Slowly, carefully, I reach down and pull her yoga pants back up, smoothing them over her hips and she lets me. I turn her around and she goes loose and easy against the wall, eyes half-open, flushed, completely wrecked.
I straighten her top, as she watches me do it.
"Enjoy your yoga class, Bunny Hill."
She looks at me. "Yoga...now? After you bent me over like that. I don't think so. We're not done. We just got started."
She reaches out, taking my hand, and starts walking, pulling me along with her.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
She glances over her shoulder at me. "My hotel room… it’s closer," she says with a smirk, and I follow as we run through the snowfall around us.
And for once, I'm not already thinking about how to leave.
Chapter Twenty-Two
NATALIA
I wake to a fresh whiteout beyond my hotel window, the world erased to nothing but drifting snow and a pale strip of light leaking through the glass.
A heavy arm is draped over my waist. I shift, and his hand tightens instinctively—like it’s been doing that all night every time I tried to roll away for air.
He’s still here.
Luka’s chest presses against my back, solid and hot. His breath is warm at my neck. One arm is hooked around me like he fell asleep holding on, and my body answers with a slow, satisfied throb that makes last night come back in fragments—his mouth, my gasp into the pillow, the way he dragged me closer every time I thought we were done.
We weren’t.
There were breaks—water, laughter that didn’t sound like either of us, the brief, hazy drift of sleep before he shifted behind me and I felt him hard again, like his body had made a decision and refused to back down.
My thighs ache. My hips are sore. I can still feel the shape of him everywhere, like the night never really ended, just paused long enough to fool the sunrise.
Luka isn’t the kind of man who clings. Which means he did it unconsciously.
I bite back a squeal of happiness, my cheeks burning with a grin I’m glad he won’t witness.
"I can feel you spiraling already," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. "If you’re about to start problem-solving, at least open your eyes."
So much for him being asleep.
I roll slightly in his arms, tilting my chin up.
He’s already watching me. Hair tousled. Perfect jawline. Eyes clearer than I expected this early.
He didn’t run.
"Good morning," I say carefully.
He studies my face like he’s trying to memorize something.
"Morning."
There’s no awkwardness. No post-sex retreat. No subtle shifting toward the edge of the bed.
"And you’re wrong," I add. "I’m not problem-solving anything."
"Then you’re plotting something."
