The hands.
The clothes slipping.
His whisper against my throat.
The bed.
His body against mine.
The way he held me after.
I flop back onto the pillow with a strangled groan.
“I did that,” I whisper to the ceiling. “I actually did that.”
The sheet shifts.
A warm hand slides over my waist from behind.
I freeze.
Then his voice, low, sleep-heavy, intimate, brushes the back of my neck.
“Morning.”
I forget how to breathe.
I turn my head slightly.
He’s propped up on one arm behind me, hair messy, expression soft in a way that should be illegal.
“Hi,” I whisper, mortified by how breathless it sounds.
He smiles, slow, warm, devastating.
“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb along my hip.
“I, um, yes. I think? Maybe. I’m not sure. I might be dead.”
He laughs quietly.
God help me, it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.
He leans in and presses his lips to my shoulder, a soft, lingering kiss that sends shivers down my spine.
“You stayed,” he says gently.
I swallow.
“Did you… want me to?”
He looks at me like I’ve said the most absurd thing in the world.
“Ruby,” he murmurs, “I didn’t want you to leave.”
My heart does a full gymnastics routine.
He sits up and pulls me against his chest, his chin resting on my hair.
