His eyelids flutter, then open. For a moment, confusion clouds the blue of his eyes—then recognition, followed by a smile.
“Morning,” he murmurs.
“Morning,” I reply, my hand continuing its path along his shoulder, down his arm. “Sleep well?”
“Better than I have in months.” His fingers find my chest, tracing idle patterns through the light dusting of hair there. “Though sleep wasn’t the priority last night.”
A low chuckle escapes me. “No, it wasn’t.”
We lie in comfortable silence, hands exploring each other’s bodies. My fingers map the topography of his back, the ridges of his spine, the smooth planes of his shoulder blades. His touch mirrors mine—curious, appreciative, learning.
“I marked you pretty hard.” I brush my thumb over a bruise on his collarbone.
“I know.” There’s a lazy satisfaction in his voice. “I like it.”
“No regrets?”
Our eyes meet.
“None. You?”
I shake my head. “Just wondering if I was too rough with you.”
“You didn’t hurt me. Well, not in any way I didn’t enjoy.” His hand slides lower, tracing the line of muscle along my abdomen. “I’m a little sore, but in the best possible way.”
“I’ll be gentler next time,” I promise, then realize the assumption I’ve made. Despite what we said to each other yesterday, I need to hear it from him now, in the morning's clarity. To know that we’re on the same page. “If you want there to be a next time.”
“I do.” Owen’s expression shifts. “Do you?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I don’t want this to end when the weekend does.”
Relief softens his features. “Good. Because neither do I.”
“It won’t be simple,” I warn him, my hand coming up to cup his jaw. “We live in different cities. Neither of us has been with a man before. I’ve never…felt this way about anyone.”
“Me neither.” His fingers trace the outline of my lips. “Not even with Maia. Not even close.”
The mention of his ex should irritate me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I feel a strange gratitude toward her—if not for their relationship and its end, Owen might never have stumbled drunk into my bed that first night.
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell him, meaning it. “Distance, logistics, all of it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” I seal the word with a kiss, soft and lingering.
When we part, his eyes are darker, hungrier. “So about that next time…”
“You’re not too sore?” I raise an eyebrow, unable to keep the hint of smugness from my voice.
“I am sore. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want more.”
My body responds to his words, blood rushing south. “Right now?”
“Right now,” he confirms, his hand sliding beneath the sheet to find me already hard.
I dip my head to his neck, nuzzling the warm skin there. My beard scrapes against the marks I left last night, drawing a gasp from him.
“Sensitive?” I murmur against his throat.
