So yeah.
Not the right time.
Not even close.
But damn... it would've been nice.
I take another sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle into me as snow keeps falling outside — soft, steady, peaceful — like the world's reminding me to slow down, just for a second.
"You're up."
His voice rolls over me from behind, snapping me right out of my little snowy fantasy.
I turn—and my throat goesbone-dry.
Zach is standing right outside the bathroom, steam curling around him like he personally summoned it. His hair is wet, the ends in disarray, water slicking the strands against his forehead and temples in a way that makes him look both hotter and more reckless than usual—like some pirate prince washed up on a forbidden shore.
His dark hair clings to his forehead in damp tendrils, rivulets of water charting a maddening path down the strong column of his throat, meandering across the sculpted planes of his chest, tracing each ridge of his abs before disappearing beneath the towel that rides dangerously low on his narrow hips.
My gaze travels upward with agonizing slowness, lingering on the sharp cut of muscle where his torso meets his pelvis, that perfect V-line that makes my mouth go dry. I bite my lip without meaning to.
When I finally reach his face, his silver eyes catch the light like mercury—dangerous and fluid—before they flicker down to my mouth and then back up to meet my gaze.
For a fraction of a second, the look in them is pure electricity.
Of course he notices.
Of course his smirk grows wider.
"You know," he drawls, cocking his head, "Idohave other great qualities aside from my body."
I choke on my coffee a little.
He grins like he planned that reaction.
Zach strides toward me, one hand finding my hip like it belongs there, the other steadying the mug in my hands so I don't spill steaming coffee all over both of us. He tugs me in gently, his body warm and still damp from the shower.
He kisses me — soft, slow, barely a brush of lips, but God, it's perfect. His nose nudges mine as he murmurs against my mouth, "Good morning, beautiful."
"Good morning," I say, breath catching a little. "Thanks for bringing breakfast in bed."
"You're welcome." His voice drops, lazy and sinful. "I just figured you wouldn't exactly have the energy to go downstairs today... not after what I did to you last night."
Heat detonates under my skin. My thighs clench on instinct, my core tightening at the vivid, impossible-to-forget reminders of how he touched me — how he took me apart in every single corner of this hotel suite, how he wrung orgasm after orgasm out of me until I thought I'd forget my own name.
His smirk says he reads every filthy memory flashing through my head.
He lifts a hand to cup my cheek, thumb tracing my cheekbone. "Thank you," he murmurs, expression softening. "For last night. For all of it. I hope... I wasn't too rough."
I shake my head instantly. "You weren't," I whisper. "I loved every second of it."
Something warm and dangerous flickers in his eyes. His thumb rubs my cheek again, amused, tender, so full of adoration it makes my chest bloom with heat.
"You have no idea how much I love making you blush," he says, sounding almost awed.
Before I can answer, his gaze flicks past me — toward the window.
"It's snowing," he says softly.
