clothes are still downstairs.”
I looked at all five-foot-ten of her then down at myself, then back at her, raising an eyebrow.
She followed my gaze and laughed.
“I’m fun-sized,” I said dryly. “But I do have a robe that should work. Multiple robes, in fact, because I apparently can’t stop buying them.”
“A robe works.” She grinned.
I crossed to my closet and pulled out a charcoal gray cashmere robe that was soft and luxurious. “Here. This should work.”
She slipped out of bed unselfconsciously and pulled the robe on. It hit her mid-thigh, the sleeves only slightly too short. She struck a pose. “How do I look?”
“You always look beautiful,” I said, hearing the resignation in my voice, already mourning what I was about to lose.
Her smile faltered slightly. “Are you okay? You seem … a bit off.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just tired.”
She studied me for a moment longer, then nodded, but I could tell from her expression she didn’t quite believe me. “Okay. Well, let’s get some food in you. That’ll help.”
