Chapter 5
592words
Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting golden patterns across unfamiliar silk sheets. For a blissful moment, I drift in that peaceful space between sleep and wakefulness, before reality comes crashing back.
The endometriosis diagnosis. Lucas and Vanessa. The stranger with amber eyes.
I bolt upright, clutching the sheet to my chest. The bedroom is massive—minimalist luxury in shades of charcoal and cream. No personal touches, like a high-end hotel suite rather than someone's home.
But the indentation in the pillow beside me confirms I wasn't alone. Where is he now?
My head throbs, punishment for last night's whiskey. Fragments of memory flash through my mind—his mouth on mine, strong hands gripping my hips, my name whispered like a prayer against my skin. Heat floods my cheeks at the recollection.
I need to leave. Now. Before he returns. Before this becomes even more awkward.
Slipping out of bed, I begin a frantic search for my clothes. I find his white shirt that I'd worn last night crumpled on the floor beside the bed. My torn blouse is nowhere to be found, but I locate my skirt and underwear. I dress as quietly as possible, feeling like a thief in the night—or morning, rather.
I spot my purse on a chair and tiptoe toward it, shoes in hand. The bedroom door is just a few feet away. Freedom is so close I can taste it.
"Going somewhere?"
I freeze, one shoe clutched to my chest like a shield. Slowly, I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his bare chest. He's wearing only low-slung pajama pants, and the sight of all that defined muscle makes my mouth go dry.
"I, um..." I gesture vaguely at myself, half-dressed and clearly mid-escape. "I was just..."
"Sneaking out?" His lips quirk in amusement. "Without even saying goodbye?"
I straighten my spine, trying to salvage some dignity despite being caught red-handed. "I thought it would be less awkward this way."
"For whom?" He pushes off the doorframe and approaches. "Because I find this quite awkward."
In daylight, he's even more breathtaking than I remembered. His dark hair is tousled from sleep, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and those unusual amber eyes seem to see right through me. There's something almost predatory in the way he moves—fluid grace concealing raw power.
I clutch my purse tighter, suddenly feeling vulnerable despite wearing his shirt from last night. "I should go. Last night was..." I trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Amazing? A mistake? The best sex of my life?
"Last night was unexpected," he supplies, stopping just inches from me. His scent—sandalwood and something wild—makes my head spin with memories of what those hands did to me.
"Yes. Unexpected. You've got quite impressive skills." I swallow hard. "Look, I don't normally do this sort of thing."
"What sort of thing would that be?" There's that amused half-smile again, complete with the dimple I'd been fascinated by last night.
"You know..." I gesture vaguely between us. "Picking up strangers in bars. Or clubs. Or whatever The Obsidian is."
"Is that what you think happened?" His eyebrow arches.
"Isn't it?" I counter, confusion creeping in. "We met, we drank, we..." I feel my cheeks heating.
"Had mind-blowing sex?" he finishes.
"Yes. That." I clear my throat. "And now I need to go home and face reality."
"Without breakfast?" He steps closer, and I instinctively back up until I feel the edge of the bed against my legs. "I ordered room service. Coffee. Pastries. The works."
