Our initials, lit up in 3D marquee lights, glow from the porch.
We step inside and… well.
It’s small.
It’s too cozy.
There’s a stone fireplace crackling cheerfully, a white faux-fur rug in front of it screaming “1980s softcore movie scene,” and a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket.
They’re absolutely trying to tempt us. It’s not subtle.
The sleeping area isn’t separated by a door—just a wooden arch draped in fairy lights and heart garlands.
And there it is.
It.
The Bed.
One bed.
Huge.
A four-poster monstrosity drowning in red pillows and covered with a velvet throw that looks warm and dangerously inviting.
Cohen shuts the door behind us, the click of the lock sounding way too final.
He looks at the bed.
Then at me.
The corner of his mouth curves up in that way that always makes my knees forget their purpose.
“You’re gonna love falling asleep in my arms, Angel,” he says, dropping his duffel bag casually.
I stare at the mattress and feel panic claw up my throat.
Of course.
My life is a poorly written cliché.
The problem isn’t sex.
We’ve already had sex.
We’ve had drunk sex, he’s gone down on me in my office and I still dream about his mouth, we’ve had angry sex, we’ve had dressing-room sex.
And, let’s be honest, sex with Cohen Becker is… transcendent.It’s the closest thing to a religious experience I’ve ever had. He has the best dick on the planet and knows exactly how to use it to make me forget my own name.
But sleeping together?
Sharing a bed for days, sober?
Waking up with his face on the pillow next to mine, feeling his warmth through the night, existing in that soft, dangerous, domestic intimacy…
That’s the real problem.
Because intimacy creates attachment.
