The way he'd looked at her last night.
The feel of his mouth on her collarbone.
His voice—low and rough—saying things that made her spine arch and her brain short-circuit.
The way he touched her was like he knew her body.
The way she let him.
The way she wanted him to.
Every second of it was etched into her head.
Her entire face burned.
She closed her eyes for a beat, pressing her face into his chest again, praying for the universe to reboot itself.
But no. No restart. No denial.
She inhaled slowly through her nose and exhaled through her mouth.
Get it together.
"Morning," Lyle murmured, his voice like gravel and silk—barely awake, but aware enough to catch the tension creeping into her muscles.
"Morning," she managed, though it came out higher-pitched than she meant it to.
He didn't move much—just tilted his head enough to press a kiss to her hairline.
She stiffened slightly. Just for a second.
It wasn't the kiss that startled her—it was the tenderness.
