The air in the small room was thick, heavy with the scent of musk and the electric aftershocks of what had just happened.
Raven pulled back slowly, his chest heaving against hers. He didn't step away completely; he couldn't. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, grounding himself in the reality of her breath on his skin. His hands, which had been bruising her hips moments ago, now moved up to cup her face with a reverence that bordered on worship.
He used his thumbs to trace the swollen curve of her lower lip, a mark he had left there.
"You smell like me now," Raven rasped, his voice rough, deeper than the ocean floor. It was a statement of primal satisfaction. The expensive cologne and cheap whiskey of the Prince had been burned away, replaced by the scent of rain, salt, and Raven.
Gazelle leaned into his touch, her legs still trembling. "Is that what you wanted?"
