Last night. The restaurant. The bar. Then hours of… My face goes warm as fragments of memory flash through my mind, his hands pinning mine above my head, his mouth between my thighs, the words he whispered against my skin. My thighs sting with bruised satisfaction, skin still tingling where his mouth claimed me, where his grip left my body humming and marked. Each movement drags a memory from last night—his fingers tight on my wrists, the rough scrape of his jaw along my inner thigh. I stretch, shivering at how thoroughly he worked me open, how every ache is a secret reminder that I belong to him, at least in these sheets.
"Morning," Axel murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. His lips brush the back of my neck, making me shiver. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in months," I admit, stretching against him. It's true, I slept deeply, dreamlessly, without once waking to check the baby monitor or triple-check the locks.
His hand slides up my stomach to cup my breast, thumb brushing lazily over my nipple. "Hungry?"
"Starving." I turn in his arms to face him, taking in his sleep-rumpled appearance, hair sticking up in all directions, stubble darkening his jaw, eyes still heavy-lidded. He looks younger somehow, softer.
"Room service?" He traces my collarbone with one finger, a casual touch that somehow manages to feel both possessive and reverent. "Or we could go downstairs. They do an amazing brunch."
The thought of getting dressed, of leaving this bubble of intimacy, sounds awful. "Room service," I decide. "I'm not ready to share you yet."
His smile is slow and warm, reaching all the way to his eyes. "Good," he murmurs, his finger dragging slowly down my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "You’re not leaving this bed until I’ve had my fill of you and coffee.”
While he calls down our order, I slip out of bed and pad to the bathroom, wincing slightly at the pleasant soreness between my thighs. In the mirror, I pause, breath catching at the sight of my own skin. My hair’s a wild, tangled mess from his fists. My lips are red, abused from his kisses. Faint purple marks dot my collarbones and curve under my robe, each one a brand of ownership, a warning to anyone who’d look twice. Part of me wants to hide them, to pull the fabric tighter, but I can’t help touching the bruises, tracing them with shaking fingers. Instead of shame, I feel reckless, exposed, claimed in a way I’ve never let myself be. I want to cover up and show them off all at once, because for the first time in years, I’m not invisible. I’m his.
After a quick shower, I wrap myself in the hotel's plush robe and return to find Axel lounging against the headboard, scrolling through his phone.
"Checking in on the brewery?" I ask, settling beside him on the bed.
He sets his phone aside immediately, giving me his full attention. "Just making sure nothing's on fire. Trent has it under control."
His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with an easy familiarity. This is dangerous territory, this comfort, this intimacy. It would be so easy to get used to this, to start expecting it, needing it.
"What's going on in that head of yours?" Axel asks, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear. "I can practically hear you overthinking."
I laugh, caught. "Just… processing, I guess. Last night was…"
"Too much?" His expression turns serious, concerned. "I know I got pretty intense."
"No." I squeeze his hand, needing him to understand. "It was exactly what I needed. What I wanted."
The relief in his eyes is immediate and genuine. "Good. Because I've been wanting to show you that side of me for a while now."
"The bossy side?" I tease, trying to lighten the suddenly charged moment.
He grins, but his eyes remain serious. "The part of me that wants to take care of you. That wants you to let go and trust someone else to be in control for a change."
The words hit too close to home, exposing vulnerabilities I'm not ready to examine. I'm saved from responding by a knock at the door, room service with our breakfast.
Axel insists we eat in bed, propped against the pillows with trays across our laps. The food is decadent, fluffy omelets, crispybacon, fresh fruit, and pastries still warm from the oven. We feed each other bites, laughing when I get whipped cream on his nose and when he steals the last strawberry from my plate.
It feels like playing house, like a glimpse into a life I've never let myself imagine, one with partnership, with shared mornings and casual intimacy. It's intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
"What time do we need to check out?" My voice is too steady, pretending this is normal, pretending I’m not still aching for him.
"Noon," he says, his palm sliding higher on my thigh, just beneath the edge of the robe. "But if I had my way, I’d keep you here all day. Naked under me. Let the world wait."
The offer is tempting, but reality is already creeping back in, Poppy waiting at Rowan's, the café needing attention, the flight to Oregon looming in just two days.
"I should probably get back," I say reluctantly. "Check on the café, make sure everything's ready for when I'm gone."
He nods, disappointment flashing briefly in his eyes before he masks it with understanding. "Of course. Whatever you need."
The drive back to Virginia Dale is relaxed, comfortable in a way I didn't expect after such an intense night. Axel’s palm rests heavy on my bare thigh as he drives, his thumb pressing slow, possessive circles that radiate heat straight to my core. Every squeeze is a silent reminder of last night, of everything he took and everything I gave. I should push his hand away, but I can’t. I don’t want to. It grounds me, pins me right here in this car, in this dangerous, impossible thing between us. His touch says I’m his, whether I say it aloud or not.
We talk about everything and nothing, his plans for the brewery's fall lineup, a difficult customer I dealt with last week, his brothers' latest escapades. Normal, everyday conversationthat somehow feels more intimate than the physical connection we shared last night.
