Chapter nine
The Next Morning
Morningarriveslikeatide easing back from the shore of my body.
There’s only warmth layering through muscles aching in the most pleasant way.
I lie still beneath the sheets, eyes closed, breathing in the faint scent of linen mingled with the lingering trace of Zach on my skin. My body has been deliciously used. Hips tender. Thighspleasantly sore. Lips still sensitive from the hours of kisses. A bit of beard rash.
When I stretch beneath the covers, a soft sound escapes my lips, unintentional, but entirely fitting.
God.
I’ve never felt so content.
Not even close.
Images from last night flicker through my mind. Snapshots of ecstasy. The weight of his body pressing down on mine. How his deep voice rolled over me when he called out my name over and over. Our laughter bubbling as we collapsed into pillows, swearing we should sleep.
We didn’t.
Finally, my eyes flicker open. Soft morning light filters through the small oval window beside the bed, bathing the cabin in a pale glow, replacing the deep blue-black of night. The atmosphere in the cabin is strangely quiet.
Still. No engine vibrations.
My hand pats the mattress next to me, fingers brushing the cool sheets.
An empty space.
I roll onto my side and blink more fully awake. I hear faint movements in the cabin beyond. Something sliding shut. Soft footsteps.
Zach.
The thought of him sends a slow ripple of heat through my core. My body remembers every moment of last night vividly, as if the years apart sharpened my memory instead of dulling it. The delicious evidence of our activities radiates throughout my core. A warm, heady, delicious soreness.
Four times.
A quiet laugh escapes as I push myself upright to nestle in the pillows.
Four times.
I’ve never had sex four times in one night.
I’m already hoping for a fifth.
The thought warms my cheeks.
The suite door swings open. Zach steps inside, a tray balanced in his hands. For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. He’s barefoot, wearing nothing but loose charcoal pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips. His chest is bare, muscles rippling enticingly as he approaches.
He’s devastatingly handsome.
Maddeningly pleased with himself.
“Morning.” A playful smirk dances on his lips.
I glance at him, then at the tray, and back again. “You’re kidding.”
He sets the tray on the small table beside the bed. Fresh fruit glistens in a bowl, croissants nestle on a folded linen napkin, soft scrambled eggs steam invitingly. Two cups of espresso and a small pitcher of orange juice complete the spread.
