Later that evening, Eric stepped out of the bathroom, towel draped low on his hips, water still clinging to his skin. The room was dim, the only light coming from the bedside lamp casting a golden glow across the sheets.
His gaze landed on Agnes.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her silk nightgown slipping off one shoulder, hugging her body in all the right places. The fabric clung just enough to tease, dipping low to reveal the curve of her cleavage.
Eric's jaw tensed.
Desire stirred immediately, dark and hungry.
No matter how many nights they'd spent tangled in these sheets, he always wanted more. The way she writhed beneath him, her moans muffled against the pillow, the way she let him take and fill her—it made him feel powerful. Sated.
Satisfied.
Because in those moments, when her breath hitched and her nails dragged down his back, he could close his eyes and pretend she was Winter.
That thought alone made his skin burn.
