What's unusual is the reason.
The woman curled against me, her back pressed to my chest, her arse nestled against exactly the right part of me that's causing problems.
Sometime during the night, Dalla migrated across the bed.
Or maybe I did.
Either way, the distance we maintained when we fell asleep has dissolved into... this.
Her body fitted against mine like she was made to be there.
My arm draped over her waist, hand splayed across her stomach.
My nose buried in her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo—something floral and warm that I'm going to associate with torture for the rest of my life.
The covers are still between us.
That flimsy barrier I insisted on.
It feels pathetic now, with the heat of her seeping through the blankets and into my bones.
I should move, should extract myself before she wakes up and feels exactly how much I want her.
I don't move.
Instead, I lie there like a fucking eejit, cataloging every point of contact.
The rise and fall of her breathing.
The soft sounds she makes in her sleep—not quite snores, more like sighs.
The way her fingers have curled around mine where my hand rests on her belly.
My back feels better than it has in days.
The mattress actually supports my spine instead of trying to fold it in half.
The scars don't ache.
For the first time since Dublin, my body isn't screaming at me.
Which means the only thing screaming at me now is my cock.
This is dangerous.
This is everything I've been trying to avoid.
Yet, this is the best I've felt in years.
The early morning light filters through the small window well near the ceiling, casting gray shadows across the room.
I can hear the clubhouse coming alive above us—the distant rumble of motorcycles in the lot, the muffled thump of boots on floors, the bass line of music someone's playing too loud for this hour.
But down here, in this basement, it's just us.
Just this bubble of warmth and want and dangerous possibility.
She stirs, and I hold my breath.
